By nighttime, I still haven’t heard from him. Either the entire family is still behind that oak door (maybe even trapped), or they all left and didn’t bother to tell me. I do a lap around town at sunset, convincing myself it’s to pick up dinner but knowing that I’m doing a little light surveillance in case the Farentinos are all happily enjoying an extra-long brunch and all my worrying was for nothing, but I don’t see them.
I’m exhausted and I pass out early watchingHousewives, my phone still devoid of texts from Benito.
By the next morning, I’ve still heard nothing from Benito and now I’m worried. There are only a few possibilities left for his silence. He either regrets the kiss and is hiding from me or something is seriously wrong. Or his phone is dead, and he lost his charger. Or he’s dead in a ditch.
It’s Sunday, and as Anita told me, Sunday lunch happens come hell or high water, so they should all be out back by noon. I will wait for him there. That way, if he does regret it, he can tell me today and I can move on with my life.
I shower and get dressed, hoping the way my yellow sundress clings to me in all the right places will alleviate any doubt he’s accumulated about continuing what we started. The air outside is sticky, and the leftover humidity from the rain adds a layer of moisture to my look, in case my rain-drenched appearance the other day was part of the appeal.
I smell garlic and onion when I open my bedroom door and a wave of relief washes over me. Anita is cooking. All is well. A knot tightens in my stomach because if Benito’snotdead, he is definitely avoiding me. I make my way downstairs and walk into the kitchen. I’m surprised to find Lucia standing over the stove, sautéing. “Good morning,” I say.
Her eyes widen in surprise as she registers that I am standing in the kitchen. “Izzy? What are youdoing here?” she asks, a stark contrast to the usual warmness with which she greets me.
“I mean, I live here,” I say. “I was hoping to find Benito—”
“Did he invite you to Sunday lunch?” She rolls her eyes and gestures outside. “They’re all out back.” Despite her tone, I’m relieved to hear he’s at least alive, though also even more confused because something is definitely up.
Lucia escorts me to the backyard; I can already tell it’s not the usual vibe of Sunday lunch. I spot Benito, Anita, a tall gentleman about her age I’ve never seen before, Lucia’s husband and kids, and a beautiful, tall brunette woman I’ve also never seen before.
“Benito,” Lucia bellows in a scolding tone, “you invited Izzy to Sunday lunch?”
Benito looks over at us and his eyes widen in surprise. The rest of the party silences as well to glare at their new guest. I give a halfhearted wave.
“Did I?” Benito asks.
“No,” I clarify. “I mean, I live here, so it’s not that weird that I’m here.” Everyone stares at me like that is the most absurd thing they’ve ever heard. “I wanted to talk to Benito about something, but, um, it can wait.”
Anita walks over to me, beaming. “Nonsense. You’ll stay. You’re exactly right, Izzy. This is your home too, and for today at least, you are family.” Her joyfulness stands out among the overall somber tone, her giddy grin unsettling in contrast to Lucia’s frown. She grabs my hand and leads me back towardthe older gentleman and Benito. “Lucia,” she says, “get our guest a glass of wine.” Lucia sighs and obliges. Anita gestures toward the man I don’t know while I try to wordlessly communicate to Benito that I simply want to speak with him and perhaps make out a little. “Isabella, this is my husband, Raffaello.”
I freeze. Benito’s dad who’s gone but not dead? The one who left his family for the woman he has in Milan? Anita is smiling and referring to him as her husband and I am the only outsider present to witness, so it can’t simply be an act.
Raffaello turns to me and smiles affably. I can see the resemblance to Benito in his eyes. They have the same sharp cheekbones, the same salt-and-pepper quality to their hair. If I didn’t already hate him based purely on secondhand information, I would find him handsome in a Hugh Grant kind of way. “Isabella,piacere,” he says, his voice deep and gravelly. “I apologize that it’s taken so long for us to meet. I’ve been away on business.”Funny business, I think.
He sticks out his hand, so I decide to be pleasant enough and shake it. I turn to Benito. “I really just wanted to talk to you.” I raise my eyebrows to emphasize, and Benito seems to get the hint.
“Of course, shall we go inside?” he asks.
Anita swats him on the arm. “Nonsense. Isabella hasn’t yet been introduced to Sutton.”
My eyes dart over to the beautiful brunette woman. Sutton? Sutton as in Benito’s not-girlfriend. She’s here. The panic that Benito might not have been truthful when he told me they’d broken up sets in. Isthis Levi all over again? Thank god I only sent him the one text.
Perhaps sensing my anxiety, Benito walks over and places a sturdy hand on my shoulder. “Mamma, Izzy doesn’t want to subject herself to our familial antics, let’s not make her stay.”
Anita swats his arm again. “She’s already agreed, don’t be rude.” Anita waves at Sutton. “Sutton, my darling, come meet our tenant, Izzy.”
Even though I know why Anita’s not clued in on Benito’s current relationship status, it stings to be referred to as merely atenant. Benito lets his arm fall off my shoulder. He uses his pinky to stroke the side of my hand, which sends a chill down my spine but reassures me about a pinky’s worth.
“I’d love to meet Benito’s girlfriend,” I quip. Benito’s eyes fall on me, and he lightly shakes his head. It’s not enough of a confirmation that I haven’t been purposely misled.
Sutton saunters over, her long hair in perfect waves, in a black jumpsuit without a wrinkle; she towers over everyone at the party—a good two inches over Benito’s respectable 70. “Hi there,” she says, her accent more Kate Middleton thanLove Island, unfortunately. “It’s a pleasure to meet you—Izzy, was it?”
She sticks out her bony hand and I shake it. “Nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about Benito’s lovelygirlfriend.” I’m sure my tone is sharp, but Sutton appears not to notice, instead accepting my words as a genuine compliment.
I think I feel a bead of sweat drip from Benito’s brow onto my skin. “We’re running low on wine,” he says. “Izzy, want to help me replenish?”
“Yep.”
I follow him inside. As soon as we’re out of earshot, he sighs heavily. “This is a nightmare. I wanted to come find you, but it’s been pure insanity. Never in my life has there been a more chaotic 48 hours.”
