Gaia - Worlds Apart, Book One

Chapter 3

"You should be living the time of your life." Sara had even written it down on a pink Post It and stuck it on the fridge in our rented apartment, as a reminder for me to ponder upon.

And ponder I did, every time I went to open the fridge. I ran away from Rome and now I wanted to run away from Seattle. I should've had closure with Marco, but I chickened out at the last moment. Before leaving, one hot and humid morning of September, I called his cell phone. It went to the answering machine after a few rings. I didn't leave any message. I felt guilty.

"I love studying here," I repeated every time Sara complained about my moodiness. There I was saying the truth. The only thing I was really enjoying was participating in the research. We were studying artifacts coming from a Native American village found a year ago in Bremerton. The combined action of a small earthquake and the construction of a new parking lot had unearthed Native remains. Local tribes had asked for the discovered items to be placed in the ground immediately, but representatives from the University of Washington had obtained a special permission to study the unusual findings—normally, Native American cultures didn't leave a lot behind—before putting them to rest again. After making a detailed catalogue of everything the archeologists had dug, we would eventually come up with a theory about the villagers' lifestyle. Objects speak. It was the statement in our papers. It was a fascinating project and it kept me busy. I could go for days buried in my notes, verifying theories with other students, and drinking lots of coffee. Thankfully, among all places in the US, I had ended up in Seattle. I still couldn't find a decent Italian espresso, but at least the entire city seemed crazy about caffeine. The concept of 'bar' the way we had in Italy hadn't arrived yet, but there was a coffee place at every corner. I liked spending time at the neighborhood's Starbucks with a fuming, double-sleeved paper mug in one hand, laptop opened on the table, eyes on the street behind the wall-to-wall windows. Maybe it was the constant shortage of sunlight, but architecture in Seattle tended to favor open spaces and a great deal of glass.

While I was spending time by myself, nurturing my ill moods, Sara, true to her words, was having the time of her life. And why not? She was free, smart, beautiful, and definitely the best dressed in town after having shipped from Italy all her guard robe. Despite my attempts at ruining our friendship, she kept me company, made me smile, and, most importantly, she never pried for details of what had happened between me and Marco. I couldn't have asked for more and that's why it bugged me so much I hadn't confided in her.

One late afternoon, I finally mustered the courage to tell her what had made me run away from him. We were sitting on the couch of our tiny rented apartment in the University District, sipping American coffee in colorful ceramic mugs. I remember tapping my nail on the mug, in sync with the silent rain dripping down out of the window. "Love these colors."

Outside the glass barrier, the autumnal wind created a rainbow vortex, thousands of leaves rained down the streets. Shades of sun-bright yellow, candy orange, deep red, chocolate brown, and ever so shiny because of the water, soon covered everything. Dogs, big and small, happily barked at imaginary dangers. Kids walked by kicking around the mound of leaves. Seattle was beautiful in a nostalgic way, and maybe was the music we were listening to, a local band, or maybe someone's dark eyes passing by, but I thought of Marco. "It wasn't his fault," I said, without preambles.

Sara looked up at me and stopped playing with Pallino, our cat, actually her cat. As soon as we had landed, she had single-mindedly decided we needed a pet and dragged me to the animal shelter, asking for the cat who was going to be euthanized next. I couldn't have said no even if I wanted. Pallino stretched his paws and ran to the kitchen.

"Wasn't Marco's fault, you know?" I wanted to talk, to explain, but I was afraid she wouldn't understand. I wouldn't have.

Sara gently laid one hand on mine. "You don't have to say anything, if you don't want to."