“I call youCara, because I wantyou.”
She worries her bottom lip. “I don’t understand…”
“Cara is ‘dear’ or ‘darling’ in Italian. It’s what my nonno called my nonna. It’s… It’s a nickname of high affection in my family.”
How deeply she misunderstood the intensity of my feelings for her. Because even when I’m not thinking straight, I’m thinking about her. Even when I’m out of my mind, she’s on my mind.
She reaches up and touches my shoulder. “You want me?” Her eyes search mine for reassurance.
I pin her with my gaze and nod. “I want you, Tessa.”
We let the weight of my confession rest between us, and I wonder how she’s interpreting my words. I want her inallthe ways that matter, not just one. But I need to give her room to share her feelings without the onslaught of my own. Neither of us say anything, but we also don’t remove our hands. Hers remains on my shoulder, mine under her chin.
After a few moments of silence, she opens her mouth to speak, before closing it. Then, she gives me a soft smile and exhales a deep breath. “Will you teach me how to sew, Gio?”
My hands drop to my sides in surprise. “You wantmeto teach you?”
Tessa shyly grabs her elbow. “Um, only if you want to. The sewing kit was enough…”
She honestly thinks I’d turn her down?
“It’d be my privilege.”
It’s hard for me to swallow the surprised expression on her face. I wish we were never in a position where my help would come as a shock.
Tessa ducks her chin. “Thanks.”
“Do you want to start right now?”
“Really?” she asks hopefully. “When will your parents be home?”
“They’ll be out for a while. After church, they go to lunch with my aunt, followed by weekly grocery shopping. Go ahead and sit on the edge of the bed, and we’ll begin.” I grab my glasses on my nightstand, put them on and sit next to her.
She picks up the large needle and thicker thread.
“I do know how to thread a needle. I’m not a complete idiot,” she jokes, though her tone has an uncomfortable edge.
I place a hand on her shoulder and give it a squeeze. “If you didn’t know how to thread a needle, that’d be okay, too.”
She nods. “Thank you, Gio.”
Even now, her calling me my nickname feels like sinking into a soft bed after a long day. She threads the needle and secures the knot at the end.
“Bene. Let’s start with a running stitch, okay? Go ahead and pick up two pieces of fabric.”
She places one square on top of the other and holds the needle close to the fabric.
“Not too close to the edge,” I correct gently, moving her hand back. “There you go.” She inserts the needle in and pulls the thread through, a short distance away from the fabric. She repeats the movement a few times, and her line is as straight as an arrow.
“Perfect,” I praise, beaming at her.
Watching Tessa sew, I can’t help but feel robbed that we spent so much time at odds. I imagine what it would’ve been like, a different working relationship. Something that might have led to a moment like this without all the challenges along the way.
She finishes her line, pulling the thread through one last time before glancing over and tying it off.
“You’re an expert already. Let’s try a backstitch now. It’s a stronger stitch, and creates one continuous line instead of a linewith gaps in between each stitch. This stitch is best for things like seams. Start from behind this time.”
Tessa places the needle at the back of the fabric, a finger’s length away from the running stitched line.
