the afternoon. I knew you’d want it quiet up here.”
I was speechless and pulled my arm tighter around his. He did this for me. Me! Hamlet had done sweet things in the past—sent flowers, written notes and poems—but this was the most romantic thing he’d ever done. And the fact that it wasn’t jewelry but a unique experience he knew I would treasure made my legs go to jelly. It’s a memory that I still hold dear, even though it’s hard for me to think of Hamlet now.
The guards nodded at Marcellus and opened the doors. The gallery itself was a work of art: tall glass walls with ethereal curtains fluttering all around. The dreamlike quality of the room made the white marble statues seem to breathe and sway. I let go of Hamlet’s hand and roamed around one of Aphrodite, marveling at her milky perfection.
Hamlet followed behind, and I noticed he was looking at me rather than the art. I stopped and cocked my head. “What?”
“Happy?” he asked, beaming.
I walked up to him and whispered, “Thank you for this.”
He shrugged modestly and said, “I know you love great art.” Then he squinted and asked, only half joking, “Do you just love me for my money and power?”
I put my hands on his shoulders and said, “I love you because you think of doing things like this and you try to make me happy.” I kissed him and continued, “Hey, you’re just some guy who happens to live in my building, right?”
He laughed appreciatively and added, “But having this all to ourselves is pretty nice.”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding, “pretty nice.”
There was a sudden click-clack, and when I turned I saw Gertrude rushing toward us, silk scarf flapping, giant sunglasses perched on top of her head. “Darlings!” she shouted, opening her arms wide.
“Mother?” Hamlet asked, befuddled.
“You’re kidding,” I muttered.
“I knew it was your last day and I thought, ‘Well, it’s been ages since I’ve been to Florence,’ and I simply had to see what the fuss was all about with this gallery.” She turned around once and said in faux astonishment, “Fabulous.” Then she took Hamlet by one arm and me by the other and said, “I simply must take you both to lunch now. I heard about a divine little place for pasta.”
“Pasta? Imagine,” he said slowly. “That’s… um, it’s really late for lunch.”
“Dinner then. Shall we?” she asked, and drew us toward the entrance.
I stopped walking, and my pulling against her nearly made her trip. “Gertrude, we’re not ready to leave.”
She sniffed, her face impassive but for the fire in her eyes. “Excuse me?”
“What she’s saying is—” began Hamlet.
“I was pretty clear, Hamlet.” My head was light from defying her. It wasn’t my habit, but I was sick of her trying to come between me and Hamlet, which she had been doing since she realized we were back together. “We’re not ready to go.”
“You might not be, but what about my son? He hates art.” She turned to him and, in her sweetest voice, said, “Keep me company, Hamlet. You know I despise eating alone.”
He worked his arm out of her grip. “Ophelia wants to stay. We’ll catch you back home. Tomorrow.”
Her lips curled around her teeth as she said, “Fine,” and clacked out stiffly.
My hands were shaking from the confrontation, and Hamlet squeezed them. Kissing my cheek softly, he whispered, “She’ll get over it. Let’s go find a Donatella.”
“Donatell- o,” I corrected.
He winked at me, and I realized he was teasing. For a guy who professed to not care about art, he knew quite a lot about it.
Barnardo: Gertrude showed up and ruined your little getaway.
Ophelia: Yes, she did.
Barnardo: Is that when you tried to come up with a way to get rid of her?
Ophelia: I didn’t try to—She was intrusive my entire life.
Francisco: So you must have hated her.
Ophelia: No. It was just how it was. To be with Hamlet was to be with Gertrude.
Francisco: How romantic.
Ophelia: Not like that. Jesus.
4
“How did you feel being left behind when Hamlet went to college?”
“Honestly, I hated it.”
Zara laughs. “I can imagine the rumors of other girls didn’t make it any easier.”
“No, it certainly didn’t.” Ophelia’s eyes flick to the screen behind her, and she relaxes when no photo appears.
Zara asks, “You and Hamlet began dating when you were almost sixteen, right?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a long time.” Two young girls in the audience nod at each other, as does Ophelia. “What attracted you to him?”