She hums to herself, adding a few spices to the mixture. Then, she dips her spoon into the pot for a quick taste. “If Gio were here, he’d add a little more salt. He’s a fantastic chef—what am I saying? You already know.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Finally, something I can attest to truthfully, having enjoyed his food at Lucia’s. “Heisa wonderful chef.”
Maria smiles. “Yes, he’s such a special boy, with so many talents. My greatest accomplishment in life was raising him. I’m happy he found someone as lovely as you.” She reaches out andsqueezes my upper arm, before setting her spoon down and pulling me into another hug.
A tidal wave of guilt floods my mind as I lean into her embrace. I hate deception, and after meeting Giovanni’s family, lying to them feels particularly cruel. It’s almost shocking how open they are after only knowing me for an hour.
A door clicks shut, and loud footsteps echo down the small hallway. Maria looks at me mischievously. Throwing me a wink, she resumes talking, but this time, at a louder volume.
“You know, speaking of family, Gio has this cousin. His name is Luca, and he’s very handsome. If things don’t work out with my son, you tell me, and I’ll set you up with?—”
“What? She’s datingme, Mamma. She’smygirlfriend.”
I spin to face Giovanni, who’s wiping his forearms with a towel. He must’ve taken off his button down shirt to fix the leak, because he’s currently in a wet, white undershirt. It clings in spots to his body, and my eyes snag on the cavity of his belly button and the soft shadow beneath the bulkiness spilling over his waistband. Giving him a private once over of appreciation, I watch with amusement as he complains to his mother. He looks so pouty, while she does her best not to break.
Giovanni glares at her. “Don’t bring up other men.”
Maria frowns. “See what I mean? So upset over the small things. Luca is much more even-tempered. Let me know if you want Luca’s num?—”
“We’re done here.” Giovanni grabs my hand and yanks me to his side. He tosses the wet towel directly at his mom and drags me out of the kitchen to the sound of Maria’s laughter trailing behind us.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
He leads me to the garden, where the fragrant trees surround us. The sun smiles down, comfortably warming me. I drop his hand so I can shrug off the light cotton sweater I’m wearing.Walking closer to one of the trees, he runs his hand down the smooth, gray bark. Reaching up toward the open, rounded canopy, he grabs onto a fig, lifts it upward, and carefully separates it from the branch. He turns around and presents it with a smile.
Noting the green skin of the fig, I ask, “Is that ripe?”
“This is of the Verdino del Nord variety. Bright green skin on the outside; deep, ruby-red pulp on the inside. Here,” he says, pulling a small pocket knife out of his pocket, “look.”
Giovanni cuts the fig length-wise and offers me half. “The skin is edible, but you might just want to eat the middle at first,” he instructs, popping the whole half into his mouth, skin and all.
Taking his advice, I dig my thumbs in the sides and peel back some of the skin, scraping the center of the fig with my teeth. The flavor’s sweet, just like fresh honey.
“It’s delicious,” I gush, juice running down my chin. “It’s almost like a jam consistency.”
He grins, and I’m still unfamiliar with the expression on him. It’s like he’s the young, sweet boy Maria was telling me about.
“My nonno and I used to pick hundreds of these every season. It’s like I can feel him out here, or at least… vividly recall the memories.”
Lost for words at how emotionally available he’s being with me right now, all I reply with is, “That’s really sweet, Giovanni.” I find myself wanting to tread lightly, with extra care, so he’ll continue to share more with me.
He clears his throat. “I thought we could pick some of these for dinner. We can have them alongside the dessert,” he announces, facing away from me to pick another fig.
I take in the beauty surrounding us; it’s so picturesque out here. I don’t know if it’s the setting, or Giovanni’s vulnerability that’s motivating me to confide in him too, but I speak nonetheless.
“I wish I had a relationship with my dad like yours.”
His eyes give nothing away. “I like to think that a relationship can always be repaired.”
I give him a sad smile. “I don’t have any memories of my father when I was a child. Mom and him divorced shortly after I was born.” I trail off, nervously fidgeting with the straps of my dress. “He reached out to me a while back, and we talk from time to time, but we don’t have the most solid relationship. He travels a lot for work, so it’s hard to connect. There’s a lot of… distance between us.” I shift on my feet and blow out a big breath, shying away from sharing anything too raw. “Anyways, I’m losing track of my point, which was that hearing about memories with your grandfather is nice. It sounds like he was really important to you, and whenever you’re ready to tell me more about him, I’d, um, love to listen.”
Giovanni says nothing, simply staring at me in silence for a few moments. While his eyes are wide, imploring, they’re not decisive. I don’t feel like I’m under his usual microscope.
After a minute, he opens his mouth to speak. “He regrets it.”
“Huh?”
Giovanni picks another fig off the tree. “He regrets it. Your dad. He regrets not having a solid relationship with you.”
