It’s stupid, how clear the picture is and how much I want it, what I’ll do to make it a reality. To hear Sofia begging to swim in the pool after dinner, even though her mother already explained to her that it’s winter. Little Charlotte kicking her feet and giggling with a face covered in red sauce.
Lucia’s laugh, the one I haven’t heard in too many years, unfurling down the table, filling me with something I’ve longed to hear for so many years without admitting it.
Charlotte is two years old now, while Sofia’s four. I’ve only seen their faces in grainy pictures from a distance. A short clip sometimes, if my people were able to catch it.
For a moment, I let myself sit in the wishful memory that hasn’t actually happened, might never happen, and I hold it until it hurts.
Then I let it go and drag myself back from the image before it swallows me. Across the table, Elena is watching me as if she feels the change in my focus.
“You went somewhere,” she says, spoon poised.
“Family,” I answer. The word tastes both bitter and sweet.
She tilts her head in question and sets her spoon down gently.
I realize I’ve been staring at her like a man lost. I clear my throat and reach for my glass.
“You like the soup,” I say. It’s not a question. “Good.”
“It’s… good,” she says, and then she adds, almost grudgingly, “Perfect, actually.”
“I had hoped so,” I say. “We have more courses yet.”
Right on cue, a small plate arrives with carciofi alla romana—quarters of artichoke hearts braised with mint and parsley untilthey’re tender to the core, glossed with good olive oil—set beside a cool mound of Sicilian caponata, the eggplant cooked down silk-sweet with tomato, celery, and a lick of vinegar.
A triangle of warm focaccia leans on the rim, salted and brushed with oil, meant for dragging through both. Nothing raw, nothing risky—just soft, bright, briny, safe. Elena breaks off a corner of bread, scoops a little of each, and I watch the moment her shoulders loosen.
“Do you cook?” she asks suddenly. It’s an honest question, not a test.
“I did,” I say. “Before. Not much room for it, where I was.” A small smile. “Since I’ve been out? I’m remembering.”
She chases a tomato with her bread, chews, swallows. “The coffee you made at my apartment. I didn’t know my machine could do that.”
Pleasure blooms in me. “You drank it.”
“Yes,” she says. “I drank it.”
“And didn’t die.”
“Don’t gloat.” Then her tone turns prim. “It wasn’t you. It was the coffee.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” I say with a wink that makes her cheeks color.
She turns away and picks up her cup to avoid answering.
I hold back the grin.
I watch the way her throat moves while she drinks and remember the feel of my mouth there in the dark, the way her pulse fluttered against my tongue. Heat shoots through me.
The next course comes with very little flourish. Merluzzo al cartoccio doesn’t look like much on first glance. Just parchment paper folded into fat pillows and tied with butcher’s twine, edges browned where the heat has kissed them. A wedge of lemon sits beside each; a little sprig of thyme tucked under the string like a seal.
“Cut along the seam,” I tell her, sliding a small knife onto her plate. “Careful of the steam.”
I open mine first. A ribbon of perfumed heat lifts into my face—lemon, thyme, fennel, sea. Inside, the cod sits nestled in the middle, pearly and just beginning to flake, cradled by baby tomatoes collapsed into sweet bursts, slivers of fennel turned tender, and a scatter of Castelvetrano olives and capers to brine and bloom.
On the side are rosemary potatoes, all crisp edges and soft centers, and braised spinach with a whisper of garlic.
It smells like home, like a time before everything became so complicated.
