He tugs on my hand. “No. I mean it.”
“Sure, sure,” I pacify. “Let’s get you in bed.”
“You’re coming, too?”
“Yeah, in a bit. I’m going to run to the bathroom, get ready, you know… girl stuff.”
He cocks an eyebrow, correctly disbelieving my intentions, but lets it go. I change into my pajamas before scurrying around the room and gathering what I need. He takes off his shirt and pants before settling in the bed. As I walk out of the bedroom, I take a last look at Gio, who’s already softly snoring in his sleep. His arm is thrown across my side of the bed, almost like he’s saving me a place next to him.
I need to be somewhere else.
Calm down. It’s not that big of a deal,I repeat in my mind. Taking a deep breath, I check in with myself. As a woman who desperately wants to come first to someone, it still feels like a big deal to me.
All of the guests must’ve left while I lingered in the bathroom, because when I walk into the hallway, the house is completely dark and quiet. Breathing a sigh of relief, I weigh my options.
I could go back into the room and watch Gio sleep like some kind of lovesick idiot, or I could procrastinate. I choose the latter, tying my robe around my pajama set and walking outside in my slippers. Then I sit down on the bench in the garden and stare at the moon like some sort of forlorn actress in a low-budget soap opera. I give myself permission to feel “woe is me” for a bit. Breaking out my metaphorical, microscopic violin, a few tears slide down my face. Given the privacy out here, I don’t bother trying to prevent them.
“It’s late, Tessa. Why are you up?”
I quickly look up to discover that Roberto has found me in the garden. More specifically, he found me dressed in a robe, perched on the wooden bench, softly weeping like a widow. I train my eyes back on the ground and lean forward a bit, letting my leftover tears water the cobblestone.
Maybe a weed will grow.
Roberto is quite possibly thelastperson I want to see right now. Encountering the father of The Boy I Like Against My Will while sobbing in his backyard feels very much like seeing your high school teacher at the local bar. Nice guy, wrong time.
“Oh, I just wanted some fresh air. Really, um, take in all of the, uh,naturebefore we leave tomorrow. Gio’s in bed if you’re looking for him. He kind of passed out after all the festivities.”
“No, I’ve seen that boy enough. Can I sit by you?”
I kind of want to say no. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Italians, they won’t let things go, and I won’t let my bleak outlook ruin my relationship with Roberto. Maria told me her grandmother once held a grudge against her sister for twenty years because she made her vanilla bean panna cotta recipe without explicitly asking first.
“Sure,” I mumble, trying to open my mouth as little as possible for fear of my voice wobbling.
Roberto sits down next to me, nudging his shoulder against mine.
“You know, Maria used to hate me.”
“What? There’s no way. The two of you are so in love.”
“The line between love and hate is as fine as silk. Both are passionate emotions, and passion is the closest emotion to love.”
“What do you mean?”
He places his hand over mine on the bench. “To be passionate is to care. It’s the opposite of apathy. Apathy is where true hatred lies.”
I nod, absorbing his words. “Why are you telling me this?”
He pauses, not answering my question outright. “Maria and I first met in school. We were students. I worked at the local market on the weekends, and every time she came in, I’d smile at her. But she’d always ask other employees for help—never me. In fact, when I’d walk down an aisle she was in, she’d bolt.”
He chuckles, and I grin back.
“Maybe she liked you and was nervous.” I offer it as an obvious explanation, because it hits close to home right now.
“I thought so, too. So, one day, I sauntered over to her and said, ‘Ciao, Maria, it’s good to see you.’ And do you know what she said?”
“What did she say?”
“Maria said, ‘It’snotgood to see you, Roberto.’”
