We sit in a silence so thick you could insulate a nightclub with it.
“Look. I can see you care about doing a good job,” I say eventually. “I do too. But please. It’s whathewanted.”
Leo’s eyes narrow, and for a split second I can hear the words,And how would you know what your dad wanted? You barely set foot in Nicky’s before last week. But he doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to.
Instead, he sighs, shakes his head, and says, “Fine. So, still nothing changes.”
“What does that mean?”
Leo takes a huge breath, then turns to me.
“Let’s just keep things the way they’ve always been,” he says, with a tone so deflated it makes me wince.
“So, tomorrow,” he says, his voice clipped. “We do what?”
“We meet for lunch?” I suggest cautiously.
“Great,” he says.
“Let’s be as focused as we can so we can have some time to do our own thing and enjoy Sicily,” I say, and then because I’m afraid I’ve suggested we enjoy that time together, I add, “Separately.”
“I get it, Olive,” he says, scoffing as he shakes his head. “Finish his book. Sell his restaurant. Get on with your life.”
Ouch.Fucking ouch. Leo glances at me; a fleeting look of concern crosses his face like he knows that was too much.
“Sorry. I just wish you’d reconsider selling,” he says, his frustration palpable. “Or at least have a conversation about it.”
“I’m sorry you’ll need to look for work—”
“It’s not about a job,” he snaps, frowning at me. “I can get another fucking job.”
I flinch. He seemsfurious.
“You know what?” I say, standing up and pushing my drink away. “I’m going to bed. I’ll message you tomorrow.”
“See ya,” he says, eyes focused on his drink. At least now I know what he really thinks.
Just before I leave I turn to Leo.
“That bar, Temp?” I say, as gently as I can. “The place opposite Nicky’s?”
“What about it?” he says, eyes still on his drink.
“I bet you five bucks it’s closed by the end of the summer.”
“Let’s make it ten,” he says, a wry smile returning to his face as he looks up and reaches out his hand. When we shake, his hand feels cool and dry and strong around my own smaller one, and an unexpected zing of electricity travels down my spine. I pull my hand back as quickly as I can, muttering a polite good night. As I walk away I look back across the twinkling lights of the bar and catch Leo watching me in the mirror’s reflection.
6
TWO PEOPLE? BENE. This one?” the very nice waiter at lunch says, holding his hand toward a table under a citrus tree with a picture-perfect view of the cobbled street below. “It’s romantic, no?”
“Yes, lovely,” I reply, looking around the balcony bustling with diners, trying to see if Leo has arrived yet. “But, ah, we won’t need theromantictable.”
“Per favore?” he says, holding his hand out, insisting.
“Ah. Save it for a nice couple. We’re not a couple,” I explain.We’re barely even friends. “We’re working.”
The waiter looks bemused. “You’re working or you’re eating?” he says.
