Chapter 40 Chapter 40: Dr. Fontana and Failed Intimacy

Chapter 40 Chapter 40: Dr. Fontana and Failed Intimacy
Marcella's POV

Dr. Fontana's office was becoming familiar. The soft leather chair, the window overlooking the harbor, the box of tissues that never seemed to empty no matter how much I cried.

Today was my fourth session, and I was already exhausted.

"Tell me about the nightmares," Dr. Fontana said, her pen poised over her notepad.

"They're the same every night. I'm back in that room in Morocco. Cesare is there with the gun. Sometimes I see the bullet coming. Sometimes I just feel it hit. Either way, I always wake up right before I die."

"And how does that make you feel when you wake up?"

"Terrified. Confused. It takes me a few seconds to remember I'm not actually dying. That it already happened and I survived."

She nodded, writing something down. "Your brain is trying to process the trauma. Dreams are one way it does that. But they can also reinforce the fear if we don't give you tools to manage them."

"Lorenzo taught me the breathing exercises. They help with the panic attacks."

"Good. But we need to address the underlying trauma, not just manage the symptoms." She set down her pen and leaned forward. "Marcella, I want to talk about something difficult. Your intimacy with Lorenzo."

My stomach dropped. "What about it?"

"Have you been intimate since the shooting?"

Heat flooded my face. "We tried. Once. It didn't work."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

I looked down at my hands, fidgeting with my wedding ring. "I wanted to. I needed to feel normal again. Feel close to him. But when he touched my shoulder, near the scar, I just... froze. I was back in Morocco. I could see Cesare's face. Feel the bullet."

"What did Lorenzo do?"

"He stopped immediately. Held me while I cried. Told me it was okay, we had time."

"That was the right response. But how did it make you feel?"

"Like I'm broken. Like I can't even be a wife to my own husband." Tears burned my eyes. "He's been so patient, so understanding. And I can't give him this one thing."

"Marcella, you're not broken. Your body is protecting you. Right now, vulnerability feels dangerous because the last time you were vulnerable, you were shot. Your nervous system doesn't know the difference between physical intimacy and physical danger."

"So what do I do?"

"You retrain your brain. Slowly. With patience. You teach your body that intimacy with Lorenzo is safe. That being touched doesn't mean being hurt."

"How?"

"Start small. Non-sexual touch in safe environments. Holding hands. Sitting close. Gradually building up to more intimate contact. And always, always communicate. If something feels wrong, you stop. No shame, no guilt. Just honesty."

I nodded, but doubt gnawed at me. What if I could never get past it? What if this was permanent?

"There's something else," Dr. Fontana said gently. "Survivors of violence often feel like their bodies betrayed them. Like they should have fought harder, reacted faster. Are you feeling that?"

"Yes. Every day. I keep thinking if I'd just moved differently, if I'd been faster, maybe the bullet would have missed."

"But that's not how it works. You didn't fail. You survived. And now your body is trying to make sure you never feel that vulnerable again, even if it means pushing away the people you love."

The words hit hard. "I don't want to push Lorenzo away."

"Then don't. But understand that healing takes time. Your body needs to learn that it's safe to be close to him again. That vulnerability doesn't equal danger."

\---

That night, Lorenzo found me on the terrace, staring at the stars.

"You're thinking too loud," he said, sitting beside me.

"Dr. Fontana and I talked about us today. About why I can't... why we haven't..."

"I know. It's okay."

"It's not okay. You're my husband. We should be able to be intimate without me having a panic attack."

He took my hand, his thumb stroking across my knuckles. "We'll get there. When you're ready."

"What if I'm never ready? What if I'm always like this?"

"Then we adapt. Find other ways to be close. I didn't marry you just for sex, Marcella. I married you because I love you. All of you. Including the parts that are still healing."

I turned to look at him. In the moonlight, his face was soft, open. Vulnerable in a way I rarely saw.

"I miss you," I whispered. "I miss feeling close to you. Connected."

"I miss you too. But I'm not going anywhere. I'll wait as long as it takes."

"Dr. Fontana said we should start small. Non-sexual touch. Building up slowly."

"Okay. What does that look like?"

"I don't know. Maybe just... holding each other? Being close without expectations?"

"I can do that."

We went inside and up to our room. Lorenzo changed into pyjamas pants while I put on a silk nightgown. Then we climbed into bed, facing each other in the darkness.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his hand resting on my waist.

"Yes."

"Tell me if it stops being okay."

"I will."

We lay there, just breathing together. His hand stayed on my waist, warm and steady. Not moving, not pushing. Just there.

After a while, I shifted closer, resting my head on his chest. His arm came around me carefully, avoiding my injured shoulder.

"This is nice," I murmured.

"It is."

We stayed like that for a long time. No urgency. No pressure. Just closeness.

Then Lorenzo's hand moved slightly, sliding up my back. Still over my nightgown, still gentle.

But it was enough to make my breath catch.

"Too much?" he asked immediately.

"No. It's good."

He continued the movement, slow circles on my back. Soothing. Safe.

I felt myself relaxing, sinking into him.

Maybe this would work. Maybe we could rebuild our intimacy piece by piece.

His hand moved higher, skimming along my spine. Still careful, still gentle.

Then his fingers brushed the edge of my shoulder, near the scar.

Everything changed.

Suddenly I wasn't in bed with Lorenzo. I was in Morocco. Cesare was there. The gun was pointing at me.

I jerked away, gasping.

"Stop. I can't. I'm sorry, I can't."

Lorenzo pulled back immediately, hands raised. "It's okay. You're safe. We stopped."

But I was already crying, my body shaking. "I wanted to. I tried. But as soon as you touched near the scar, I was back there."

"I know. It's okay."

"It's not okay! I can't even let you touch me. What kind of wife am I?"

"The kind who's healing from trauma. The kind who needs time." He stayed where he was, giving me space. "Marcella, look at me."

I did, through tears.

"This isn't failure. This is progress. You let me hold you. You stayed close. That's more than you could do a week ago."

"But it's not enough."

"It's enough for tonight. Tomorrow we'll try again. And the next day. And the day after that. Until your body remembers that my touch is safe."

I wanted to believe him. Wanted to think we'd eventually get back to where we were before Morocco.

But right now, sitting here shaking and crying because my husband tried to touch my back, I couldn't imagine ever feeling normal again.

Lorenzo moved slowly, telegraphing every action. "Can I hold you? No touching the shoulder. Just hold you?"

I nodded.

He pulled me carefully into his arms, keeping his hands low on my back. I pressed my face into his chest and cried until there were no tears left.

"I love you," he murmured into my hair. "We'll figure this out. Together."

"Together," I repeated.

But as I lay there in his arms, the fear crept back in.

What if we never figured it out?

What if I stayed broken forever?