“That’s not how that works.” I roll my eyes again. “I’m asking questions, trying to get to know you, that’s typically how a conversation goes. Do they not teach you that at Cambridge?”
Benito shakes his head. “No, the core curriculum is focused on maintaining the monarchy and how to charm oligarchs.”
A sort of half laugh comes out of me, but I remind myself the most monstrous narcissists I worked with previously were also good at using charm and wit to disarm their opponent. Just because Benito’s kind of funny, and kind of pretty, doesn’t mean I have to like him. “With such stunning manners, it’s no wonder they chased you out of the country and you ended up in your hometown, where you spent. . .?” I trail off, waiting for him to answer my original question.
“Holidays, yes, sometimes. Sometimes we’d travel. Summers the same or at my father’s family home in Lake Como.”
It seems like a charmed life to me, but the way Benito speaks about it makes it sound like the summer my parents sent me to that horrible, bedbug-infested camp in Big Bear. “How long have you been back?”
“Six months.”
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. It changes the image I’ve had of him thus far. I thought he was the golden child of La Musa. The quarterback who stuck around after high school graduation to run his father’s mechanic shop, or whatever the Italian equivalent of that is. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Why’d you come back?”
He looks up at me and we lock eyes. There’s an intensity behind his that I haven’t noticed before. It’s like he’s scanning my soul, trying to figure out if I’m worth a real conversation. “I came back because I had to,” he says, perhaps deciding I don’t deserve the real explanation.
The waiter returns with our food, and the intoxicating aroma wafting off the plate in front of me distracts from whatever judgment lurks behind Benito’s gaze. I dive into the pasta. The earthy, hearty flavor of the truffle is complemented with the freshness of lemon and olive oil. It’s creamy, it’s rich but not too rich, decadent but not overwhelming.
After a moment of quiet reveling in the flavors, Benito dots his mouth with his napkin. “Izzy, how long are you actually going to keep this up?”
“This conversation? At least until the wine is finished,” I say.
Benito stares blankly at me. “That’s not what I meant.” He twirls a noodle with his fork. “I meant how long are you going to pretend you’re actually moving to La Musa.”
I take a sip of wine calmly, measured. “I did move to La Musa,” I say.
He stares at me like he’s waiting for me to retract. “Come on.”
“Where to?” I say, taking another slow, luxurious sip of wine.
“The future of her party, Congresswoman—” I flinch. Benito raises his hand in surrender. “It’s not like Italy is some progressive haven. If anything, moving here is the antithesis of your life’s work.” He calculates something in his brain. “Unless—is that why you’re here?”
I weigh how to best respond. It’s not lost on me that Italy has its own set of issues politically, its own battles people like me, the old me, are fighting, but itmakes me sound like a fraud if I admit that right now, in this moment, I don’t really care. “I’m not trying to fight the thread of resurging fascism in Europe, no,” I say.
“Then what is it?” he asks again.
“Nothing.”
Benito huffs. “You don’t actually expect me to believe you’re doing a wholeEat, Pray, Lovething.”
“Believe what you want.”
“AnUnder the Tuscan Sun,” he says.
“Great film.” Another sip of wine. Unbothered, unfazed.
“Roman Holiday,” he says. “Letters to Juliet,Room with a View, need I go on?”
I shrug. “You’re naming films. I don’t know what this has to do with me.”
Benito leans in, suddenly energized. “You aren’t actually playing the white woman who leaves everything behind, hoping the answer to all her problems is simplyItaly.”
My breath stutters. He more or less nailed it, but I uphold a stoic exterior. “I studied abroad in this town. Did you know about that? I needed somewhere to go, and this is a place I could. . . go. Somewhere familiar but also the complete opposite of the life I was living.”
Benito’s eyes narrow, studying me. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “You won’t last more than a month.”
