“It doesn’t matter; you know what I mean. You’re not dressed for it.” I’m pushing him away, be it out of spite or as a defense mechanism I’m not sure. On the one hand, I would like to reconnect; on the other, I’m afraid to discover that Michael is no longer the person I used to know.
“I’ll change,” he replies, shrugging. Now, this is totally an “old” Michael thing: never give up and persist until he gets what he wants.
“You mean you brought battle clothes as well as suits and shirts?”
“Actually I have nothing at the moment. I left my suitcase in the taxi, but if things haven’t changed, there should be some extra work trousers and boots here in the stables. Or am I wrong?”
He’s not wrong. “Yeah, well ... you don’t want to wear someone else’s dirty clothes.” I try to dissuade him.
“I don’t mind. Where are they?”
“In the bathroom, right here next to the office,” I relent.
He closes the creaking door behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Or rather, my only thought: I’m not ready for this.
What will we talk about? Weather? Traffic? I’m a literal kind of person. I’m no good at small talk. I realize I’m biting my nails, so I quickly stick my hands in my pockets, as if Giada herself were breathing down my neck. Of course that roll does look rather inviting, and it’s fragrant and warm ... Maybe I’ll just take a bite while he’s gone.
The butter and the sweetness of the raisins slide from my tongue straight to my heart. Delicious.
The truth is that Michael knows sweets make me feel safe, and they’ve always been his way of apologizing to me. When he tripped me at the stream, he offered me a slice of peach tart; after tearing a page from my math notebook, he brought me a chocolate cream puff; after he used my bike without permission and bent the wheel, he gave me a jar of Nutella.
Come to think of it, he bears some of the blame for my weight as a kid.
They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but I’m no better. The first bite whets my appetite, so I take a second, then a third, more and more voraciously, until I devour half of it.
I’m about to take another bite, but the bathroom handle clicks, and I have just enough time to rewrap the roll in the napkin and put it back where he left it.
“Ready,” he announces enthusiastically.
“Do you still remember how to ride?” I ask.
He gives me a sharp look, with poorly concealed malice. “Do you remember how our fights always ended?”
“You’re in no position to brag, Michael. We still have an apology in play.”
“Don’t worry; I’ll choose my next move wisely.”
We weave through the vineyards on our horses, light-years away from the time we’d both ride Arthur—may he rest in peace—me in front and his arms encircling me to hold the reins.
“Not that it’s any excuse for my behavior, but I have to admit I didn’t expect to find you here,” he offers. “Plus you’ve changed a lot. I didn’t put it together right away.”
“And where did you think I’d be?” I ask him.
“In Milan. You always said you wanted to work in a publishing house.”
Ah, yes ... sweet teenage dreams of yore. “Well, I changed my mind. Plus, moving away would have meant leaving my father.”
“Ah, yes, how is Alfio? I don’t think I’ve seen him around.”
“He’s dead,” I say, flatly.
“Oh, sorry. I hadn’t heard that either.”
“Aren’t there phones in London? You could have spared us a call if you were that interested in how we were doing,” I hit back.
“I didn’t call,” he admits. “But neither did you.”
Touché. I can’t argue with that one.
