As we order cappuccinos at Caffè del Duomo, Giac is deep into a lively conversation with Giuseppe, who I didn’t know had the ability. I pick up a few words here and there like “Sunday,” “customers,” and “cost” but am otherwise lost.
Once we get our drinks andcornetti, we find a spot on the patio. The morning light hits Giac in such a way that he glows like the cherubs that populatethe frescos on La Musa’sduomo. It’s quiet across the piazza, but there’s a palpable energy in the air with the warmer weather that’s blown in over the past few days. A mother walks with her two daughters in their Sunday bests, both of them skipping and carrying flowers. Just beyond theduomo, the slope of the red-tiled rooftops gleams in the sunlight. I snap a picture of Giac because his aesthetically pleasing presence contributes to the overall ambience—and also because Marisol couldn’t find him online and she’s adamant about getting a visual.
“I’ll send it to you,” I say. “It’s one to post for sure.”
He waves it off. “I don’t really do social media.”
“Really?” I know Giac is only a few years younger than me, but the way he holds his cappuccino with both hands makes him look like an infant nursing a bottle, and I’m suddenly self-conscious about the depleting collagen in my face. “What’s it like to be off the grid? I could use some help adjusting to it myself.”
Giac laughs. “Not so bad. It helps keep a firm boundary between my students and my personal life. They’re all so online all of the time and always asking if they can follow me.”
“Smart,” I say. “But if you change your mind, you could make a killing in brand deals. TikTok goes crazy for hot teachers.” I freeze when I realize I’ve just called him hot out loud.
I’m not alone in this revelation, because Giac leans in, raising a single eyebrow. “So you like what you see?”
I search for the words, but it’s like Giuseppe spiked my espresso with brandy and I feel jumbled.“Well—” I stop mid-sentence because I notice Anita and Lucia walking toward us. They’re beaming.
“Izzy! I thought that was you.” Lucia bounces up to us and air-kisses me on both cheeks. Anita follows suit.
“Isabella,” says Anita, “I’ve barely seen you.”
She’s being generous, because in actively avoiding Benito, I have been de facto avoiding her. “Mi dispiace, I um, haven’t been feeling well.” I hope the attempt at a fractured Italian apology will be enough to win me back her favor.
It must’ve worked, because Anita is smiling. “Not to worry. We shall catch up over Sunday lunch today.”
All the blood rushes to my heart. I’d forgotten it’s Sunday. The idea of spending an afternoon with Benito makes me want to flee the country. “Oh, that’s so kind, but unfortunately I can’t make it today.” I look to Giac. “I wouldn’t want to rush the plans I’ve made with Giac here.” I gesture to him. “Have you met Giacomo DeLuca? He teaches at the secondary school.”
“Giac DeLuca, of course. I’ve known your aunt for years, God help me. You must come to lunch too,” Anita says. “I’m embarrassed you haven’t received an invitation before. My son is the mayor now, and he should’ve invited you already.” She mutters under her breath, “Rude boy.”
Lucia interjects, “You must come. We’d love to have you.”
Giac grins like a child on Christmas morning. I shoot him a look, but he doesn’t pick up on my hesitancy. “I’d love to come,” he says.
I swallow in hopes of keeping the rage fire in my chest that burns only for Benito from reigniting. “I guess we’ll see you there.”
I greet Giac at the door and lead us to the backyard. There are more people milling about than the last two weeks when it was just me, Anita, and a Benito who ate quickly and left early. I see Anita, Lucia, a handsome olive-skinned man corralling two young children who I presume to be Lucia’s husband and kids, Vincenzo, Valeria, two bored-looking tweens, and of course, Benito.
I swallow my pride and walk over to him. He’s chatting with Vincenzo.
“Ciao,Izzy!” Vincenzo enthusiastically embraces me in a hug and double air-kiss. “How wonderful to see you outside of the workweek! Sunday suits you, my dear.” He looks off toward the tweens. “Beatrice, Antonia, come meet Izzy from California.”
The tweens don’t look up and stay engaged in their private, sullen conversation. Valeria, as wispy and elegant as ever, saunters over. “Ah, Izzy, so good to see you again.” She air-kisses me and looks to Giac. “And Giac! You two are here together?” Valeria raises her eyebrows suggestively. Benito’s eyes dart over to us, shifting back and forth between the two of us.
“We were getting breakfast together,” I say, loud enough that Benito can hear. “And Anita generously invited Giac to come for lunch.”
“Well, I am delighted you are both here.” She turns to Vincenzo. “Speaking of invitations, why have you not yet invited Izzy over for dinner?”
“My love, she is a young woman without children, she does not want to dine with us.”
Valeria fires back at Vincenzo in rapid Italian and he matches her vigor.
After their bickering subsides, I chime in, “I’d love to have dinner with all of you.”
“Izzy is from Hollywood, you know,” says Vincenzo. “Maybe we can even get our daughters to engage with a guest.”
Valeria huffs then looks over at her children. “Antonia, Beatrice.” After another ceremonious eye roll, they finally walk over. “Say hi to Signor DeLuca and meet Izzy. She came all the way here from California.”
“Buongiorno, Beatrice,” Giac says. The taller girl, with thick black hair like Valeria’s and six layers of eyeliner, smiles shyly.
