“Sì, lo so… I know, but I might have stuff to do tomorrow.” Giulio fills the portafilter with ground coffee and presses it down, not once meeting my eye.
“Oh.” I pick my heart up off the floor. “Something important?”
“Just … something.” His voice is bland as heconcentrates on the four espressos he’s making at the same time.
It’s been an emotional day already, with all the secrets finally coming out. Now there’s a new one. Only maybe this isn’t a secret … Maybe it’s just none of my business.
I need a reality check.
And I know exactly where to get it.
***
It’s a few hours before the bar empties and we close for the night, but just seeing Isla’s face pop up on the screen drags me out of my slump. Although I am surprised by the backdrop. Instead of the cattery’s calming neutral tones, or the clothes piles that “decorate” Isla’s bedroom, there’s noise and music and people jostling into her.
I must be frowning because she rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what Edinburgh’s like at this time of year?”
She flips the camera around to show me a woman juggling fire, Hula-Hooping, and balancing aunicycle on a traffic cone—all at the same time.
“Of course!” I slap the proverbial hand to my forehead. “The Fringe Festival!”
Isla’s off-screen but I hear her mutter, “Aka a whole month of crowds, chaos, and questionable street performances.”
I’d completely forgotten about the arts festival that grips the city center in August—the street performers, the temporary stages, the people who come from far and wide to see it. But this must be why Piazza Navona felt so familiar today. The buzzing energy, the mix of locals and tourists, the crazy creativity of the performing artists.
Isla’s face comes back into view, a smudge of dark lipstick (or chocolate?) across her cheek. “What’s up with you?”
I can tell she’s heading for a quieter spot, and I hesitate. “I can call tomorrow if you’re out-out.”
She tips an oversized “sharing” pack of chocolate buttons toward her mouth. “I’m battling my wayhome,” she says around a huge mouthful. “You can keep me company. Spill.”
I tell her everything—about the language swap’s success that’s too little too late, and the whole Flaminia situation … basically, a double whammy of failure. “… So yeah, maybe Ma’s right. I’m just the clichéforeign girl on holiday in Italy, thinking I’m somehow more than that.”
“Aw, Liv, I wish I was there right now …”
I smile, small and sad, thinking how much I’d like that, too.
Then Isla finishes her sentence. “So I could slap some flipping sense into you.”
Er … What?
“Just talk to him,” she groans. “Or text him or something.”
“I … er … don’t have his number.”
Isla closes her eyes for a long moment. “Oh, Liv, have I taught you nothing?”
“He’s always been right here,” I say in my defense. “At the bar, at the hospital, right next door. I hatedit in the beginning, remember? He was always around, always underfoot, like I couldn’t escape him even if I tried.”
Wow. I’ve gone from trying to push him away to desperately wanting him around even more. Now, the thought of him being absent, of him not being part of all this, makes me ache all over like I’ve got … I don’t know … love flu, or something.
“Okay, fine.” Isla sighs dramatically, then grabs two chocolate buttons and sticks them over her eyes. “Pretend I’m Giulio.” She lowers her voice, putting on an exaggerated Italian accent. “Livia … my love … tell me how you feel.”
“Ommioddio, you are ridiculous.”
Isla tosses the chocolate buttons in her mouth. “I’m serious. Just talk to him, Liv. You’re not some cliché. You’re you. And that’s enough.”
Someone in a shiny silver bodysuit with disco-ball antennae approaches Isla with a collection bucket. The screen goes all blurry as she digs out afew coins. But something has just becomeveryclear to me.
