“Listen,” she starts. “About last night—”
Here we go. This should be good.
“Which part? The part where you tried to kiss me or the part where you stole my dog?” I take a step around the podium and weigh the thick stack of essays in my hand. Feels like a shit-ton.
Her nostrils flare like they did in the picture I took of her exhaling that cigar. But she doesn’t bite.
“I have a boyfriend. A serious one.” She pauses and waits for me to interrupt. I don’t. “And we are going to get engaged when this little“—her hand twirls in the air like she’s swirling cotton candy onto a stick—“this little hiatus is over.”
“Right. An oat-sowing hiatus from your quiet as a mouse in the bedroom future fiancé,” I clarify. It’s a bit below the belt, using the things she told me in the car against her. But she’s pissing me off with this Little Miss Perfect act. In fact, the only time she’s not pissing me off is when she’s drunk.
Our gazes meet, hers narrowed and closed. Angry even? She’s unbelievable. I feel like she’s hit me with her car, backed over me, and is revving her engine for the third pass, all while hanging out the window demanding that I apologize for being in the middle of the road.
“To recap,” I begin. “I have now escorted you home twice with no thank you. One time in which you insulted me repeatedly and the other in which you threw yourself at me and now you want to set the record straight for me?”
She scoffs. “Threw myself at you? Don’t be ridiculous. I can barely tolerate you. I just booped your nose. Boop.”
She reaches out with her finger to demonstrate, and I swat it away.
“Thank you for walking me home, James,” she says in a monotone, robot voice that indicates just how little gratitude she feels toward me.
“You’re welcome,” I say, reaching out and touching her nose with my fingertip. She tries to hit my hand but misses and nearly drops the papers.
“I suggest you drink that coffee and eat that croissant Nina sent for you. It’s on the desk down there.” I make my way up the steps,careful not to brush past her as I go. She wants to avoid me, and the feeling is fucking mutual. I have zero room in my life for a spoiled American, no matter how fun she is when tipsy and how photogenic she might be. “And, Ava.”
When I turn she’s already got the croissant in her mouth, half of it ripped off like it was fought over by two ravenous dogs.
“Hmmm?” she asks, pausing her chewing.
“Maybe you should use that calling card and clarify all those little details you just told me with Senator Edward. Seems like he’s the man with the plan.”
She flips up her middle finger and takes a sip of the coffee, smiling around the rim of the mug.
“Oh, and also, Ava. I’m not interested,” I say, taking my time with the last three words. “See you at nine, dolcezza. Try not to be late.”
I push through the door and head straight for my office, where my camera sits beside an empty cup of coffee. Somehow having the last word after that conversation didn’t bring me as much relief as it normally does with her. There’s a painful niggle deep in my gut, like the time four-year-old Massimo karate-kicked me in the nuts after watching a Ralph Macchio marathon. Except this time it’s not Maso’s foot doing the damage. I just need to get behind the lens, then I can shake her off.
I lift the camera and let the light and shadows chase away the anger at having my summer hijacked by the stuck-up American.
QUATTORDICI
Ava
Sun plus hangover equals sweat-covered throbbing temples. Multiply the sum by James’s amused sidelong glances and seventy-four papers awaiting my attention. Calculator error.
What a mess. Even my foolproof steps didn’t work yesterday. I catalogued all of six pieces of art. And one was my mother’s.
Life’s messy, baby girl. Look for the beauty in the mess.
I look up at the brightest blue sky I’ve ever sat beneath. Did you sit here, Mom? Paint on this hill? Life’s only messy when I step away from myself. When I veer off the path and invite in the chaos. When I drink too much and let people in too deep and lose focus.
You mean when you actually live?
“Enough!”
I stand from the blanket James brought me and about a hundred eyes turn my way. Talking out loud to my dead mother is not a good way to get back on track.
“Something to add, Signorina Graham?” James asks with a crooked smile.
