Lucia gasps and claps her hands together. “I have the best idea. You two should go to Roma together.”
I glance at Benito, who’s glaring at Lucia. “Oh that’s—” I shake my head.
Benito rolls his eyes. “No.”
“Why not?” Lucia says. “I’ll take care of all the arrangements.” She gets out her phone. “It’s perfect, really. Neither of you have done it the right way, and I know how to do it the right way.”
My eyes flit to Benito, his hazel eyes sparkling in the sunlight as they glare at Lucia. He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing his strong forearms. I dart my eyes back to my plate. Stupid Marisol remindingme of his objective attractiveness. “That’s so kind of you, Lucia, but I know Benito’s busy. I can go alone.”
“Benito!” Anita bellows. “You would let this poor girl who speaks no Italian travel to Rome all by herself? That is not the boy I raised.” She wields a disgusted look in his direction.
“Izzy is a strong, independent woman,” Benito says, and my heart skips a beat. Why is he always threading compliments in between his general disdain for me? “She does not need me to accompany her.”
“I really don’t,” I say, though Anita brings up a good point. Rome is a tourist-friendly city, but still, my phone translator app hasn’t proved to be as reliable as I’d hoped.
“Nonsense,” Anita says. “You will go, Benito.”
Lucia smiles, pleased with herself. Benito fixes his stare downward at his plate of pasta, effortfully twirling a long noodle to avoid commenting further on the matter.
“Can’t wait,” I say.
After lunch, I offer to clean up and Anita orders Benito to help me. We wash dishes side by side at the large farm sink, the only sound the running water and the scratch of the sponge across the porcelain plates. “You really don’t have to come with me,” I say, breaking the silence. “I won’t rat you out to your mom.”
Benito pauses scrubbing for a moment as though he’s considering it. “She’ll know,” he says. “Trust me.”
We both go back to scrubbing. I cannot imagine spending an entire weekend in Rome with Benito. I used to fantasize about weekend getaways with Leviwhen I was in office. We could stay at an Airbnb with sweeping views of the Chesapeake Bay or take the train up to New York City. If I was in LA, we could drive up to Santa Barbara and stay at the cottagecore resort that sits right on the coast in Montecito. We never went, obviously.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Benito says, snapping me out of my daydream.
“Huh?” I panic for a second—can he hear my thoughts?
“I can tell by the look on your face. You look like you’re studying for an exam.”
I try to brush it off. “I’m fine. It’s just been a week.”
“What, did you move to a new continent or something?”
I roll my eyes, but his tone is less teasing, more playfully sarcastic—it teeters closer to friendly than we’ve acted thus far. I put the plate I’m washing on the drying rack and dab my soapy hands with a towel. I glance out the window for a moment, the view of the countryside so picture-perfect it looks like a painting. I never liked spending time with other people’s families, but it’s surprisingly easy with the Farentinos. Still, I don’t feel at ease. My brain churns but with no discernible train of thought. Is it possible to feel like you’re in the exact right place and completely lost at the same time?
“Is something wrong?” Benito asks. I glance up at him, instantly brought back to earth when his eyes meet mine. He clears his throat. “I mean, with your accommodations, the house?”
“No, not at all,” I say. He continues to stare, concern filling his eyes, disarming me. A strange feeling settles in my stomach, but it’s pleasant. Like I’ve finally pulled myself up onto dry land when I’ve been fighting like hell not to drown. “I think I’m realizing that I haven’t processed it all.”
The sun starts to dip in through the big window on the other side of the kitchen counter. Benito’s eyes are honey colored in the light. Like a cool, refreshing glass of white wine. I feel the sudden urge to jump in and swim in them. His eyes narrow, cutting off that dangerous train of thought. “You mean moving here or—?”
“All of it,” I respond, actively trying not to think about Benito’s eyes. “I’m completely separated from any perception I had of myself prior to what happened.”
Benito tilts his head sideways. “You must have other interests—”
“Not really,” I reply, because it’s true. “Every single thing I did up until I was elected to Congress was to take a step toward getting elected to Congress. Everything. Even coming here as a 19-year-old.”
“Your parents, did they pressure you. . .?”
I pick up another plate and start mindlessly scrubbing. “What’s with the sudden interest in my life?”
Benito smiles. “I’m asking questions, trying to get to know you, it’s how a conversation works.”
I hesitate for a moment but continue, “They knew I was capable of a lot, but it was me. It was all me. Iwanted to change the world. I wanted to settle for nothing short of changing the world.”
