Giac feigns shock. “Izzy, you cannot be a vegetarian in Umbria. What with all the wild boar, the. . .” He snaps his fingers. “Guanciale and ooo the prosciutto! The pancetta.” Giac closes his eyes like he’s in a trance.
“You know what else is here?” I start. “Mozzarella, parmigiana, ricotta, marscarpone. . .” My stomach growls. “I’m good.”
Our waiter comes and we quickly put in our orders. I settle on theumbricelli, the thick, spaghetti-like pasta shape native to the region,al pecorinowith plans to add a mountain of Parmesan on top.
“Izzy,” Giac starts, “we’ve seen much of each other, but I feel like I know nothing about you. Tell me everything.”
I freeze mid-sip of wine. This was supposed to be dinner, a bottle of wine, and sex—I hadn’t preparedfor the conversation part of the evening. “What do you want to know?” I ask.
Giac furrows his brow. “Everything. Where you’re from? Why you came to Italy? All of it.” He takes a sip of wine. “Benito mentioned something on the train about being a politician.”
I nearly choke on the piece of bread I’ve been stress-eating while I figure out how best to answer as coolly as possibly. “Yeah, I dabbled.”
“What was your job back in California?” he asks.
“Oh, I did a little bit of this, a little bit of that,” I answer noncommittally.
“All I know about Los Angeles is from American television. Let me guess,” he starts. “You were on one of those reality shows where people think they’ll find love. You were the last woman standing, of course, but you decided you were better off without thenoiosomale lead and went off on your own instead.”
“Noioso?” I ask.
“Boring,” Giac says. “Tell me, I’m right, aren’t I?” His toothy grin is visible through his wine glass as he takes in a long drink.
“No, I wish. I worked for Congress,” I say, praying he doesn’t care much about the ins and outs of United States government and is willing to quickly move on to the next topic.
Giac fixes his gaze on me then snaps his fingers together. “That’s where I know you from!”
I squeeze my eyes together. Maybe if I focus hard enough, I can teleport to somewhere else. “No, no. I’m sure you don’t know me. I wasn’t famous,” I say.
“Women eat!” Giac exclaims. I cringe. “Women Eat” became a rallying cry of sorts after one of my colleagues on the other side posted an unflattering photo of me going to town on some French fries at the LA County Fair. He’d said it was undignified and disgusting, and my lone retort was to tweet back,Breaking News: Women Eat. I didn’t intend for it to become a whole thing, but hashtags went viral, shirts were made.
“You recognized me?” I ask. I want to die. I want to leave. I want to jump into a vat of tomato sauce and let it boil me like anaragostameeting its end.
Giac nods enthusiastically. “My sister, she’s 17, she asked for one of your shirts because that angry little brunette singer had one, so I googled what it meant. . . wow. I cannot believe it’s been you this whole time.”
My palms are slick, and I feel a bead of sweat drip down my back, landing somewhere in my thong. “Don’t hold it against me,” I say.
“What is there to hold against?” Giac asks, his eyes still wild with excitement over this revelation. “You should be proud.”
The waiter comes by, delivering our food. I immediately start twirling a noodle with my fork. “I lost,” I say, my head down. “And it was all so. . .” I can’t bring myself to tell Giac the whole of it. To admit I feel anything other than wine-buzzed would open up the emotional floodgates. I don’t want to do that again. I don’t want to share like I did with Benito. I don’t want the embarrassment, the humiliation, thepain, to exist here in Italy. “I’m starting over,” I say. “That’s why I’m here.”
Giac raises his glass toward me. “Well then, Izzy. Let’s drink to that.”
Giac offers to walk me home and I don’t protest. My plan is to sneak him up to my room, hoping the solid walls of the villa will be enough of a sound barrier to keep our tryst secret. I’m not exactly in the mood after our dinner conversation, but I can muster up the energy. Nothing makes me less horny than talking about my old life, but I can rally.
He walks me to the front door and before I open it, I turn to him. “Thanks for joining me tonight,” I say. “It was fun.” I twiddle with my set of house keys, stalling.
“It was,” Giac says. He claps his hands together, rubbing them like he’s nervous. “Izzy,” he says. He licks his lips. “May I—” My stomach swells. This is the moment. Giac cocks his head. “May I use the restroom inside?”
“Oh!” I say, opening the door. “Of course.”
I show Giac the first-floor powder room and walk to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. I can still salvage the evening. Giac is fun. Giac is cute. I’m fun and cute under the right circumstances.
When he gets out of the bathroom, we’ll share a nightcap and see where it goes. I’m wearing a red lacy bra, goddammit.
“You’re up late,” a voice booms out. I nearly drop the glass into the sink, shattering it into a million pieces, but catch myself.
I turn and see Benito walking into the kitchen.His hair a stress-mess as per usual but he’s in a well-tailored suit and shiny dress shoes. “Jeez,” I say. “Stalk me much?”
