“Should we talk?” I ask.
Her dark brown eyes widen, but I’m not sure why she’s surprised. Things seem to be shifting with us, and I want to understand her feelings better.
She fiddles with her seatbelt. “Yeah. But, um, do you mean ‘talk’ like in agoodway, or are you?—”
Bang. Bang. Bang.
We startle at the knocking.
“What do you want, Mamma?” I ask dryly, rolling down my window.
“What a lovely greeting, Gio.” She squints. “Anyway, I came for Tessa. The fig crostata is ready to eat, and she wanted a slice.”
Tessa gives me one quick glance and a small shrug before stepping out of the car. “I’m so ready for this, Maria. Can’t wait!”
Both of them walk into the house, and I slump against my seat. After a few minutes of inner turmoil, I unfasten my seat belt and get out of the car. I pause at the threshold for a moment before stepping inside.
Mamma and Papa are sitting in their favorite armchairs, bickering about feeding Giuseppe. Tessa’s relaxing on the loveseat and smiling at their antics with a plate of crostata in her hands. I take a seat next to her and put my arm around the back of the sofa.
“How did it go? With Enzo?” Mamma asks.
Tessa and I both answer at the same time.
“Fine—”
“GREAT—”
Tessa whips her head toward me, probably wondering why I bellowed my answer. Mamma’s eyebrow raises as she studies us with a hefty dose of suspicion—or humor—it’s hard to tell.
“I thought you might want to join us for a game. We have UNO,” she announces, holding up the deck of cards.
Any other time, sure. But my pretend girlfriend and I need to talk, I think. I glance at Tessa, assuming we’re both ready to call it.
She turns to face Mamma. “That sounds lovely, Maria, thank you.”
Well.
Mamma beams, standing up from her chair. “I’ll serve the drinks. Do you want anything special?”
“Just water, please.”
Mamma nods. “Roberto, can you help me with the glasses?”
He follows her to the kitchen, leaving us alone.
Tessa takes another bite of the crostata and gives a little moan of delight.
I swallow. “So, about earlier…”
Tessa looks up at me through her long lashes, sitting a bit straighter. “Yeah?”
“How did you feel about the photoshoot?”
Coward. Now I have to commit to a line of conversation I didn’t even want to start.
She quirks an eyebrow and sets down her plate on the coffee table. “The photoshoot?”
I wipe my hand down my face in agony. “Yeah, how did you feel like it went?”
