The women look at each other. Valeria quickly translates for Francesca and two other women I haven’t met who don’t speak English. “It’s a good idea, Izzy,” Valeria says, “But there’s not much social media activity in La Musa. We tend to do things the old-fashioned way and actually talk to each other.” The women laugh at that.
“Isn’t the whole point to resist modernization?” Bettina asks. Everyone at the table nods in agreement. “I think we should do a bake sale.” The women excitedly nod in agreement.
“I love the idea of a bake sale!” Mia says.
“No,” I say, or maybe it’s more of a yell. “If your goal is to stop the development, you need to make people aware of what they’re fighting for. You need to make La Musa noteworthy enough to save.” I take out my phone and open Instagram, ignoring the hundreds of messages and notifications I’ve been avoiding for months. I navigate to Marisol’s profile and scroll to the bottom of her page. “Look, when an. . . acquaintance ofmine first decided to run for Congress in the U.S., no one knew who she was, but she let them get to know her through social media so she became someone they could get behind. We need to do the same for La Musa. We need everyone to know what it is and why it’s special. We need to make sure that if anyone were to change it, there’d be an army of people willing to stand in front of the bulldozers.”
No one says anything at first and I assume it’s because they’re floored by my brilliance, but when Valeria’s done translating and they’re still quiet, I realize they’re just being polite, and they think I’m insane. “Or a bake sale,” I say. “Bake sales are good too.”
After another round of drinks, and another round of terrible ideas, we’re no closer to stopping the development. While it’s possible to bring the measure to the town, the best bet is still to convince the mayor to stop the development from going through, which means convincing Benito. Which is why I wait for him outside the La Musa city hall the next day during lunch.
It’s balmy outside despite the fact it’s only mid-May. It reminds me of those late summer days in DC when I’d take a break from a long committee session only to walk outside to 90 degrees with 100% humidity. I see Benito walk outside. He’s furiously typing on his phone, his eyebrows furrowed over the top of his sunglasses, the salt of his salt-and-pepper hair a little more evident in the bright sun.
Still, he’s striking. He really is handsome. Like, ridiculously handsome. Khaki trousers cuffed at the bottom, leather loafers, blue button-down as per usual, and with his face pointed down, his perfect cheekbones pop.
“Heading to lunch?” I ask, interrupting his phone gazing and my him-gazing.
He looks up at me, startled. “I was planning on it, yes.”
“Want some company?” I brush my hair, wiry from the humidity, out of my face. “I don’t want to bug you, but—”
“You’re not bugging me,” Benito says quickly. He puts his phone in his pocket and pushes his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. “I mean, if you’re asking me to join you, I suppose I could manage it.”
My eyes land on his forearms involuntarily but I quickly divert them before he can notice. “Ok then.”
We go to a quiet pizzeria on the other side of town. It’s tiny inside with all-white walls, three tables squished into the space, and a stressed-out server pacing the few feet from one side of the store to the other.
He seems pleased to have guests and offers us cold Cokes when we sit—a refreshing reprieve from the heat. I order a Margherita pizza withmozzarella di bufalaand Benito chooses one with spicy sausage and burrata.
“So, what’s on the agenda for today?” Benito asks, cutting a slice of pizza with his knife and fork.
“For lunch? Eating, drinking, being merry,” I say.
Benito stares at me. “Don’t try to fool me. You’re looking at me like I’m prey.”
My cheeks flush. How am I looking at him? Did I give myself away that easily? “No, I’m not.”
“You are,” he says. “You want something.”
“No, I don’t,” I blurt out. Even though the purpose of this lunch date/stalking is because I do want something. Benito raises his eyebrows and takes a sip of Coke. “Ok, I do want something,” I say.
Benito claps his hands together. “I knew it.”
“It’s the women,” I say, and his face drops. “I’m helping them organize, but while they are all intelligent and competent businesswomen, much better than I could ever be, they suck at the political part.” I adjust in my chair so I’m sitting up straight. “If the development goes forward, they have the most to lose, and I’m not ok with it. So I’m coming to you directly, hoping we can strike a deal.”
Benito eyes me for a moment. His irises as stormy as the weather brewing outside. He takes another bite of pizza and shrugs. “Alright.”
I study him as if I’m waiting for him to say“psych.”“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I think you’re right,” he says, words I never thought I’d hear come out of his mouth. “It is unfair that it would primarily affect women-owned businesses. I don’t want that.”
He says it so easily, like this was always his opinion and I’m crazy for ever thinking this would be an uphill battle. “Why are you all of the sudden against the development?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t say that I am against it, but I’m willing to explore other options if this particular situation would screw over the hard-working women of La Musa. I don’t want to screw anyone,” he says, and a little sizzle strikes down from my chest to my pelvis. Benito blushes a little. “You know what I mean.”
“I was expecting more of a fight,” I say. I’m not used to getting my way on the first try. Usually it takes negotiation, compromise. “Why the sudden change in heart?”
“It’s not that I’ve changed my mind, it’s more that I—” Benito pauses, taking another swig of Coke. The bottle chugs as he drinks. He sets it down on the table. “I trust you. I trust your opinion.”
