When Love Fails
Romance was thick at the Valentine estate. For Marie and Vincent, it was a much needed break from the stresses of city living. They were never far from affection, but at the same time, Vincent did not have the time to dedicate to romantic frivolities as much as he did when he was back in Europe.
Alexander, too, was embarking upon a passionate journey of his own. His first year of grad school under his belt, he was spending his summer pining for the girlfriend he’d left on the other side of the ocean (not yet committed enough to bring her along on such an intimate adventure), sending her packages and letters fortnightly.
For Grimmy, romance—true romance—was blossoming for the first time.
Had blossomed. Rather quickly, admittedly, and had then been trampled upon and tossed out to be scattered in the piazza, completely unregarded by anyone who walked over it.
He wasn’t new to heartbreak but this was, in all of his fourteen years of life, the worst yet.
He’d met her just as they’d arrived. Within a day. She was perfect; he fell in love immediately. Most would roll their eyes at this already, but he knew. This was it. This was real. She was special.
For the remainder of June they’d been practically inseparable, attached at the mouth, the fingers, the foreheads, and then finally…really attached. In the most biblical sense. He knew he was an early bloomer (particularly compared to his very late blooming older brother), and he hadn’t been saving himself for anything or anyone or for any reason, but as he lay on her bed, smile a mile wide and rolled over to pull her in, she was already out of the bed, hopping back into her striped romper.
“Don’t worry,” she assured him, “you’ll get better at it.”
He blinked, sitting up onto his elbow. He didn’t take offense to that; he knew it was true. But why was she just…why was she walking towards the—where was she going?
She opened the door but not before she bent down to pull all his clothes into a bundle and chuck them at him playfully.
“Alright, you gotta go. I’ve got to pack. We’re going to spend a week in Vienna.”
Confused, Grimoire slipped his arms into his arachnid-print button down slowly.
“Uh…just…like that? You want me to go?”
“Well I mean—“ she flipped her chestnut hair over her head, bending at the waist and gathering it all into a ponytail, voice muffled by her position, “I don’t have time to do this again today. Or like, ever, really.”
She could have slapped him. Never?
“Arianna I—“
“Grim. Grim, don’t sweat it. It’s a summer fling. It was cool; you’re cool. Maybe I’ll see you when I get back.”
Lobster printed boxers in hand, he froze, unable to pull them on. Maybe? But…maybe?
“But doesn’t this make us…” Oh he was confused. How…she wouldn’t. She really wouldn’t just.
She laughed. It wasn’t a mean or condescending laugh so much as he realized she didn’t think he was serious. She hadn’t taken him seriously all month.
“Yeah right,” she chuckled, padding over to her vanity and spritzing her hair, locking in the little baby strands that poked out, “my parents would actually kill me if I dated an American.”
“I’m Italian,” Grimmy protested with a pout, finally donning his underwear, “like really Italian.”
He didn’t often allude to his father’s business in Italy, preferring to be genuine instead of resting on the crutch of privilege, but to be accused of not being Italian didn’t sit well with him.
Arianna gave him a hapless shrug and sighed. “Just not Italian enough,” she told him, nodding her chin towards the doorway again. “Now come on, this is over, we’re done. Remember me fondly when you woo all the other girls this Summer.”
Grimmy didn’t know exactly how he ended up on the street. He didn’t recall the walk home, but he did know that he felt a little more empty than usual. More disoriented than the other heartaches.
More…used.
He had to talk to someone about it. It would be a good topic to discuss with a brother, but unluckily for him, Alexander merely tolerated him (on a good day) and would have no interest in assuaging the aches and clearing the confusion of this break-up.
His mother was good to talk to. So good. However, not only was she likely to have a meltdown upon learning her babiest boy was no longer a virgin, she was a woman and it had been drilled into his head through the school’s sex education courses that it was different for men than it was for women.
He needed to talk to a man. He needed his father. He knew everything.
Vincent was easy to find. The Universita di Pisa had very recently curated a collection of rare, extinct species of moths, the model specimens the first of their kind. In knowing Vincent’s passion for and knowledge on the subject, they had brought it first to him to look over before it was set up for display in the museum itself.
Grimmy entered the library quietly and with low energy, a telltale sign that something was wrong, and stood before the glass cases and lacquered informative plaques, licking his lips a few times, jaw trembling.
“Papa…I need to talk to you about something.”
@dirge-of-valentinex4
