I could explain how it’s exhausting, watching her shrink herself for Lamont. How I don’t want her to do that for me or my parents. How even though she drives me crazy sometimes, I wouldn’t change her. Instead I say, “One less thing to lie about.”
She chews on the inside of her cheek. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
In a desperate attempt to move this conversation out of dangerous territory, I mull over other things she needs to know before landing on an essential piece of information. “If my mamma brings up any stories about past disagreements with hersister for your opinion, no matter how ridiculous the origin of the feud sounds, it’sveryimportant that you tell her she’s right.”
Mischief flickers in Tessa’s eye as she gives a small grin. “You don’t have to worry about me siding with her. I’m very good at ignoring red flags. One time, Peyton told me that she accidentally stole a tablet from a store, and I told her that it was the store’s fault for making them so easily stealable.”
I ignore my immediate question ofhow does one “accidentally” steal a tablet, and just blink at this woman. Tessa’s ridiculously unpredictable in an addicting way. Amidst my nervousness over our charade, there’s an undercurrent of excitement I can’t deny. A large part of me is eager to bring her home to Brescia. To show her a side of me she hasn’t seen before.
As I stare into her rich espresso eyes, I realize we haven’t gone over our relationship origin story yet. I’m about to tell her how I envision it when she yawns. It’s late. Having witnessed Tessa’s post-show panic earlier, I don’t want to overwhelm her. She has a pretty good grasp on my family dynamic, and we’ll figure out the rest later.
I start to stand, but then I remember one last thing. “I almost forgot. There’s this pigeon, and…” I trail off at the sight of another yawn from her. “You know what? Never mind.”
She’ll find out for herself tomorrow.
PART THREE
BRESCIA, ITALY
Chapter 16
Tessa
Words I’d never dare say aloud plague me:Giovanni was right.
I was not, in fact, a human rooster this morning. I was closer to a human blobfish, floating down into the lobby with a frown on my face to Giovanni’s knowing smirk. I barely ever stay out past 10:00 p.m., and I’m exhausted.
But the long, scenic drive through the Italian countryside has swiftly transformed my unenthusiastic mood. I thought it’d be filled with awkward conversation, but the winding roads and lush hillsides passed between us in comfortable silence. We’ve barely made eye contact with each other because my face has been glued to the window for the past hour, mesmerized by the way the expansive sky stretches over the mountain peaks.
When we arrive at the outskirts of Brescia, Giovanni turns our rental car onto a small dirt road. My eyes light up at the picturesque, modest, limestone house sitting on top of a verdant, rolling hill, surrounded by short trees with wide crowns.
“Are those fruit trees?” I ask, curious about the ones bordering the house.
“Figs. In about a month, they’ll all be gone. We came just in time,” Giovanni replies with an almost childlike excitement.
The burnt orange terracotta roof of the house is a stunning contrast against the bright blue sky. Vibrant green climbing vines cling to the side of the exterior walls. I turn to Giovanni to compliment its beauty, but I’m met with a guarded expression.
“I know it’s not much, but my family has lived here for generations, and my parents won’t move,” he says self-consciously. “I’m sure, with your brother, you’re used to a lot of luxury.”
His assumption about me is almost laughable. “Yeah, growing up with one income and no dad really prepped me for high taste.”
My apartment is one tenth this size and certainly not surrounded by the freaking Italian countryside.
He expertly parks the car in front of the house, and I unbuckle my seatbelt. When I move to open the door, I feel a hand on my shoulder.
“Remember. You have to convincingly pretend to like me for this to work,” he reminds me, placing a large emphasis on “convincingly.”
“It’ll be the performance of a lifetime,” I joke. “Steven Spielberg will be knocking on my door afterwards.”
I turn away from him, reaching for the handle again, but this time, he reaches across me and gently grabs my wrist.
I sigh. “What now, Giovanni?”
“Try to open your own door again,Tèssa, and see what happens,” he murmurs.
My mouth opens to protest, but absolutely nothing comes out. I sit in stunned silence, watching him get out and walk around to my side. To make matters worse, the smirk on his face when he opens my door hits me right where it shouldn’t.
Compose yourself, Tessa. Pretend you have a shred of dignity left.
