Giovanni watches me carefully with a pointed look in his eyes. I’m getting the inaudible message loud and clear:you better make a big deal of my mamma’s famous espresso.
I lightly blow on the steaming espresso and inhale the scent of the roast. The aroma is intoxicating. Rich and complex with primary notes of chocolate and warm spice. I don’t think I’m going to have to pretend my way through this one.
The first sip feels like velvet in my mouth. It’s smooth and bold with sweet undertones. It doesn’t taste like any espresso I’ve had before. There’s a delicious, overarching flavor I can’t quite place.
Maybe I can get a hint from Maria and order this flavor profile from my local coffee shop back home. “Mmm… What’s that sweetness? Is it caramel?”
“I’ll never tell,” Maria teases, looking gleeful with my initial reaction to her espresso.
I take another sip, but the sensation is no longer velvety. In fact, my throat is starting to itch. As I swallow, a flurry of little paper cuts rain down my esophagus. I start coughing, and my tongue flops out of my mouth, because it feels like it might be on fire.Oh… ugh!Setting down the espresso a little too forcefully on the table, the liquid spills over the rim.
“Tessa,” Giovanni hisses. He presses his lips into a thin line of dissatisfaction.
Shit. I might’ve said “oh ugh!” out loud. I can’t be sure, because I can’t stop coughing. Grabbing my glass of water and chugging it, I try to wash the taste of espresso out of my mouth. Through my hacking, I catch Maria’s deep frown.
Giovanni leans forward to mutter in my ear, “If you don’t like it, just pretend to drink it.”
Hazelnut.
It took me a while to place the flavor, considering I haven’t had a tree nut since I was little. But I’m confident it’s hazelnut now. No wonder it’s so delicious. Unfortunately, it’s also killing me. I feel my eyes swelling up as my throat begins to close.
Giovanni’s anger turns into confusion on a sharp inhale.
“Tessa? Are you okay? What’s wrong?” He reaches out to gently touch my under eye, which I’m sure is riddled with small, white hives.
I violently cough in response, attempting to suck some air into my lungs. My EpiPen is in the bedroom. Fuck. I try to stand, but my body revolts, gluing me to my chair.
“What’s happening?” he asks, his voice laced with panic. “Mamma, what’s in the espresso?”
I can’t see Maria through my blurry vision, but it sounds like she’s crying. “Hazelnut. It’s my secret ingredient.”
Giovanni’s voice comes out low, strained. “Mamma, she has a tree nut allergy. I told you that before I came here. I told you to throw awayallthe nuts—even peanuts. I said to bleach all the surfaces.”
“I’m sorry! I removed the pine nuts from the pasta, but forgot about the syrup,” she wails. Roberto runs to my side and starts rubbing my back.
As my heartbeat rockets up, I find myself idly wishing I didn’t have to die in Italy. It’s so inconvenient. Poor Daniel. It’s going to be a nightmare to get my body back to America. While I think about the logistics of transferring my corpse to my country of origin, the anaphylaxis progresses, and coughs turn into gasps.
A deep voice cuts through the chaos. “Tessa, where’s your EpiPen? I know you keep it in your purse. Where is it, baby?”
I weakly point down the hallway toward the bedroom.
“Papa, bada a Tessa. Mamma, chiama il 118. Cazzo!”
I hear fast footsteps, accompanied by clanging, rattling, unzipping.
And as everything goes dark, I wonder,did Giovanni just call me baby?
* * *
My hand is sore. I flex my fingers, but that makes it worse. Shifting uncomfortably, I slowly open my eyes and locate the source of pain—an IV.
I quickly realize two things: I’m not dead, and I’m in a hospital.
I barely recall the trip here, but I’m certain that Giovanni rode with me in the ambulance, translating what the first responders were saying. I was too exhausted to pay attention, though, and fell asleep as soon as we arrived at the hospital. I remember incoherently mumbling throughout the night, Ijust don’t remember what I said. Hopefully nothing too embarrassing. It’s already bad enough that I caused a huge scene at dinner.
The fluorescent lights bounce off the shiny floor tiles, causing my unadjusted eyes to squint. Turning my head, I’m surprised to find approximately one hundred flowers lining various surfaces in my room. Where did all these gifts come from? Who are they for?
It takes me about a minute to focus on—yes, thatisGiovanni, snoring softly next to me, head lolling down and to the side. His large frame on the small, hard hospital chair looks so uncomfortable. One arm is resting lifelessly on the flimsy metal arm rest, and the other is draped over my thigh, like he’s trying to keep me in place. As if I’d go anywhere, hooked up like this.
