“You want live here?” his mom asked, her brow stitched with concern.
“No,” she replied. The smile was back.
“Good,” she said, tapping Lora’s hands. “America is beautiful.”
Andrea spoke to his parents while she stood, the handles of the plastic shopping bag beginning to dig into her arm. And while she thought of slipping away to ask Giada if she could have a fork and a quiet corner to tear into the fruit, she reminded herself that, irrespective of what happened yesterday, she was about to become his tenant and should wait and say a few polite words. And this was exactly why what happened yesterday should never happen again. But she should not say that. She should also not say,Thank you for that stellar kiss, though you kind of ruined it, orLet’s pretend that never happened.Of course she had no idea what Andrea and his parents were talking about, but was she imagining it, or did it seem like they were talking about her? She shifted the bag to her other arm.
“Hi, sorry,” he finally said, once his parents had paid for their vegetables and walked away from the piazza. His clean and pressed shirt did little to offset the dark circles expanding down under the edge of his glasses.
“Hi. You don’t look like you slept very well.”
“I didn’t really.” He stood looking at her as though he’d lost command of either language.
“You want to tell me what that conversation was about? I’m not fluent in Italian, but I’m pretty sure that I can tell when someone is talking about me.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, slashing his hand through the air like he’d taken care of a spider that had been found crawling inside the shower.
“No, I would like to know what you said. I was standing right here.” She tried to keep it light but knew that the tone of her voice was going to demonstrate otherwise in about five seconds.
“It’s only silliness. Your hair looks great by the way.”
“Thank you. It’s all Ottavio. I still want to know, Andrea.”
“Walk with me. I’d rather not talk in front of everyone,” he said, his eyes darting around. A man in an orange utility uniform waved at Andrea as he crossed the piazza and called out a greeting. Andrea waved and called back. “This way, OK?” He gestured toward the road that led to the quieter end of town.
“How is it that you always appear in this piazza out of nowhere anyway? Do you live under one of the park benches?” she asked, rushing to keep up with his long strides.
“I live right there,” he said, nodding toward the pharmacy.
“With the ibuprofen and hydrocortisone?”
“Above, Lora. I live above the pharmacy. I own the building.”
“Right.”
They rounded a corner and walked under a stone archway covered in ivy, then took three steps down to what looked like someone’s courtyard garden. The small rectangle was crowded with terra-cotta pots filled with succulents, geraniums, and begonias. A wooden bench that had an engraved brass plate hugged one wall, and a small marble sink affixed with a tarnished spigot was built into another. It was cool,free of direct sunlight, and so very quiet. Andrea turned to face her.
“My parents wanted to know who you were because Carola said she didn’t want you to pay for the watermelon since you are the daughter of a friend. I had to tell them you’re Ivo’s daughter, OK? And I know that you don’t want to talk about that, so I didn’t want to have to bring it up to you again. I am already sorry for bringing it up yesterday. Or not bringing it up but taking you to it. So now my mother wants to know if we are seeing each other and, if so, will you want me to go back to the US with you, because nothing would make them happier.”
“You covered all of that over the pineapples? What did you say?”
“What could I say? The truth. I told them that you are here temporarily and that we are just friends. I said that you didn’t know Ivo and that you didn’t come here for any other reason than paperwork. I said that you are counting the days and will move to Switzerland as soon as possible.”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s good that you set them straight.” It was all true—every word. The bag of fruit was getting heavier, so she shifted it into her other hand, but whimpered when the pain ran up the side of her head again.
“Are you OK?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I somehow woke up with a stiff neck,” she said, setting the bag on the bench.
“Colpo d’aria,” he said. “You must have slept too close to the air conditioning. Or a fan.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s the third time someone said that tome today. You do know that it’s scientifically impossible to get a stiff neck from getting air on it, don’t you?”
“Well, that’s what we call it here, OK? But I can see that you don’t like that idea either.”
“I’m sorry, I’m too American to believe in the danger of air currents. And maybe that also makes me not want to talk about certain things, but I guess that makes you a little bit American too,” she said, turning to face him. “Don’t you think it would be easier to explain to your parents that you are not going back to the US? Like, ever? That way they won’t have to try to set you up with transients while lettuce shopping.”
“I didn’t say I wasnevergoing back. It’s complicated,” he said. His hand slid into his pocket like he was looking for something that was not there—probably those white tablets in the blister pack he was always popping.
