We watch Anya Taylor-Joy flounce around the English countryside in frilly dresses and bonnets. What I’m not prepared for is seeing so much – any – naked man butt. I try not to tense or make any sudden moves, because of course I’m totally unbothered by this bare-buttock display. Luca plays it cool too, and I could be imagining that he’s chewing on a single crisp until the actor is fully dressed again.
I’ve not decided whether I do or don’t like Jane Austen. Her characters are tedious, but sometimes she drops a one-liner that hits you straight in the chest and leaves you devastated.
The creaking of the floorboards announces Maz before he steps into the room.
‘Simo, it’s nice to see your face,’ he says, and drops a container on the kitchen island.
‘And yours,’ I reply. A palpable tension hangs in the air, so I add: ‘I heard Joni’s son is opening an Italian restaurant across from you.’
Maz’s face darkens. He glances out the window towardsthe restaurant in question. ‘I heard the same thing. He’d better not steal my customers. I hope he’s a shit cook.’
Luca makes a choking sound, as if he’s trying not to laugh. Maz’s eyes flick to him before he turns and pours himself a glass of water.
‘There’s some leftover mac and cheese if you boys are hungry,’ he says, and points to the container. ‘I’m gonna have a shower.’
Once I hear the bathroom door lock, I clear my throat. ‘Is everything all right with you two?’
‘What makes you say that?’ Luca asks, and sits up.
I know I’m on thin ice, but it’s obvious that something is going on. They’re not fighting, but there’s also none of their usual playful squabbling.
‘Well, for example, on a normal night, Maz would watch the film with us. But he basically fled the room.’
‘He did not flee the room,’ Luca protests.
‘And the coffee tastes different too.’
‘You’re making that up.’
‘You don’t drink it, so you wouldn’t know. But I had a latte the other day, and it’s not the same. Mairi agrees that it tastes off, and I overheard Mayor Pickering telling Betsy that he’s considering going back to drinking instant.’
‘Pickering can choke on his dirt water then. And I can’t believe you’re blaming me for this coffee conspiracy.’
‘All I’m saying is that Maz isn’t himself. And neither are you.’
Luca huffs. ‘It’s all to do with Dad’s messed-up relationship with his parents. It’s affecting everything.’
A crumb of information, finally.
‘If I can do anything to help fix things . . .’
He studies me silently before saying, ‘There’s nothing to fix. We’re still . . . adjusting to this new family dynamic.’
Deep down I’m aware that Luca and I aren’t family, not in that rooted-in-your-DNA kind of way. Most of the time I’m fine with that. We’re close in a way I lack words to describe, because neither brothers nor friends fully captures what we have. But other times, when I’m not so gently reminded that I’m an outsider, that there are gaps I can’t fill, this ugly feeling creeps over me. A mix of loneliness and jealousy. No matter how hard I try to rationalise it away, a seed of it remains, buried but threatening to unfurl. Like now, when Luca’s knee is touching my thigh but still I feel like I’m not enough for him to confide in.
‘But,’ Luca says, and taps my leg with his index finger, ‘thank you. For offering.’
‘I’m worried because, well, I won’t be here for Christmas.’
The tapping stops. ‘What?’
‘And I won’t be back for New Year’s either.’
Frown lines cloud Luca’s eyes. ‘Where will you be?’
‘In Granada. For two weeks. And I’d feel less bad about leaving if I knew you guys weren’t . . . moping.’
When he doesn’t move to say anything else, my index finger maps out a path on the sole of his foot, asking him for a reaction.
