Free The Color of Home: A Novel by Rich Marcello

whole? Maybe they were the same. “To find whole.”
    “Oh . . . It’s not with him? I thought you loved him,” Sarah said.
    “I do. That’s kind of the problem.”
    “What?”
    “I don’t know. Never mind.”
    “You need to figure this out.”
    “He’s sort of the one who started me down this path. How can I leave when this is all his doing?”
    “How can you not?”
    “Maybe I’ll wait a little longer.”
    “Why?”
    “He’s a good man.”

CHAPTER 5
    Nick and Sassa sat transfixed on their sofa, Nick with his arm around her, Sassa with her leg over his, a bowl of butterless, heavily salted popcorn on his lap. They were watching Cinema Paradiso , a movie about Salvatore, a closed-off man incapable of a committed relationship. When Nick was much younger, he had gone to the first showing of the movie at the Film Forum. About halfway through, he had started to sob and didn’t stop until the credits ended.
    As a young boy, Salvatore lost his father to World War II. He worked with and became close with the fatherly projectionist, Alfredo, at the cinema in his small home town. As was common at that time, all of the romantic clips were censored, literally cut out of the film reel and thrown on the floor of the projector room. For many years Salvatore worked with Alfredo, eventually replacing him as the cinema’s projectionist. During this time, they grew as close as any father and son. Finally, at Alfredo’s urging, Salvatore moved on and left his home town to pursue his destiny as a director in the big city. He never looked back. Years later, Alfredo died. Salvatore returned for the funeral and discovered that Alfredo, who had followed Salvatore’s career and life with pride, had left him a special gift: a reel of all of the censored romantic movie clips spliced together.
    “What did you think?”
    “Good. Right up your alley.”
    “I was a wreck after I saw it the first time. Not so much tonight.”
    “Good.”
    With Sassa, he’d added clips to their reel every day, and the supply seemed endless. A wave of strength passed through. Was he finally ready to tell her about “Hold You”? To ask her about home? He took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking.”
    “About what?”
    “What’s going on with you?” he asked.
    “Nothing. Why?”
    “You’ve been a little distant these past couple of months.”
    She lifted her head off his shoulder, took her feet down off the coffee table, and reached for the remote control to turn off the television. Settling back into the sofa a couple of feet away from him, she placed her feet back on the coffee table. “I have? You’re the one walking out of restaurants, yelling at me, trying to fix problems I can solve on my own. I should be the one asking what’s going on.”
    “I don’t feel like you’re trying anymore.”
    “What? So I should know what you need? I’m sorry, I’m not a mind reader.” She pushed the DVD case for Cinema Paradiso off the coffee table with her foot.
    “Hey, that’s important.”
    “Why are you judging me? I’ve done nothing wrong and, lately, I feel exactly the opposite when I’m around you. And, to be clear . . .” Her voice broke. “I feel like you’re the one holding something back. What are you hiding?”
    “Can we start over again?”
    “We can if you tell me.”
    Closing his eyes, he found her scent. Nothing like her smell. Honeysuckle and amaranth wood. Or at least that was what the salesperson told him when he bought her a replacement bottle of perfume. An itch from a bead of sweat on his forehead. He scratched it. She was right; he had been hiding a big one. It was time. He had to tell her.
    “Do you remember that night when I stayed late because of a reggae client?”
    “Yes.”
    “I lied.”
    “You what?”
    “There was no client.”
    “Fuck you.” Her entire body tensed up. Her face swelled. She stood up, marched over to the window, and stared out. “Who is she?”
    “No. No. I lied because of