“I doubt there’s ever a cool way to say that your dad is dead,” Marcello adds.
“Well, it gets even less cool when I tell you that my mum is also dead.” My tongue lies heavy in my mouth after throwing that into the mix. I don’t know what’s come over me.
“Jesus, Giles, I’m so—”
“No, it’s okay,” I cut him off. His voice is too soft. And I daren’t look at him to see what I always fear I’ll see when I share this revelation: pity. I don’t want anybody feeling sorry for me.
“What… What happened?” he asks and I’m a little taken aback. People don’t normally ask that so quickly after learning this about me. We briefly separate to jog opposite sides around a multi-generation family in front of us. When we reconvene I start to talk.
“My mum died when I was four. An ectopic pregnancy, so I guess I also lost a sibling at the same time.” I huff out a bitter laugh as I always do when I tell this story, although it has been a while since I felt so low sharing it, almost as if a new fresh wave of old, old grief has washed over me. “So it was just me and my dad until he died from a heart attack. It happened out of nowhere. He never smoked. Ran marathons. Was fitter than I’ll ever hope to be.”
“My God, Giles. That’s not fair,” Marcello says and the words are so short and simple and yet they nearly bowl me over. Because they’re exactly the words I used to scream into my pillow in the days after Dad was gone. Because it wasn’t fair. Dad was all I had. Why did he have to go too?
“And to have that happen when you were so young.” Marcello whistles through his teeth. “That must have been awful.”
“It wasn’t a walk in the park.” I bark out another quick laugh, this one more amused. “Or a run in the park!”
“Oh, no, don’t do that! Don’t you use your trauma to make me feel better about this torture you’re putting me through.”
I extend my elbow and nudge him, grateful for our conversation’s change in direction. “It’s not torture. Admit it. And you’ve just done your second kilometre.”
“Wonderful. Just double what I’ve already done to go.” Marcello groans.
“You know there is one way we can make it go quicker,” I say realising that this is exactly what I need. To chase that wave of grief away, to get my head back on straight, and to maybe stop Marcello’s moaning once and for all.
“What’s that?”
“We can go faster!” I say and then increase my speed, leaving Marcello behind me
“Oh fuck you, Giles!” Marcello shouts but when I turn to give him a shit-eating grin, I see him pumping his arms and legs trying to catch up with me.
Chapter Seven
Marcello
“Ciao bellissimo,” I say lifting up my cappuccino while licking my lips. “Come to Papa!”
“Wow,” Giles says next to me. “That mug is in for a good time.”
“I’m just grateful it’s still cappuccino o’clock.” I say before taking my first sip which is better than some orgasms I’ve had. I close my eyes and rub my lips together, savouring every taste of the earthy coffee and foamy milk.
“So that’s not a myth,” Giles says. “The whole can’t have a cappuccino after midday thing.”
“Midday? More like eleven in the morning.”
“Wow, that’s quite a strict cut-off.”
I place my cup on its saucer and it chimes lightly but the surrounding sounds swallow it up; red buses roaring by, people talking as they pass us on the pavement, and a few car horns in the distance that I’d bet are from black cabs or white vans. We’re sitting at a rickety metal table outside a coffee shop in Notting Hill that looked the right mix of trendy and homely. Once I’d verified which roasters they used, I gave it my seal of approval and Giles went inside to order while I quickly snagged an available table.
“But why would you want to drink cappuccino after that time? It’s a morning drink. All that milk and froth. It’s basically breakfast in a mug.”
“Does that mean you think I’m weird for drinking lattes all day long?”
“Not weird.” I narrow my eyes at him, gauging what kind of mood he seems to be in. “Just very uncivilised.”
Giles’ expression falls and he lowers his latte that was on its way to his mouth.
“I’m kidding you!” I say and nudge his knee with mine. Giles’ eyes drop to where our legs just touched as he composes his expression.
