Page 19 of Lost Prince

Lana pulls back, her eyes searching my face. "I understand. I'm just glad you're back."

She’s been a pain in my ass since I returned home. But as I look into her eyes, so much like mine, I can see her love for me. I saw it in Elio after I went nuts on Tony. A caring. A concern. This is why I came back, right?

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

“Next time, let me know, okay? Take your phone when you leave.”

I haven’t bothered with a phone over the last three years, so I’m not used to thinking about carrying it with me. I’ll need to do better to remember it.

"Yeah, I promise.”

“I know I’m a bitch sometimes, Lazaro. I blame you for that.”

“Me?” I laugh.

“When you were gone, I was always channeling you. What would Lazaro do?”

My smile falters. “I’m not a good person to emulate.”

“Shut up, Lazaro.” Her eyes narrow. “You’re the best.” She hugs me again. “Now, let's get inside and have something to eat.”

Suddenly remembering Diana, I turn to thank her for the ride home. But as I look around, I realize she's already gone. Her beat-up car is nowhere in sight.

I feel a pang of disappointment. It’s not just wishing I could have properly thanked her. She left without a goodbye. It’s like she’s vanished. I rub my hand over my chest that all of a sudden feels empty.

I don’t like it. What the fuck sort of spell has this woman put on me?

7

DIANA

Iwatch from my car as Lazaro and Lana embrace, their silhouettes illuminated by the glow of the porch light. My chest tightens with a mix of emotions I can't quite untangle. There's relief at seeing Lazaro back where he belongs, with people who love him. But there's something else too, a bittersweet ache. A wish to belong to a family, to have even a single person who would think of me, who’d miss or worry about me if I vanished.

I'd notice… If you left.

Lazaro’s words come back to me. It was nice of him to say, but I know it doesn’t mean anything. If I drove off now and never returned, he might notice for a day or two, but after that, his life would go on.

I watch Lazaro and Lana a moment longer. It’s clear to me that while he doesn’t have memories of her, there is a connection between them.

Feeling a bit like an intruder on this private moment, I put my car in gear and head down the driveway toward the road. I tell myself I’m happy for Lazaro finally finding his family.And I am happy. But it highlights my own lack of family. My loneliness.

I drive to my tiny studio apartment, fumbling with the key to open the front door. I step inside and hang my purse on the renter safe wall hook I put on the wall. My stomach growls, sending me to the kitchenette to find something to eat. I rummage through my fridge, pulling out ingredients. On a whim, I decide to try a new recipe—a hearty sandwich I think Lazaro might enjoy.

As I chop vegetables and layer meats and cheeses, my mind wanders back to the scene I witnessed. The way Lana clung to Lazaro, the relief evident in every line of her body. The tenderness in Lazaro's embrace, despite his usual gruff demeanor.

I spread a tangy herb aioli on crusty bread, thinking about how different my life is from theirs. The D'Amatos have their issues, sure, but beneath it all is a foundation of love and belonging.

I assemble my sandwich, adding a final sprinkle of oregano, and carry it to the tiny table and single chair I found discarded on the side of the road. After a cleaning, they serve me well for the time I’m here.

I take a bite of the sandwich, the flavors bursting on my tongue. I definitely want to make this for Lazaro. Thinking of him has me imagining the D'Amato family gathered around their grand dining table, passing dishes and trading barbs. Elio looking lovingly at his wife and daughter. Matteo cracking jokes. Lana squabbling with Lazaro.

I've always prided myself on my independence, on finding adventure wherever the wind takes me. But tonight, in this quiet apartment, I let myself imagine what it might be like to put down roots. To build the kind of bonds I see between Lazaro and Lana.I do want to find a place to call home. To have friends and family. To belong.

As I glance around my little home, it’s difficult to hold on to the belief that I will find my place. Because I move around, I don’t own much. In each new city, I find furnished rooms or studio apartments to rent. If I have to get furniture, I use freecycle apps to find what I need. I have a bed that doubles as a couch. A small dresser that even with only three drawers offers more room than I need for the few clothes I own.

There are no photos on the walls, no knick-knacks collecting dust. Just a few dog-eared paperbacks stacked on a small coffee table that doubles as a nightstand. I used to have a plant that traveled with me, but it died back in San Antonio. I suppose my sparse home seems a bit sad, but what’s the point of gathering stuff when I don’t know how long I’ll be in a place?

With a fading appetite, I wrap up the remaining half of my sandwich and tuck it in the fridge. I can have it for dinner tomorrow. I pour myself a glass of cheap wine and grab the paperback I picked up from a free library stand and go to my bed/couch to read.