“Izzy,” he says, not letting go of my hand. “Thank you.”
Chapter Eight
“I cannot have sex with Benito,” I insist to Marisol on FaceTime later that night after explaining the events of the day. It’s 9 p.m. and I’m exhausted, but I’m restlessly doing laundry in the small room tucked into the bottom corner of the villa in a desperate attempt to take my mind off Benito.
She’s not buying it, giving me her signature look that roughly translates toyou and I both know you’re being stupid.Despite the fact that she’s currently on a treadmill at the gym, no doubt with her phone propped up by her work laptop or a hundred-page bill, I can see her crystal clear. “You absolutely can.”
“I have to think about the long-term.” I pace around the tiny space. “I live with him, and this is a small town. If things get weird, it’ll make everything weird. Or worse, the humiliation will drive me out of town and prove he was right to think I’ll leave.”
Marisol hops off the treadmill and moves to the elliptical. I see her pumping arms duck in and outof the screen. “You’re being too puritanical about it. You’re in Italy. I’m sure Benito has slept with thousands of girls.”
The thought of that makes me queasy. “Don’t you think that’s a little reductive, Mari?”
Her arms stop suddenly, and she looks to the camera in shock. “Wait, was that racist?” She shakes her head. “I’ve been hanging out with too many congressmen.”
“I don’t want to be just another notch in Benito’s bedpost.”
“Oh my god, Izzy. You’re over 30. Use a man for sex. Who gives a fuck?” I let out a guffaw, but she continues, “You want to tear his clothes off, right? So do it. Consensually, of course. You’re used to being overly cautious and private when it comes to the people you want to have sex with, but you don’t have to do that anymore. Stop thinking and let your horny self take over.”
I let her words wash over me. Following my horny self has never led me anywhere good before, but it’s becoming harder and harder to fall asleep at night knowing Benito and his forearms are just a wall away. I shudder. These are the exact thoughts that got me in trouble with Levi. I may never lust again.
“Are you thinking about Levi right now?” Marisol asks, her arms on the move again.
“No,” I lie.
Marisol glares at me through the screen. “I hate that he made an entire nation slut-shame you, but this is not the same.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “With Giac the stakes seem lower, but with Benito it feels too sticky to try and throw romance into the mix.”
“It’s not romance, Izzy. It’s sex. You can have one without the other. You’re hot, he’s hot, why not bang it out? You hate each other, right? It’s bound to be good.”
My stomach churns because I don’t know what I feel for Benito, but I know I wouldn’t describe it as hate. Regardless, Marisol might have a point. Random hookups were a no-go when I was in Congress, but the same rules don’t apply here. The problem is, Benito isn’t random. Whether I like it or not, he’s in my life indefinitely.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s not like I can just knock on his bedroom door in a trench coat with nothing underneath.”
“You absolutely can.”
“His mom is here!”
Marisol gives me the look again. She opens her mouth to speak but gets distracted. “Ugh, the speaker is calling me. Can I call you back later? Or better yet, call Benito.”
I shake my head. “Call me. I’m sure I’ll be up.”
The washer beeps and I gather the next load of clothes from my room. Maybe Marisol is right, or maybe I want her to be right. What was the point in coming here in the first place if I live my life in the exact same way I always have? It’s not like I have a reputation to protect anymore, and while the mayor with the new American lady might become town gossip, it’s not like it’d be a national scandal.
Then again, it’s worthwhile to consider the social ramifications of sleeping with your peer and roommate. No, it’s too much to risk. My original intent was to come here and live an easy life free from complications. I can’t sabotage my standing in a country because of my lofty personal goals again.
I reach my hand into the washer and yelp when I feel a shock. I check to make sure the washer’s cycle has fully completed and try again: another zap. I jump backward in fear. My hand tingles from the electricity.
The washer is different than what I’m used to back home, but I thought I followed the directions Anita gave me exactly. I google instructions and make sure the dials are lined up exactly as it shows in the diagram I find online. The words are smushed so closely together it’s hard to be certain. I almost reach again a third time but think better of it, conjuring up a foreshadowed image of me lying unconscious on the floor.
Unclear on what I do next, I stare at the open washer and my wet clothes that are prisoners inside. I guess I’ll have to tell Vincenzo in the morning, unless—
I mean, I could go find Benito. It would make sense for me to go tell Benito. This is, after all, his house. Technically, he’s my logical first call in case of emergency. It’s not like I know the number of a mechanic. I could wait until tomorrow.
I mean, Icouldwait until tomorrow.
But by then my yellow sundress would be wrinkled beyond recognition. And I’m down to my last pair of clean underwear.
