I breathe out a sigh of relief. “That’s wonderful news. Grazie, Doctor.”
Giovanni loudly butts in. “Are you sure? Seems a little soon.”
The corner of Dr. Accardi’s mouth ticks up at his interjection. “I’m quite sure. As a reminder, you need to make sure you carry two doses of epinephrine at all times. Sometimes a second dose is needed to manage a biphasic reaction.”
“Maybe four just to be safe,” Giovanni interjects, jotting something down in his pocket notebook. At least I have an idea of what he’s writing in his little journal this time.
The doctor chuckles. “Keeping four doses of epinephrine on your person is unnecessary.”
Giovanni launches into a string of fast Italian. At first, the doctor tries to reply in English for my benefit. It’s short-lived, however. After a few minutes, he gives up and switches to Italian. Between the language barrier, Giovanni’s Big Emotions, and the hot doctor, I feel like I’m on an Italian soap drama. My eyes bounce back and forth between them. After a couple of minutes, the conversation slows down.
“As I was saying,” the doctor says pointedly at my fussy boyfriend, “Tessa’s going to be fine.” Glancing at my wrist, he asks, “Do you have medical identification jewelry? If you’re going to be on your own, it’s important to?—”
“She’ll be with me. She’ll always be with me.”
My jaw drops while I work out whether Giovanni’s words are sweet or toxic.
The doctor continues his discharge spiel, reading from his phone again. “Finally, it would be beneficial if you refrained from heavy exercise and sexual intercourse for at least twelvehours to prevent the body from circulating the allergen due to increased blood flow.”
Giovanni turns over his shoulder, whispering so the doctor can’t hear, “Shouldn’t be a problem for you…” He waggles his eyebrows knowingly.
I see red. “Iknewyou would bring it up. You know, you can’t just go about acquiring people’s personal medical history. It’s a violation.”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Tessa.” Giovanni’s hushed tone and mischievous grin makes my ears itch.
“Scusi,” the doctor cuts in, “but did either of you have any remaining questions?”
“Yes, where is the nearest nut shop, because I’d rather?—”
“She’s hilarious, always making jokes,” Giovanni interrupts, stepping in front of my face once again.
The doctor chuckles awkwardly and leaves the room.
Yep. Another shot of hazelnut sounds pretty good right now.
Chapter 19
Giovanni
“Your room is set up, and dinner will be ready soon. And can I say again, I am deeply sorry for the hazelnut fiasco,” Mamma apologizes with a little bow, like Tessa is the Queen of Allergies.
“Oh my gosh, don’t even think about it. Seriously, it was nothing,” Tessa says as she walks hand-in-hand with Mamma down the hallway.
I glare at my mother’s back, wondering if she can feel the daggers coming out of my eyes. I’m still mad at her for almost killing my pretend girlfriend.
When we make it to my childhood bedroom, Tessa pushes open the door with her free hand and I scope out my old queen-sized mattress. It’ll be tight—both the mattress and the two of us in the bed, but a king won’t fit in here. I sneak a glance at Tessa, but she divulges nothing in her expression.
If I’m honest with myself, I’m nervous about sleeping next to her. The ethics alone on this are kind of murky, given the favor-for-a-favor arrangement. Or “diet blackmail,” as Tessa’s been calling it. Even so, there’s not enough space for either ofus to sleep on the floor in my old bedroom, and the biggest piece of furniture my parents own other than a bed is a loveseat in the living room. With no other guest bedrooms, we’re stuck “sleeping in sin.”
Mamma and Papa weren’t thrilled at the idea of us sharing a bed before marriage, but due to the space limitations, Mamma said God would forgive us—and she’d pray ten rosaries at mass on Sunday just in case.
Tessa’s eyes dart around the walls, lingering over the photos that decorate them. When she locates my small closet, her body language changes and she lights up. There’s no door on it, just a curtain that’s pushed to one side, exposing the clothes. She walks over and reaches out to touch them, before turning around and asking, “Do you mind?”
Both Mamma and I shake our heads.
Tessa faces the closet again and runs her fingers down the tailored shirts. She gently brushes her thumb against the leather belts. The way she looks at clothes is the way I look at my nonno’s sewing machine: completely and utterly enthralled.
“It’s Gio’s first bespoke wardrobe, courtesy of his nonno. Every piece in there was custom made for him,” Mamma tells her.
