The Art of The First (FAILED) Reconciliation [Part 4]
Summary: I thought this would be one Valentine’s Day interlude. Milan had other plans. Apparently Theo and Noa have…feelings, history, and an entire off-book Milan life they refused to keep short. So this became a little lore mini-series inside canon, their first attempt to find their way back to each other after the London Eye. This episode is 18+ only MDNI.
🇮🇹YesMilano! (aka the Milan Lore Spiral) I hope you enjoy. 💌
Master List
Full Episode Soundtrack
No Room for Doubt by Lianne La Havas ft. Willy Mason
Theo’s Apartment
They stepped into the living room.
Cecilia had pizza grease on her fingers and Wallace’s head in her lap while Cosimo pretended very hard to watch a movie.
“Oh my God, stop moving,” Cecilia said immediately, grabbing her phone when she saw them. “Stand there. No, Theo, not like that. Hand on her waist. La bella ragazza, chin up, woman! No, down. Why are you both impossible.”
CLICK.
“Again.”
Cosimo stared at the screen, then at Noa, then very intently at a slice of quattro formaggi like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen, then back at Noa. He did this four more times, until Theo glared at him. Noa, of course, pretended not to notice.
Wallace stole a crust off the coffee table and bolted.
“WALLACE!”
They all lunged for him at once.
Theo laughed, reaching for his phone. “Car’s here in ten.”
Noa glanced up at him and squeezed his hand.
The apartment door clicked shut behind them, and for a second they stood in the quiet hallway. Theo locked the door and checked it twice out of habit while Noa gathered the velvet cape into her arms so it wouldn’t brush the wall.
He watched her fingertips smooth the edge of it in the reflection of the window and pat her hair once before he cleared his throat.
“Ready?” he asked.
The oyster silk glowed against the walls, and the velvet cape pooled behind her, brushing the worn tiles as they walked down the fourth floor hallway. Noa glanced back every few steps to check the hem. Theo caught her hand once and murmured, “Noey, I got you,” lifting the cape before it touched the floor. When they reached the narrow staircase, he turned sideways so the dress wouldn’t catch on the railing.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Stay close.
They descended down a flight of stairs and heard a couple arguing loudly.
“Hai bruciato tutto!” “Non è bruciato, è croccante!” “È nero! Apri la finestra prima che moriamo!” (You burned everything! It’s not burned, it’s crispy! It’s black! Open the window before we die!)
Theo glanced up, then looked at Noa who bit her lip trying not to laugh.
She gripped his sleeve tighter when he moved quickly down the next flight of stairs.
“Oh my god these heels are so loud,” she laughed. “Sorry.”
Behind a cracked door someone shouted, “Calciatore…” and another voice immediately shushed them.
On the third floor, an old woman froze mid-step, grocery bag in her hand.
Her eyes went from Theo’s tux to Noa’s gown. “Oh,” she said softly, garlic and laundry detergent rising from the brown paper in her hand.
Theo smiled. “Buonasera.”
The old woman smiled back, and stepped aside, her eyes followed them as they continued down the staircase.
A violin squealed through a door on the second floor. “No, Matteo, from the top!” a woman snapped. The boy tried again, two bad notes shrieked through the air, and a thin violin string snapped mid-note. Theo winced and covered his ear, quickly pulling Noa forward.
Halfway down, Noa suddenly bent down to fix the strap on her heel.
“Hey,” Theo scolded softly, kneeling. “I just fixed this.”
“I know,” she whispered. “It didn’t stay.”
“Don’t move,” he said, quickly fastening it again.
The courtyard opened around them, laundry lines crisscrossed overhead, bed sheets billowed into open windows, and loud voices overlapped and echoed from televisions and spilled down into the dark. Signora Patrizia from 6B clapped a bedsheet over a railing and dust floated down in thick puff. A cloud of dust from it landed on Theo’s shoulder when he looked up, and Noa immediately brushed it off.
“Watch the hem,” he whispered, steadying his hand across her back when they came across a cracked stone. He lifted the edge of her gown over it and her past a rosemary bush that swiped her hand as they walked.
A fat tabby cat darted across a row of bikes that leaned between two columns near the iron gate.
"Attento, Massimiliano!" Signor Leonardo scolded the cat, and took a puff of his cigarette as he waved. “Calciatore!”
“Signor Leonardo,” Theo quickly nodded, guiding Noa forward.
A little radio crackled on Signor Renato’s desk while he completed a crossword.
“Gol! Gol! …Questo è stato il gol della settimana, segnato da Theo Aldridge-Wells.” (This was the goal of the week, scored by Theo Aldridge-Wells.)
He quickly spotted them and turned the volume down, the static swallowing the rest of the sound from the broadcast.
“Ah, Madonna.” Signor Renato stood so fast and smiled so wide that his glasses slid down his nose. “Che bella,” he said, straightening his cardigan.
Noa smiled shyly and murmured, “Buonasera.”
Signora Renato walked around the desk, greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks, as he marveled at the cape.
“Ah. Now I understand,” he beamed, and put a hand over his heart.
“È davvero stupendo. Tessuto molto ricco.” (It's really gorgeous. Very rich fabric.)
He leaned sideways to take one last look at Noa before shifting his gaze to Theo.
“Signor Calciatore,” he said. “You clean up,” he laughed, in broken English.”
“Grazie, Signor Renato.” Theo laughed. “Piano, piano.”
“Where are you going dressed like the fancy film stars?”
“La Scala,” Theo said.
“Ah, Vai. Vai. Godere.” Signor Renato quickly replied, and waved them forward.
Risk It All by Yuna
Just outside the entry gate a long black sedan sat at the curb underneath the sole streetlamp, like it didn’t belong on Theo’s little cobblestone street. A neighbor in an opposite building nudged her curtain aside to stare and immediately tugged it shut when she caught Noa’s eye.
The engine idled and purred softly as the driver stepped out, eyes widening when he saw Noa. “Buonasera, signore. Signora,” he said, opening the door.
Noa gathered her cape and slid in. “Buonasera,” she said, as Theo slipped in beside her.
They sat there for a second, fingers intertwined, Noa resting her head on his shoulder.
The driver glanced in the mirror. “Teatro alla Scala, signore?” (La Scala, sir?)
Theo nodded. “Sì. E piano, per favore.” (Yes. And slowly, please.)
The driver smiled. “Capito.” (Got it.)
The city glowed through the glass as the driver pulled the car forward. The sedan eased away from Theo’s street so slowly it felt like they were standing still. Brera’s cobblestones bumped beneath the tires, the headlights shined on café tables cluttered with half-drunk orange Campari glasses and people smoking cigarettes, while dogs slept under their chairs, beside bicycles chained to poles. Someone called out “Ciao bella!” to a woman crossing the street and laughter rang out around them.
Noa checked her reflection in the dark window again, smoothing her hair, adjusting her earrings, reapplying lipgloss, twice.
“Breathe,” Theo murmured.
He glanced down and pressed a light kiss to her head.
“You okay?” He rested his hand on her knee.
“Yeah… just nervous,” she said, squeezing his hand tighter.
“Permesso… sempre così,” the driver muttered, lifting his hand to apologize as a Vespa squeezed between the sedan and a delivery van parked half on the sidewalk.
The radio crooned an old Italian song, something about love, and the driver immediately shut it off as soon as a woman’s voice floated through the speaker. “Aria condizionata bene, signori?”
“Sì, perfetto,” Theo said, turning to Noa. “Cold?,” he asked, adjusting the vent away from her.
“I’m okay,” she said, slipping one heel off and curling her toes into the carpet. “These might have been a mistake,” she sighed.
Theo laughed under his breath and lifted her ankle into his hand, absentmindedly rubbing slow circles along the strap mark.
“Mhm,” she murmured, eyes fluttering closed. “Keep doing that.”
Theo glanced at her and smirked.
“I saw that,” Noa giggled, eyes still shut.
“I know.”
Outside, they idled at the light as a tram rattled past the intersection on Via Mercato, while pedestrians moved past the sedan windows, turning their heads to squint inside.
“Look at them trying to get a sneak peek,” Noa laughed, leaning across Theo to look out the window. “Do they know it’s you?” she whispered.
“Maybe.”
Noa watched their reflections in the window, rubbing the edge of her ring. “There’s going to be press, isn’t there?”
Theo leaned in, tracing the tiny fish at her wrist with his thumb. “Sei con me,” he said, and kissed her cheek.
“Relax.”
He pulled the curtain halfway and reached for the chilled bottle tucked into the console.
“Champagne?”
The car crawled forward again, then the street opened and the Duomo appeared, its marble glowing pink and gold.
Theo leaned forward. “Piano, per favore.”
The driver nodded and slowed.
“It’s gorgeous,” Noa whispered, “It didn’t look like this earlier.” She grabbed her phone, rolled the window down, and snapped some photos.
Tourists crowded the square, phones held high. CLICK. A man playing an accordion under the arches. CLICK. Vendors waving blinking toys at kids. CLICK.
Theo watched her, memorizing the way her brown skin glowed in the Duomo’s light, how her hair caught the breeze from the window, how her eyes twinkled as the city blurred by.
“Look at this,” she laughed, tilting her phone to Theo. “I guess the glow of the marble is too pretty for photos… like the moon.” She shrugged and deleted a row of blurry shots.
He kissed her knuckles. “Sei bellissima,” he whispered.
As the car turned toward La Scala, the streets narrowed. Theo’s phone buzzed in his pocket several times, but he ignored it. They rolled past the Galleria again, past the Prada windows full of mannequins in the latest fashions, past couples spinning under the arches.
Noa slipped her heel back on and leaned into him again. “Wallace would hate this car.”
Theo smiled. “Nah. Basil definitely would.”
She went quiet for a second, thumb tracing the rim of her glass.
“Yeah,” she said softly.
He glanced down at her. “Can’t wait to meet him.”
“Yeah, me too,” she said, eyes still focused on the city outside as she squeezed his hand again.
The street narrowed again as they turned toward La Scala. Noa leaned toward the window, watching women hold their gowns not to brush against the pavement, while men in tuxes lit cigarettes under the streetlights, smoke drifting into the air.
“There’s going to be cameras, Theo.”
“Yeah.”
Valets in black gloves stepped into the street, waiting patiently as sedans rolled to the curb, preparing for the camera flash when doors swung open.
“Ready, Noey?” Theo asked, kissing her forehead as the sedan slowed to the curb.
She nodded, fingers tightening around his hand. “Ready.”
Lights and Camera by Yuna
A ripple burst through the crowd ahead of them. People were squeezing past on both sides, muttering about seats. Behind them an usher slid past whispering, “Permesso… scusi…” balancing a stack of program booklets, brushing past Noa’s cape.
They were halfway up the stairs when the crowd slowed near a small landing outside one of the box corridors. Guests abruptly stopped to check their tickets in front of a set of velvet curtains tied back to a gold-framed doorway.
Just then, a statuesque platinum blonde in emerald satin, with hair pinned into a tight bun, and red nails delicately placed against the railing, suddenly turned toward them. She glanced at Theo and did a double-take.
“Aldridge-Wells,” she called out, waving, already unlocking her phone.
“My brother in Moscow will kill me if I don’t get a photo,” she said quickly, her hand briefly brushing the green pear-shaped emerald pendant, sitting on her bony collarbone.
Theo glanced at Noa.
“One photo? Very fast,” the woman asked. Her pear-cut emerald diamond drop earrings brushed her jawline as she moved toward them.
“Go on,” Noa whispered, smiling as she squeezed his hand.
“Okay,” Theo said, glancing between Noa and the woman. “Just a quick one.”
The woman stepped toward the little space by the velvet rope, angling herself toward the chandelier light while guests moved around them.
She stared at Theo for a second too long, smiled and lifted her phone. “May I?”
An usher hovering by the doorway offered politely, “Vuole che la faccio io?”
The woman handed over her phone without looking at him. She moved so close to Theo that Noa automatically shifted a half a step back so people could pass.
From beside the corridor wall, there was a man watching the woman, holding an emerald purse and shawl. He was tall too, dark hair brushed back, thick eyebrows, olive skin, dressed in a simple navy tux with a Cartier watch.
CLICK.
“Permesso.” A woman called out as she pushed through the crowd dragging her husband to their seats. Their program slipped and Noa caught it before it hit the steps. As she bent down, her velvet cape slid loose, revealing the honey-colored brown curve of her back where the dress dipped low.
When she rose, the tall man’s eyes traced her skin, lingering at the way the light glowed against it. He blinked when Noa met his eyes, swallowed, and turned away with a small, embarrassed smile.
CLICK.
“Mi scusi, signorina. È molto bella.”
He whispered, low enough for only Noa to hear. (Excuse me, miss. You are a very beautiful woman.)
Noa pretended not to hear him.
“Perfetto,” the woman said brightly, checking the screen. “Grazie. Thank you, Mr. Aldridge-Wells.”
“Theo.” He nodded. “Buona serata.” His hand came straight back to Noa’s waist as he stepped aside to let another couple pass between them and the usher.
He caught the man mid-gaze on Noa.
“Mi scusi,” the man said softly, straightening. “La signora è splendida.”
Theo gave a polite half-smile and pulled Noa a little closer, guiding her up one more step as the flow of people continued moving around them.
Noa dipped her head. “Grazie.”
“Andrei,” the woman called sharply, already moving toward their seat. “Andiamo.”
Theo’s thumb brushed Noa’s back once as they climbed again.
The woman’s eyes flicked once toward Noa, thin lips in a tight line. She snatched the purse and shawl from Andrei as he crossed to her, turned on her heel, and never looked back.
The flow of people finally carried them toward the velvet-curtained doorway. An usher lifted the rope and another attendant stepped forward, gloved hands folded.
A man with a camera stepped politely into their path, a small badge pinned to his jacket.
“Signor Aldridge-Wells, una foto per La Scala, per favore.” (Mr. Aldridge-Wells, a photo for La Scala, please.)
Theo halted mid-step. Noa hesitated for a second, heart thudding in her chest, before she stepped closer and lifted her chin. Her left hand slid onto his jacket, her ring catching the chandelier light.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Theo’s arm settled around her waist as the photographer lifted the camera.
“Uno… due…”
“Un’altra… insieme.” (You both look beautiful.)
Theo glanced down at Noa, watching as she relaxed her shoulders, leaned closer to him and flashed a megawatt smile before looking at the camera.
CLICK.
“Perfetto. Grazie.”
Theo didn’t move right away, his hand stilled at her back.
“Come,” she nudged, patting his back, and guiding him forward.
The corridor narrowed into a small foyer outside their box. There were velvet doors marked with small brass numbers on both sides, and gold lamps dimly lit against aging patterned wallpaper. People stood in tight clusters flipping programs, murmuring in Italian, exchanging seat numbers and conversation as ushers handed out last minute programs.
Theo slowed their steps when he spotted someone near the doorway. A tall man in his late forties, brown hair slightly graying, black tux, thin wire glasses, one hand holding a program booklet. Beside him stood a woman in a simple black gown, wavy chestnut hair cascading down her back, cardigan in her hand, studying the cast list.
“Theo!” The man exclaimed, stepping forward with a quick half-hug, cheek brushing cheek. “Nice to see you, again.”
“Marco.” Theo clasped his shoulder. “Buonasera.”
“This is my wife, Mia,” Marco said, reaching for her hand.
“Ciao.”
“This is—”
Theo hesitated for a second, hand tightening around Noa’s as glanced over at her.
Noa stepped forward before he could finish and wrapped her arm around him.
“Ciao,” she said, “Noelle Jameson.”
Her left ring finger rested on his chest and reflected under the glow of the lamp.
“Il pesciolino di Theo,” she quipped, smiling. (Theo's little fish.)
Theo’s eyes widened. He blinked and glanced down at her before resting his hand on her back.
“Ah! Il pesciolino,” Marco laughed, reaching for her free hand. “Molto piacere.” (Ah! Little fish. Very nice to meet you.)
Mia's eyes flickered from Noa’s face to the ring, to Theo’s hand still resting at her back.
“Benvenuta,” she said warmly. “You look beautiful tonight.”
Theo didn’t respond so Noa had to lightly tap his tux to get his attention.
“Sorry,” he cleared his throat. “Noelle works in strategic infrastructure work,” he added quietly, “Women’s equity in sport, global governance, and institutional strategy.”
Marco’s brows lifted. “Davvero? We should talk after. I sit on a foundation board for women’s facilities in Napoli.”
Noa smiled. “I’d love that.”
An usher slipped between them murmuring, to anyone who would listen, “Per favore, trova i tuoi posti.”
“Always herding like cows,” Marco laughed. “Shall we?”
“Prima volta alla Scala?” Mia asked, as they moved toward the doorway.
“Yes. First time.” Theo answered, proudly.
“Aldridge-Wells?” A couple stopped them halfway into the room.
Theo nodded.
“Il gol contro Inter… incredibile.”
“Grazie.”
The woman glanced at Noa. “Beautiful Har-bee-son dress…”
“Grazie.”
Theo shook his head gently. “Harbison,” he corrected, smiling. “By Charles Harbison.”
Noa squeezed his hand.
“Ah, beautiful Harbison. The color is—,” The woman kissed her two fingers and pointed to the air, grinning.
“Grazie,” Noa chuckled.
“Ciao. Ciao.” the couple said in unison, before striding away.
Marco’s wife leaned closer as they continued to their seats.
“It really is stunning,” she said quietly. “You wear it beautifully.”
Noa dipped her head. “Thank you, Mia.”
Theo glanced down at her hand once more. His fingers lightly traced the little fish on her wrist as she stared at her ring.
Witchy by Kaytranada ft. Childish Gambino
They stepped inside a step behind Marco and Mia, fingers still interlocked. Theo brushed his mouth against her knuckle as they crossed the entryway into the deep red velvet walls.
“What was that for,” Noa giggled, looking up at him.
“Just felt like it,” he shrugged.
Gold trim reflected the light of the wall scones, from the railings, crown moldings, to the carved legs of the four small upholstered chairs set in a neat row facing the stage. A low velvet rail curved along the open edge of the box.
“Wait, I need opera glasses,” Noa whispered.
They paused at a tiny side table with a small rusted bell in the corner, lined with programs and gold opera glasses under a brass lamp.
“Which ones are ours?” she asked.
Theo pulled two folded tickets from his pocket and nodded toward the front pair of chairs closest to center.
“These. Best view,” he smirked. “That rail is so you can lean forward to see the stage,” he added, stealing the glasses from her hand and peering through them at her. “Just make sure you don’t fling these over it.”
“Oh shut up,” she huffed, snatching them back.
He pulled her chair out, gathering the velvet cape so it wouldn’t drag, as she slid into the seat. Theo dragged his chair closer until their knees touched, his forearm resting lightly along the rail beside hers.
Below them the orchestra pit housed musicians tuning instruments. A sweet, birdlike oboe note rose above a piercing violin, drifting between the low tenor of several cellos.
Theo leaned in. “Okay,” he whispered, opening his program. “So you’re white swan, I’m Black swan?”
Noa turned slowly.
“Theo. This is not Black Swan.”
“It said Swan Lake,” he whispered. “I Googled.”
He pulled out his phone and thumbed through it, tilting the screen toward her.
“See, there is a set of dancers in white.”
He swiped to the next photo.
“And here is one in black.”
He stared at her.
“White swan. Black swan.”
Noa stared at him for a second, then burst into a fit of giggles.
“I can see how that could make sense to you,” she said, patting his shoulder.
“But, baby… no.”
“So… is this not the Black Swan movie that had Natalie Portman?”
Noa raised her brow. “The one you fell asleep on?” She laughed again, covering her mouth to muffle the sound. “... Kinda.”
She leaned closer so her shoulder pressed into his.
“Okay, listen. Quick version.”
He nodded. “Teach me, Noelle. I am an excellent student,” he teased, lightly kissing her shoulder where her cape slid down.
“Theodore. Cut it out and listen,” she snapped.
“Okay. Okay.”
“So… Odette is a princess cursed into a swan.”
“White swan or Black swan?”
“White.”
“You called me crazy, but is that or is that not a white swan… and a Black swan?”
Noa ignored him. “I didn’t call you crazy, let me finish.” She exhaled and started again. “Okay, so Odette is only human at night. She is cursed into a swan by an evil sorcerer… Odette, the white swan, is doomed to stay that way unless someone truly loves her… but if the prince promises himself to the wrong woman… the Black Swan,
“Natalie Portman. The, ahem, Black Swan.”
Noa cut her eyes at him.
“Okay….” Theo grumbled and slunk back in seat. “No need to be so huffy about it.”
Noa closed her eyes and took a deep exhale.
“So… Odette meets the prince, and they fall in love. Then, the sorcerer sends the Black Swan, Odile, to trick him into betraying her. The spell can never be broken and the prince swears love to the wrong girl and ruins everything.”
Theo opened Google on his phone, tilted it towards her again. “So… I was kind of correct, yeah?”
“Theo, Natalie Portman played both,” Noa deadpanned. “The white swan and the Black Swan.”
The house lights dimmed as the main chandelier shook above them, beginning its slow ascent to the ceiling.
“That’s enough for you to watch it.” Noa whispered, tapping his knee. “Now…Shh.”
Hear the Bells by Vanessa Carlton
Theo felt Noa inhale. “You okay?”
Noa nodded, eyes fixed on the rising light.
She glanced at him. “I just… I’ve never seen this live before,” she smiled. “ I’m excited.”
He turned his hand under hers so their fingers laced together.
“Me neither.”
She elbowed him softly. “Shh.”
The lake appeared all at once. In the background, moonlight painted on water, women cursed into white swans glided in slow arcs through blue lights, tutus twirling in sync, waiting for the prince who might free them.
Theo watched her reflection in the gold mirror opposite the box instead of the stage. The way her mouth parted and she forgot to blink when Odette stepped into the moonlight.
“This,” Noa turned to Theo and whispered, “Is the… white swan. The princess who can only be human at night.”
“So when is the—”
“Shh,” she snapped, turning back around before he could finish his sentence.
He held back a smile. She was bossy and beautiful and so excited. He watched the way her eyes tracked every movement like she was learning it by heart while her breath held like she’d forgotten how to take another. The way her hand drifted into his sleeve, gripping his arm when the orchestra swelled, how her shoulders rose and fell with the music.
The chandelier light caught her tears before he even saw them fall. He didn’t realize she was crying until a tear fell against his knuckle.
He reached out, thumb brushing her cheek.
“You okay, Noey?” he whispered, lips near her hair.
She nodded, still staring. “It’s beautiful.”
His thumb rubbed her tattoo on her wrist to ground her.
“Thanks,” she whispered, eyes glued to the stage.
Onstage Odette bent toward the prince, begging him to remember his promise to love only her, trembling under the music as she twirled in an arabesque. Noa leaned into Theo’s shoulder like she was trying to anchor herself there, and he stayed very still, afraid that if he moved even a little, she would whack him.
Her curls fell forward over her shoulder as she tilted her head, eyes wide, lips moving with the rhythm, tapping lightly to every eight-count. When Odette faltered into the prince’s arms before the sorcerer’s daughter would trick him into choosing the Black Swan instead, Noa turned into Theo’s chest, looking away from the stage and then her eyes shifted right back.
Halfway through the act she wiped her cheek, almost annoyed at herself. “I’m fine.” She wiped her cheek again.
“I know,” he smiled, tugging her velvet cape back on her shoulders.
At intermission they stood slowly with the rest of the room, bodies pressing close, drifting into the corridor with a wave of people. Theo kept his hand at her back so the cape wouldn’t catch on anything while they moved through the narrow hall, and Noa kept glancing back toward the stage like she wasn’t ready to leave it yet.
“We’re coming back,” he chuckled.
She didn’t answer him for a moment, letting him guide her.
“This is incredible,” she said finally, and stopped.
“Yeah.” He smiled. “The Black swan is… but I don’t know about that white one.”
Noa bit her lip to muffle the laugh bursting to escape.
It did anyway. “Oh my god, I cannot take you anywhere,” she laughed, glancing up and swatting him. “Come on.”
When they slipped back into the dark for Act II, Theo’s phone buzzed in his pocket several times before the show began again, and he finally checked it before he could stop himself. Noa leaned her head against his shoulder when the lake returned to the stage, and he locked it as quickly as he could.
By the time Act II began again the theater had gone so quiet Theo could hear Noa breathing beside him. When Odette reached toward the prince, the moment before he would choose the wrong woman, Noa’s fingers tightened in his sleeve without her noticing.
“He’s going to choose the Black Swan?” Theo whispered, in her hair. “What the—”
The show ended in a burst of applause. People stood tapping their programs against their palms, opera glasses dangling from their hands at their sides. The doors burst open and noise flooded out, Theo kept his hand on Noa’s back as they stepped back into the corridor.
“That was…” she tried, and couldn’t finish.
“Yeah.”
A woman with a press badge hovered near the stair landing.
“Mr. Aldridge-Wells? Just one quick photo for La Repubblica.”
Theo hesitated.
“Go.”
I Don’t Know by Nick Hakim
Enrico Bartolini al Mudec
The car finally pulled away from the theater as the last flashes of cameras faded and the row of cars ahead eased from the curb and into traffic. Noa held the opera glasses in her lap, turning them over as she glanced out the window.
For a long time neither of them spoke.
The car rolled past the Duomo again, tourists still drifted through the square with gelato cups and cameras flashing to capture the building at night in all of its pink marble glory. A tram rattled across the intersection where a group of teenagers leaned on scooters and smoked cigarettes. The Galleria’s glass dome glittered in gold in the distance as the driver drove onto Via Torino, where every shop shutter was pulled down and silence fell over the empty cobblestones.
Traffic cleared as they drove toward the Navigli. Laundry lines sagged between narrow buildings where television light flickered through open windows. Warehouses defaced with graffiti were replaced by fancy shopping boutiques as they turned toward Via Tortona.
Theo watched Noa’s eyes flutter open and closed, trying to decide if food or sleep was more important to her at the moment.
Theo: Any pizza left? Cecilia:There is absolutely no pizza left. Theo: Steups. Wallace? Please. Cecilia: Dude what kind of young people do you think we are? I am in pajamas. Wallace is asleep at the end of my bed. Cosimo is… well I don’t know where he is. Cecilia: Swap Wallace at Nonna’s. Bye.
Theo laughed and flicked the screen closed.
“Come here.”
He pulled Noa into his chest, and she curled into him. She rested her head on his shoulder, he found the little fish on her wrist, and his thumb traced the loop again and again until her breathing slowed.
“Thank you.”
“I got you,” he murmured into her hair.
“I know,” she said. “That’s the problem.”
Theo laughed softly, “Is that really the problem?” His thumb slowed against her wrist. “Or is it that you do want me to have you but you’re too afraid to let me have you.”
“That one,” she yawned, scooting closer into his chest and closing her eyes.
“I see…” he smirked, choosing not to say anything more.
He loosened his bow tie and leaned back into the leather, his own eyes fluttering shut.
“You hungry?”
“Always.”
He laughed, “Good. One more surprise, yeah.”
Noa shook her head, eyes still closed. “Fine, fine. Sure, sure.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
The car slowed outside Enrico Bartolini al Mudec, valets stepping forward as soon as the driver slowed outside a modern glass-and-steel building with curved edges, big reflective windows, and a wide plaza around it. The MUDEC museum’s empty lobby and polished marble floors glowed behind the doors, as banners for the last exhibition hung from the ceiling.
Theo leaned forward, tilting Noa in his arms.
“Puoi ritirare l’ordine al Mudec? È a nome Aldridge-Wells.” (Can you pick up the order at Mudec? It’s under Aldridge-Wells.)
Noa listened to his deep English baritone, and slight lisp, as he whispered to the driver in hushed, clipped, Italian.
“E aggiungi le bottiglie, quelle che ho scelto.” (And add the bottles I selected.)
She refused to open her eyes and snuggled closer, preferring to listen to his heartbeat instead.
"Aspetta. E dopo c'è il McDonald's. Per favore?" (Wait. And then there's McDonald's. Please?)
“Subito, signore.” (Right away, sir.)
The driver nodded and slipped inside to the empty lobby while they stayed in the back seat. He then took the world’s slowest elevator up to the third floor that led to the restaurant.
“Is this food?” Noa rasped, eyes still closed. “Fancy food?”
“Yes,” Theo replied, eyes watching out the window, hand lightly caressing her back.
A few minutes later the driver returned with a brown tote on his arm full of warm copper tins and opened the back door to hand them to Theo. He walked back to the driver’s seat and eased the car away from MUDEC’s empty plaza toward Brera, as a taxi horn barked once behind them.
Noa sat up instantly.
“Oooh,” she squealed, sliding the tote from Theo’s grip, tracing the fabric against her fingers. “This is nicceeeeee,” she laughed, “Theo got moneyyyyyy.”
The green glow of a pharmacy cross flashed against the windshield as the driver drove through a green light.
Theo laughed, watching as she pulled the first lid open.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, “Theo… what is this?”
“Careful, it’s hot.”
“Yes, I know,” she snapped, opening the bag. “Look how neat and tiny the boxes are,” she gasped.
“Risotto…” She leaned over the first tin. “Truffle,” she said, breathing in. “Oh this smells so good.”
Theo grinned watching her peel open another container.
“What is this tiny fried thing,” she asked, face scrunched as she sniffed it.
“Saffron… wait, is this… a risotto ball?”
She bit it in half and moaned. “Oh wow. Why is it perfect?”
She shoved it toward Theo's mouth, “Here, taste.”
“It’s good,” Theo said, chewing, mouth half-full. “I like it.”
Noa wasn’t listening, she was already to the next lid.
“Traffico leggero verso Brera. Dodici minuti.” (Light traffic toward Brera. Twelve minutes.)
“Lobster? With lemon? Theodore, you are really outdoing yourself, over here.”
“Plus two points,” he laughed, extending his palm to hers for a high-five.
“Plus three,” she said, slapping her palm against his.
She opened another container. “Lamb… artichokes… smell this,” she said, nudging him with her knee, pushing it toward his face.
“There weren’t supposed to be artichokes," he groaned, pulling the lid from her hand.
“Why,” she asked, closing the container.
“I thought you didn’t like them.”
She froze for a second.
“I don’t.”
She glanced up at him as she reached for the tiny white dessert box next.
“But this is fancy food that you brought for us. So, I will be eating them.”
Theo’s eyes twinkled. He watched her, silently, chin in his hand, while she kept opening boxes and grinning like a Cheshire cat. He couldn’t help but stare at her.
“I remember everything.”
“I know,” she whispered.
He didn’t think she heard him.
“Hazelnut semifreddo. She opened it, inhaled, and closed her eyes. “Yes, lawd.”
Theo burst out laughing, watching the way her elbows jiggled and her shoulders shimmied.
The wine bottles clinked in their separate sleeves in the tote as the driver lurched to a stop at a red light. Theo slid the boxes onto the seat between them and draped his jacket over them to keep the heat in. Noa immediately slid back into his chest and fell back asleep against him before he could say a word. He watched her chest rise and fall, truffle on her fingers and mascara smudged under her eyes, lost in his own thoughts as the driver turned north toward Brera.
The driver glanced at the mirror.
“Vuole passare dal Duomo per il McDonald’s poi a Brera, signore? (Shall we stop by Duomo for McDonald’s, then Brera, sir?)
Theo nodded. “Sì, grazie.” (Yes, thank you.)
The navigation screen blinked Brera – 12 min as the driver slid through the green light.
Noa’s hand slipped from his wrist, and dangled near the floor.
“Thank you, baby,” she whispered, curling closer.
For a moment, Theo wished this could be enough. He sighed, pulled Noa’s dangling hand onto his chest, closed his eyes and sank further back into the leather seat, feeling the bumps of the road under his feet.
Slow Tonight by Tom Misch
The driver slowed as they neared the neon golden arches. A row of cars curved in a drive-thru line, and the greasy smell of french fries wafted through the air while clipped, rapid Italian croaked through a broken speaker.
“Benvenuti da McDonald's. Come posso aiutarvi?” a voice called to a set of teenagers on a Vespa in line in front of them. (Welcome to McDonald’s. How can I help you.)
Noa shot up from Theo’s chest, hair sticking up, eyes trying to focus.
Behind them, a couple argued in a car blasting Italian trap as they eased bumper to bumper in the next driver-thru lane.
Theo laughed and smoothed down her hair as he ordered.
“Due porzioni di patatine medie… un McChicken… e un McToast, per favore.” (Two medium fries, one McChicken, and a McToast, please.)
He leaned toward the front seat. “Vuole qualcosa anche lei?” (Would you like something too?)
The driver hesitated. “Solo un espresso, grazie, signore.” (Just an espresso, thank you, sir.)
Theo nodded. “Un espresso anche per l’autista, grazie.” (An espresso for the driver as well, thank you.)
Noa squinted at the menu.
“Do they have nuggets? Please tell me they have nuggets.”
Theo glanced at Noa and leaned back into the intercom. “E sei nuggets… e una Coca?” (And six nuggets, and a Coke.)
Noa tugged his sleeve.
“McFlurry. Let me try one of those too.”
Theo grinned. “E un McFlurry al pistacchio.” (And a pistacchio McFlurry.)
The speaker crackled. “Altro?” (Anything else?)
Theo glanced at her. She whispered, “Apple pie.”
He nodded. “Una torta di mele. Grazie.”
“Oh my god, I am so excited,” Noa grinned, fingers tapping against Theo’s pants. “I need to know if the nuggets taste the same.”
“Nuggets are nuggets, Noey. It’s McDonald’s.”
“No, they aren’t.”
She glanced up at him, face scrunched.
The Vespa in front of them sped off, and their driver eased forward.
“Our McDonald’s lives off of transfats, old ass reused grease and broken ice cream machines,” she sighed. “And battery acid tasting Coke sodas…” She grinned. “That I can taste in my chest…” She beamed, and lightly tapped her chest, “Ahhhhhh.”
“Well… not sure that is happening here.”
“I didn’t say it was,” she shot back. “But, McDonald’s is a universal experience that I can appreciate.”
She glanced down at the fancy food on the seat.
“Not that this isn’t incredible too.”
Theo smirked and shook his head at Noa’s level of enthusiasm for a $20 meal vs a $2000 one.
"Ecco qui."
The driver pulled forward a little more so that Theo could roll down the window.
“Grazie.”
The McDonald’s window slid open and a teenager shoved a hot paper bag into Theo’s hands, grease seeping through the bottom.
Noa shoved a fry into her mouth before Theo could even grab the drinks.
“Oh yes,” she whispered, inhaling the grease, as salt stuck to her fingers.
From the front seat, the driver quietly sipped his espresso and pulled from the drive-thru.
Noa leaned back against Theo, fries in one hand, Coke soda in the other. “I feel fancy and frugal.” She yawned, glancing up at him. “And… I could’ve paid for the frugal part, you know.”
“I do, but I didn’t want you too.”
“Okay.” she said, slurping another sip of soda as they sped through a green light.
Theo’s Apartment
Back at the apartment, Noa laughed and kicked off her heels as they stepped through the doorway. Her velvet cape slid from her shoulders as she placed it on the bench nearby.
They didn’t even turn on the lights.
They rushed to the kitchen, instead.
Noa spread the food across the counter, while Theo opened copper tins one by one. They passed forks back and forth in silence, drank wine from the bottle, and sampled everything barefoot, in a silk gown and tux, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“You’re a mess,” Theo said, wiping sauce off her lip with his thumb. “Come here.”
He sat his fork down and reached over. He took her earrings out one at a time, placing them carefully on the marble, while Noa leaned over and loosened his cufflinks.
“This was delicious. I am stuffed,” she said, leaning into him, eyes already half-closed.
“Me too. Come on.”
She stepped closer, but before she could balance, his arm slipped around her waist and he lifted her. She was suddenly turned upside down over his shoulder.
“Theo—!” she squealed, laughing.
She swatted his back with one hand while clutching her dress with the other.
“It’s bedtime, Noey,” he said calmly, striding down the hallway.
“Put me down! My dress! You’re going to wrinkle it!”
“No I’m not.”
“Theodore, I swear—” She smacked his back. “You’re insane. Put me down.”
“Not yet.”
“You’re ridiculous,” she huffed.
“I know.”
Untitled (How Does It Feel) by D’Angelo
Theo pushed the bedroom door open and dropped Noa onto the bed as the mattress dipped beneath her.
“You are the worst,” she laughed, grabbing a pillow to smack him with it. “I mean it.”
“I know,” he grinned.
She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him toward her until he leaned over her, knees sinking into the mattress as he held his weight.
“Theodore James Aldridge-Wells,” she said, smiling up at him, slightly tipsy from the wine at Enrico’s. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Theo braced himself beside her shoulders, their faces inches apart.
“Thought you were tired,” he murmured.
Noa shook her head, curls spilling across the pillow.
“Come here,” she said quietly, drawing him in.
She kissed him slowly, his hand finding her waist as their foreheads touched.
“Noey…” he whispered.
She hummed against his mouth and kissed him again, softer this time, lingering against his lips.
Theo stayed there a moment longer, listening to her breathing, then stepped back, tugged off his tie, peeled off his jacket, and fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, missing the bottom two.
“Let me,” she whispered, eyes half-glazed as she watched him.
She leaned closer and kissed him again. This time her tongue slid into his mouth, twisting with his as she unbuttoned his pants.
“Me next,” she mumbled into his mouth.
Noa scooted to the edge of the bed, hair cascading across her shoulders, and starting to frizz, as she turned her back toward him.
Theo eased the zipper down, and together they worked the dress slowly over her curves, her eyes locked on his. It pooled at her feet, leaving only dusty-rose panties and a bralette half-hidden beneath her hair.
“I like these,” Theo said, stepping behind her, and lightly tugging a tiny bow on the waistband.
She gathered her curls to one side. “I know,” she whispered, glancing back over her shoulder.
“Theo!”
In one swift motion he lifted her and launched them back onto the bed. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in, his hand gliding slowly along her thigh.
Noa leaned up and cupped his face. She kissed him again, slower this time, hands sliding over his chest. She leaned him back and straddled him, pressing into him as he traced slow circles across her lower back.
A minute later, he reached over and flicked off the nightstand lamp.
The room immediately went dark.
Noa pulled his face back to hers.
“Yes.”
“I didn’t even ask you anything,” he laughed.
“You thought about it. I answered.”
“I’m not that easy,” he grinned. “Or that sleazy,” he laughed, and slapped her butt.
Noa raised a brow. “Sureeeee.”
She shifted to remove her leg. “So you wouldn’t mind if I just…”
“Noelle, stop.” He gripped her hip and held it there.
“Take it.”
He lifted up, shifting her weight on his lap.
“Give it.”
He gripped her lower back and tilted them upright. He kissed along her collarbone, watching a small moan leave her lips. She gripped his face and held it, their gazes locked on each other in the darkness.
After a long silence between them, Noa let one hand drift from his bearded jaw, unclasped her bra, and flung it across the room.
Theo brushed his palm across her face. He pulled her into a kiss, then, slowly pulled back.
They stared at each other. His chest rose and hers followed, and when he bit his lip, her breath hitched. They were each waiting for the other, forgetting to breathe, while their fingers traced the lines of each other’s faces.
“Noelle.” “Theodore.” “I love you.” Theo’s eyes widened. A shy grin spread across his face.
“I love you too. Always. You know that,” he muttered, quickly glancing away.
Noa cupped his face and pulled his gaze back to hers.
“Make love to me… yeah?”
He nodded.
She peppered him with slow, tiny kisses, fingers stroking his beard, as his eyes fluttered closed. He folded her into him, his lips brushed lightly against her skin.
“Mhm.”
Noa’s eyes fluttered shut, her fingers grazed his shoulders.
He nibbled her ear.
“Theodore,” She giggled.
He peppered kisses across her collarbone and down her neck as his fingers traced her lower back.
He moved lower, his hands settling at her hips as she stayed straddled over him. He pressed light kisses across her chest, his mouth warming her skin.
He stopped and glanced up at her. “Is that—” “Yes.”
His lips parted, breath lingered on her skin. He slowly traced his tongue around her nipple. Her shoulders sank, head rolled back.
“Theo.”
He moved slower. Noa shuddered.
“You like that?” She nodded.
He adjusted his grip, steadying her at the waist as she shifted on his lap. His hands found the lace at her hips. He let one hand travel lower, tracing the fabric between her legs. He hooked his fingers beneath the lace, his fingers trailing across her wetness.
Her breath broke into quiet moans. She rocked gently against his hand, knees braced at his sides to keep her balance.
“Right there,” she breathed. “Just like that. “Don’t move.”
Her grip tightened on his shoulders as she pressed down harder. Her palms slid to his thighs as she moved against him.
Her eyes snapped shut. “Right—” the word broke from her as the wave hit.
Sweat pooled between them. Theo watched her fingers flex and grip his thighs. She gasped, her chest rose. Her thighs tightened around his waist, her back arched, and she pressed down against him, clinging tighter.
A soft, broken cry slipped from her mouth as her forehead dropped to his shoulder, she trembled. Small pulses rippled through her as her fingers dug into his back. Her breath came hot and uneven against his neck.
“You okay,” Theo whispered. Noa nodded.
She opened her eyes as he tightened his arms around her. His fingers traced her thighs as he spread her legs open, easing the lace from her hips and lifting her just enough to guide it down.
She helped, kicking it free.
Then—
He rolled his hips beneath her, hands firm at her waist, lining himself up slowly. She lifted slightly, reached down to guide him closer a soft gasp leaving her as she took him in, hands tightening on his shoulders.
He slid inside of her.
“More,” she whispered.
Her eyes fluttered shut as she rolled her hips, taking him in fully. She drew him deeper against her, his eyes closed as he held her tighter.
Noa sighed. “Yes… baby… yes.”
Theo kissed her slow and deep.
“That feel good, Noelle?” Noa nodded.
When he pressed deeper, she met him with a slow roll of her hips.
“Fuck…” he breathed.
“Look at me.” She held his gaze as she moved, mouth parting. “Yes—”
Goosebumps peppered her skin. She tightened around him, moaning, legs trembling as Theo deepened his grip at her waist, her eyes closed.
“That’s it… yeah…”
He guided her leg higher, kissing along her skin.
He leaned down to her ear and whispered, “Hold on, okay?”
Theo closed his eyes and bent his head into the crook of her neck.
He moved faster, over and over. “Harder.”
“Yes… right there…” she cried.
She matched him, meeting every thrust, breath turning ragged, fingers digging deeper into his back.
“Don’t stop,” she breathed, barely above a whisper.
Her cries grew louder. “I’m close,” she breathed.
His hands clenched at her waist. “Noey…I’m—”
“Cum with me, baby.”
She kissed him, slow and deep. Stroked his lips with her tongue, and gently sucked on it.
His hips jerked. His forehead dropped to her shoulder. “Fuck—”
He choked out a gasp against her skin as he spilled into her. He kept her wrapped in his arms as a wave rolled through them, her nails dragging down his back as she held on.
Seemingly by Kaytranada
Theo’s Saturday Morning Pre-Match Training 7:00–9:30 AM
Before the alarm even buzzed the first time, Theo’s eyes opened, and for a moment he lay still in the bed looking at the ceiling.
A woman’s voice cut through the courtyard. “Salvatore! La finestra è rimasta aperta tutta la notte!" (Salvatore! The window was left open all night!)
A man answered, calm, already tired. "No, l'ho chiuso ieri sera prima di andare a letto." (No, I closed it last night before I went to bed.)
“Non lo chiudi mai bene!” (You never close it properly!)
“Giuseppina. L'ho chiuso.” (Giuseppina. I closed it.)
Noa was curled toward him, breath warm against his chest, curls tangled across his shoulder, bonnet sprawled in between the headboard, not on her head, as usual. She shifted, pressing closer into his chest, murmuring something he couldn’t understand.
“… traffic in the sky….”
A light brisk breeze slipped in from the cracked balcony doors, carrying a rosy, lemony fragrance from two balconies down where Signora Ramona slid open her green shutters and hummed Andrea Bocelli while she watered her garden.
Theo closed his eyes and stayed there a moment longer than he should’ve.
“Too loud,” she said, pressing her face deeper into his chest.
“It’s Bocelli,” Theo whispered.
“She is obsessed with him.”
“Yeah,” he said, kissing her temple again, rolling closer.
Buzz.
He let the alarm buzz once more before he finally silenced it.
Noa opened one eye.
“What time?”
“Seven.”
She groaned.
“Five more minutes.”
Theo reached over, turned off the alarm and laid back.
Morning light traced the line of Noa’s cheek, mascara smudged faintly beneath one eye, her lips slightly parting as her breath rose and fell.
“Get some sleep, Noey.”
He tried to slide out of bed quietly, careful not to wake her, but Noa grabbed his chest in half-sleep and mumbled, “Don’t go.”
“Training,” he whispered, folding the blanket tighter around her.
“Score a goal,” she muttered, already drifting off again.
Theo laughed under his breath, kissed her temple, and slipped away.
Steam filled the bathroom mirror as he quickly showered and taped his ankle, the small bruise from last week’s training finally fading. He dressed and moved toward the door, turning once more to glance at her. He stood quietly for a moment and watched the sunlight slide against her slightly arched caramel colored back, as she shifted on the mattress and tugged his pillow closer.
In the kitchen, he poured a glass of water and made a protein shake. He pulled a spare set of gold keys with a pink satin ballet slipper keychain from a nearby drawer and set them beside her earrings and clutch on the counter.
Then, he wrote a note on a receipt from the bakery:
Noey, Keys are yours. Twist the top lock twice. Answer a text from (+39) 06.46741. Harriet’s asking about Sunday at San Siro. Be safe. Text if you need me. — Pesce grosso Theo (Big Fish Theo)
“Shit,” he muttered, patting his sweats for his phone.
He tiptoed back into the room, glass of water in hand, grabbed the phone from the nightstand, and sat the glass on her nightstand.
Buzz. Harriet Cole.
Theo let it ring once, glanced at Noa, slipped it into his pocket and headed to the front door.
In the stairwell, a man shouted from below.
“Renato! Non puoi spostare il motorino!” (Renato! You can’t move the scooter!)
“Non è residente. Sta qui da tre giorni.” Signor Renato kept sweeping. (It’s not a resident’s. It’s been here three days.)
“È di mio cugino!” (It’s my cousin’s!)
“Allora tuo cugino viene a prenderlo.” (Then your cousin comes to get it.)
Signor Renato looked up and spotted Theo.
“Buongiorno, Signor calciatore.” (Good morning, Mr. Footballer.)
“Ciao, Signore Renato.”
Theo pushed through the heavy front gate into the courtyard, keys in hand, where Signor Salvatore de Medici was loading white crates into his Il Pesce Medici van.
“Buongiorno Signore de Medici.”
Salvatore nodded without looking up, scribbling across the lids with a black marker.
“C’è traffico su Via Solferino. Fai il giro da Tivoli.” (There’s traffic on Via Solferino. Go around via Tivoli.)
“Grazie.” Theo nodded and crossed to his Range Rover, its windows fogged from the morning dew. He pulled out onto the narrow street, watching Signor Renato, now hosing the cobblestones, as he eased out onto Via Palermo.
Buzz.
He tapped Harriet onto the speaker.
“You ever plan on answering your calls?”
“Harriet, it’s early still.”
He turned past the café on Via Pontaccio, cut across to Largo La Foppa as a tram screeched by, then rolled toward Bastioni di Porta Nuova.
“I know. Don’t care. I got a job to do.” Harriet didn’t wait for a response. “Quick thing. Do you want Noa listed as Jameson or Aldridge-Wells and do you want her in your box or in VIP seats? I know you said she actually likes football.”
Theo stopped at a light, then merged onto Viale Monte Grappa.
“Jameson and VIP seats.”
“... So… she really doesn’t want to be a WAG.”
“Never.”
“... Interesting,” Harriet muttered.
“Yeah.” Theo laughed, as he went onto Corso Sempione, and kept west toward Via Novara.
“Fair.” Harriet added. “Well.. the press is calling her the mystery American again… Which is one step away from saying ‘La ragazza nera’.... If you ask me.”
Theo’s grip tightened on the wheel as traffic slowed near San Siro. He stayed quiet for a second, watching as vendors set up scarves and other merchandise on folding tables.
“You want me to keep ignoring or give them something harmless?”
“Ignore.”
Harriet’s delayed cackle erupted through the speakers. “...Okayyyyy.”
Theo turned onto the ring road. “Yeah…”
“I’ll text her the tickets and email her details, then. You drive safe.”
“Grazie, HC. What would I do without you?”
“You’d have Noa.” she laughed. "You ain't got to lie, Theo, you ain't got to lie."
“Bye, HC,” Theo laughed.
He hung up, turned onto Via Harar, and pulled into the training ground gate.
Witches by Alice Phoebe Lou
Noa woke the minute Theo’s keys turned twice in the lock.
She lay still on his side of the bed, listening to the quiet of the apartment and the light breeze that rustled the balcony curtains, one leg tangled in the sheet, one foot dangling from the mattress.
Her face pressed into the warm spot on the pillow, breathing in Theo’s leftover musky cedar scent. Her bra was somewhere under the nightstand, underwear in a twist near the balcony door, and the bonnet she’d fought with all night lay upside-down between the headboard.
From the street below came the scrape of Signor Renato’s hose across the courtyard cobblestone and the individual clink of empty glass bottles in the blue recycle bins.
"Renato! Devi metterli dentro uno per uno?" a woman called. (Renato! Do you have to put them in one by one?)
“Vuoi essere multato dalla città?” Signor Renato shot back. (Do you want to be fined by the city?)
Noa smiled into the pillow, half asleep.
Buzz.
Her phone vibrated across the nightstand and almost fell to the floor as she grabbed it.
MARCHAND
Her stomach dropped.
Offer Letter of Employment, Director of Global Narrative Dear Noa… It is my pleasure to formally invite you to join MARCHAND as our Director of Global Narrative.
She sat up so fast the sheet tangled around her knees.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
She tugged the duvet around her chest, hands shaking as she continued to scroll.
Please review the enclosed offer… With warmth, Vivian Marchand Founder & Managing Director MARCHAND
She read the email again and flopped back into the pillows giggling.
“Director of Global Narrative,” she said out loud.
She read it again, and again, as she stared at the ceiling, kicking her feet.
She grabbed her phone and texted Selam.
I GOT THE JOB!!!!!
Three dots appeared immediately.
OMG!!!! I KNEW IT!!!! CALL ME ASAP!!!! WAIT! I’M UP AT 7. CALL ME THEN.
Noa laughed. She pressed the phone to her chest and lay there, listening to an argument from Signora Pina’s balcony that floated in.
"Hai dimenticato le ordinazioni per il pesce." (You forgot the orders for the fish.)
"L'ho lasciato sul tavolo." (I left it on the table.)
"Non c'è niente sul tavolo!" (There’s nothing on the table!)
"È sotto la carta. Accanto alle acciughe." (It’s under the paper. Next to the anchovies.)
“Ah. Grazie.”
She sat up again, pulled the duvet around her, eyes flickering to Theo’s tux in a pile by the edge of the bed and her dress unzipped nearby and opened her Notes.
Breakfast Metro pass SIM card Find café for Zoom with Vivian Hair gel Pharmacy
She got out of bed slowly. “What a night,” she laughed to herself.
She tied her hair back and started gathering clothes into a pile. First, she picked up Theo’s white shirt, breathing in the faint hint of cologne. Then, she folded his pants and his tux jacket over her arm, grabbed her gown and smoothed creases out of it, before hanging everything in the closet.
Hot water ran down her back, and immediately fogged the glass when she stepped into the shower.
“It is my pleasure to formally invite you to join MARCHAND as our Director of Global Narrative, " she muttered, quietly, over and over until the water ran cold.
She sat on the edge of the bed, towel wrapped around her, took a sip from the glass of water Theo left behind on the nightstand and texted him.
Noa: I’ll be out running errands. Meet you back after training. Good luck today.
She made the bed, got dressed and headed to the kitchen. Her throat tightened as she lifted the pink satin ballet keychain from the counter and read the note.
Noey, Keys are yours. Twist the top lock twice. Answer a text from (+39) 06.46741. Harriet’s asking about Sunday at San Siro. Be safe. Text if you need me. — Pesce grosso Theo (Big Fish Theo)
“Big Fish, Theo,” she laughed, grabbing the keys and heading toward the front door.
She tested the top lock twice like Theo said before it finally clicked shut.She stood there a second longer than she meant to, thumbing the pink ballet slipper in her hand before a door slamming down the hall interrupted her. She quickly dropped the keys into her bag and headed downstairs.
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