“I’m not sure. I did once…” Dario says. “But now I’m being strong-armed into it. In order to inherit all of this, I have to wed. It was in my grandfather’s will.”
“How does he expect you to fall in love so quickly?” Charlie asks.
“I’m not sure he does, and I’m not sure I can. I’m not even sure that’s the point of this…exercise,” Dario admits.
Charlie orders another chocolate as he considers how this changes his perception of the competition. If Dario’s not after passionate love, and all he wants is stable companionship, Charlie knows he could be a solid companion.
“You must really love chocolate then at least to go through all of this,” Charlie says.
Dario snaps his head back to the table. His strangely sexy fedora nearly falls off his head. “I don’t know about that. I admire chocolate. I revere chocolate. I understand it. I sell it well. But I don’t think I love it. Not anymore at least.”
“Since your grandfather passed away?” Charlie asks, then worries he is bringing it up too much. Living on Cemetery Street has made him immune to those pressing, worrisome thoughts about death that others often have. Maybe that makes him morbid, but he prefers to think of it as acceptance. No sense spiraling over the inevitable.
Grooves river across Dario’s forehead. “No, it was before my grandfather passed away. You see, I was in a—”
“None of these work. I should’ve brought my lighting from home,” Selina says, interrupting their heart-to-heart by plopping down in the seat beside Dario. Her head tilts down toward her phone, fingers scrolling through the photos she took. Charlie notices the Amorina logo painted on the chocolate bar earrings she wears. It’s a cute touch.
“You missed the whole tour,” Charlie says, toying with his napkin. He wishes they hadn’t been disturbed, because Dario snaps out of confidant mode and back into tour guide mode.
“The what?” she asks, thumbing through various filters on a fancy app Charlie has never seen before.
Dario clears his throat before tapping at the tablet. “Selina, would you like to try my—”
“I never want to see another piece of chocolate again,” says Beau, shuffling into the tasting room. He sports the T-shirt he “won.” His face has a sickly coloring to it, and his eyes are bloodshot from puking.
“Might be hard to do here,” Charlie jokes, but Beau does not laugh. Instead, he slams down into the chair next to him and flops his head into his hands.
Michelle runs in with excitement. “Look! Look! Look!”
She swivels her phone toward the table. Everyone turns their attention except Beau, who curls further into himself. On the screen, the edited video of her fake advertisement plays. She hams it up for the camera. She reminds Charlie of a girl in his high school English class who pretended to trip during every line in her Romeo and Juliet scene presentation just to get laughs.
“It looks great,” says Dario, smiling sweetly. This man is earnestness incarnate.
Selina leans in. “You look oily. Can they edit that?”
Michelle snaps back. “Do I? I am not sure they can now.”
“In that case you look beautiful,” Selina says. The table goes silent at the slight.
Other visitors chatter nearby while enjoying their chocolates. Their table remains church house–quiet with Selina and Michelle engrossed in their phones and Beau too grossed-out to raise his head.
Dario’s hazel eyes bulge at the unfortunate scene, giving Charlie a better look at their unique color makeup. They areblooming sunflowers with their soil-brown rings, verdant green centers, and flecks of yellow spindling out from his pupils. Charlie used to go to the local farm in autumn with his family to frolic among the fresh fields of sunflowers and then pick a basket of apples to take home. Those were some of his happiest childhood memories. Strange that Dario reminds him of home when he is so far away from it.
“Perhaps it is time for a riposo?” Dario asks the group.
“What’s that?” Michelle asks.
“It’s like a siesta,” says Selina. Her phone pings and dings, and she dips out of the conversation again.
“Si. It’s an Italian custom. A little midday nap to fortify you for the evening,” explains Dario.
“Count me in,” says Charlie. He needs it after last night. Ansel snores, and it took a while for him to adjust to his lawnmower of a roommate, despite the lavish plushness of his bed and the silky feel of the zillion-thread-count sheets. Comfort could only take him so far into dreamland.
Beau groans in assent.
In the distance, Ansel approaches with the employee from the message station hanging on his arm and his every word.
“What did we miss?” Ansel asks when he arrives tableside.
