The Weekends He Never Gave Me Chapter 09

The Weekends He Never Gave Me Chapter 09

Six months later, I handed in my resignation.

No one had driven me to leave. I just craved a fresh start in another city.

Giada had voluntarily requested a transfer to the Chicago office. Dario was still in New York.

On my final day, my coworkers threw a farewell party, Dario sat at the far end of the booth, unusually sober, without a drink in hand.

Some people knew nothing of our history and joked. “Livia, don’t forget us once you start the new

job.”

Another teased, “Dario will miss you most of all. You two worked overtime together every single

day.”

Dario lowered his head and gave a faint smile. “I will. I really will.”

I said nothing.

The party ended at 11:50 p.m. that Friday. Dario walked with me to the street corner.

Ten minutes remained until Saturday arrived.

Once, at this exact hour every week, he would walk me home like handing over unfinished business. Then he would grin and say, “Monday. See you next week.”

Sometimes I lingered, reluctant to let him go, asking if I could text him after midnight.

He would pinch my cheek. “Only emergencies.”

“What counts as an emergency?”

“Fire. Earthquake. The end of the world.”

I had held onto that line for years.

Streetlights glowed above us. Dario broke the silence. “Is the new office far from here?”

“Pretty far.”

“Found a place to live?”

“Yes.”

“What about weekends…” He trailed off mid-sentence.

I waited.

Dario’s smile turned strained. “Are you free sometime this weekend?”

I shook my head. “I’m busy.”

“The weekend after that?”

“Busy too.”

“What about Monday?”

I looked at him.

Tears gathered in Dario’s eyes, yet he kept smiling. “Livia, will I ever get a day with you again— even just one of the seven?”

A small smile tugged at my mouth. “That depends.”

He fell into a long silence. “You never made me wait before.”

“That’s a lesson you need to learn,” I said. “Never assume someone will wait in the same place

forever.”

Midnight arrived. My phone screen switched to Saturday.

Dario glanced at it, then pulled a box from his coat pocket. “I planned to give this to you after midnight.”

I refused to take it.

He lifted the lid himself. Inside sat a ceramic mug.

It was lopsided and ugly, glaze streaked unevenly across the surface. One single word was carved on

the base: SUNDAY.

Dario spoke quietly. “I threw seven mugs in total. One for each day, Monday through Sunday. I ruined more than a dozen while practicing. The instructor winces when I walk in now.’

I stared at the mug and did not reach for it.

The last spark of hope in Dario’s eyes dimmed. “You don’t want it?”

I answered, “I already have enough mugs at home.”

He nodded slowly. “I suppose so.”

He closed the box and slid it back into his coat.

We stood on the sidewalk. Cars rolled past in the early hours.

Eventually my ride arrived. Dario opened the car door for me, his palm instinctively hovering over

De roof to shield my head, exactly as he used to.

I climbed into the backseat. He didn’t close the door right away.

“Livia.”

“Yes?”

“One last question.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Is there any possibility for us, someday?”

I studied his face. Old memories surged: him leaning over my desk, sipping my coffee, calculating

how many hours a week he got to spend in my company.

Back then, those hours had felt endless.

But I understood now: love isn’t measured in hours.

Sharing every single day didn’t guarantee you held a place in someone’s heart.

I shook my head. “No.”

Dario’s eyes reddened. He gave one quiet nod. “Okay.”

Then he closed the car door.

The car pulled away slowly. In the rearview mirror, I saw him standing alone on the curb, clutching the mug marked SUNDAY against his chest.

He receded farther and farther, until he vanished completely.

The driver glanced at me in the mirror. “No work tomorrow, right?”

I gazed out the window. Dawn was about to break.

“No.”

“Have a nice weekend, then.”

I smiled softly. “I will.”

I didn’t cross paths with Dario for a long time after that.

Former coworkers told me that the man who once guarded his weekends more fiercely than anything no longer made private plans on Saturdays or Sundays.

Members of the Bellandi family invited him to social clubs. He declined.

Friends invited him sailing. He turned them down as well.

When people wondered who he was saving those free days for, Dario only said, “I owe someone a great many weekends.”

But by the time he finally understood, I no longer needed them.

Once I had waited on this side of the dividing line for years. I used to believe Monday meant getting

him back again.

I learned in the end that when love dies, there is no Monday. No Saturday, no Sunday either.

All seven days belong only to me. And at long last, I had taken back every single hour of my own

time.