midnight rain [f. colapinto]

f o r t y - s i x

Living with Franco was easier than Evita expected. He moved in as soon as they returned to Oxfordshire after the Singapore Grand Prix. Evita had helped a little, but she was eager to return to her classes. Her midterms were coming up in just over a week, so Evita was studying as often as she could. She wasn't at her flat often, choosing instead to study at the college's library, either alone or with classmates.

Because she was almost never home, she didn't have to talk to Franco, if at all. Evita ignored him when she was at the flat, and Franco kept his comments to a minimum. There was one morning when the two got into a short argument after Franco complimented Evita's habit of singing in the shower, a quirk she had stopped noticing until he brought it up. Aside from that, things were going well.

That was until Evita arrived home after a long afternoon of studying with some classmates in her course on Media Ethics. Franco was standing by a shelf in the living room, inspecting some art pieces Evita had made when she was younger. She once had dreams of being a ceramics artist, but those days were long behind her. Her old works were just decorations now, a reminder of her past. But that was all they were.

"What are you doing?" asked Evita.

Franco whirled around, as if surprised she was there. He was holding a small pot in his hands. Evita recognized it as the first one she ever made, back when she was nine years old. "Evita! Sorry, I was just looking."

"Okay," said Evita.

She meandered around her kitchen, trying to decide what she wanted to make for dinner. She was exhausted, having skipped lunch to spend the entire day studying. Her temper was thinner than usual, her patience wearing thin. All she wanted to do was eat, study on her own for a few hours, then go to bed. Perhaps she could just order takeout from the Chinese restaurant down the road.

"Did you make this?" asked Franco. He was still holding the little pot.

"Yeah," she said tightly. "It was the first one I ever made."

"How old were you?" he asked.

"Nine," said Evita.

"So five years before we met," said Franco.

"Don't," said Evita, crossing her arms protectively over her chest. "Don't bring that up. Not now."

Franco blinked. "I just thought it was nice, seeing how far you came with your art," he said carefully, trying to ease the tension. "I remember some of these."

"Nice?" repeated Evita. She took a step closer, her hands shaking as her emotions began to bubble up, like boiling water in a pot. "You think it's nice to dig up old memories? You think it's nice to remind me of everything I lost because you left without even saying goodbye?"

Franco stared at her, eyes wide with confusion. "Evita, I didn't-"

"Yes you did!" cried Evita. "You just left, Franco. One day everything was fine, and the next, you were gone, and I never even got a reason. It's like I was nothing to you. Do you have any idea how much that messed with me? How much I hated myself for not being enough to make you stay?"

Hot tears rolled down Evita's cheeks. She was breathing heavily, both from raw emotion and from finally telling Franco what had been so strained about their relationship. Franco opened his mouth to respond, but he couldn't seem to find the words. The pot in his hands crashed to the floor, shattering into dozens of pieces.

The sound seemed to echo in the silence of the flat, and they both stared down at the broken shards between them. Evita dropped to her knees, picking up the shards. She couldn't see well through her blurred vision, and one of the pieces sliced across her palm. Evita winced as blood pooled at the wound, a small gasp escaping her lips.

"Evita, let me help," said Franco, reaching for her, but she jerked away.

"Don't," snapped Evita. "You've done enough."

Evita finished gathering the shards, trying to fight back her tears. She dropped the pieces into the rubbish bin, a shaky breath escaping her lips. Without looking at Franco, she turned around, and walked to her room, injured hand held close to her chest.