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Does he recognize me? Do I look like my mom? Maybe I expected too much when I created a scenario in my head about him immediately recognizing me as his long-lost child.
“Ciao. Che cosa vuio bere?”
Yeah, I definitely expected too much. My mouth parts open before shutting again. Unexpected tears prick my eyes, but I take a deep breath and chant to myself how everything is okay. I’m here now, and that’s better than never.
His lips turn down, showing off some deep-set wrinkles near his eyes and mouth.
“I don’t speak much Italian,” I blurt out.
He nods his head. “I can speak English too. My mom was born in New York.” He smiles in a way that makes my knees weak. The whole experience of meeting him is something indescribable, with my chest tightening and hopes I long gave up on filtering through my head.
I rub my damp palms down my cotton dress. “Oh. Nice. New York.” You can talk the paint off a wall, but now you lose the ability to speak when it matters.
He chuckles to himself. “Yes. Did you come here for coffee?”
“Well, actually, I was wondering if you were hiring a barista.” All right, my approach was about as smooth as sandpaper.
He looks around the nearly empty shop, his eyes bouncing from the one customer in a corner to me. “Since we don’t get many customers here, I handle all the orders.”
I’m getting the brush-off by my own dad. I mentally dig my feet in and raise my chin. I did not go through hell to get here only to give up at the first sign of trouble. “I can help with anything you need. Accounting, the ordering of supplies, checking stock.” I list off everything I have no experience with. If I learned how to pick a lock on YouTube, then the world is my oyster.
His brows lift. “Well, I could use help with one thing, but the pay isn’t great.”
I attempt to keep my nod to a normal level of enthusiasm. I’d accept working for free at this point because I’m willing to do just about anything to spend more time around him. “Sure. What is it?”
He explains the pay and how he needs help cleaning the shop every day because he messed up his back a few years ago. My excitement doesn’t falter when he passes me a rag and window cleaner. Spending time with Matteo is what I traveled all this way for. Who cares if I’m sweeping floors or making terrible coffee for unlucky patrons? As long as I get to be with him, I couldn’t care less about my job.
I plan on taking advantage of every second with him, even if it means living out a Cinderella fantasy. Who needs a fairy godmother when I have myself?
It takes two days of wiping windows, cleaning a gross bathroom, and mopping the sticky tile in silence before Matteo breaks the awkwardness.
“Where in America are you from?” He asks the simplest question, but it has my heart racing in my chest nonetheless.
“I was born in New York.” Maybe if I sprinkle facts here and there, he will get the hint.
“Ah, just like my mom. I used to go there every summer with my brother to visit her.” He clears his throat, focusing back on cleaning his coffee machine.
I can barely hear my own voice over the sound of my blood pounding in my ears. “So, what did you do in New York?” I wince at the desperation in my voice. Smooth, Chloe, smooth.
Matteo laughs. “Just about everything. My mom moved back to the States after she and my father divorced, so when my brother and I would visit, we tended to make the most of it.”
Does he remember sleeping with my mom? Will he be shocked to realize he has a child? I force my thoughts to slow down.
Matteo carries on with his business, ignoring how I’m stuck in place, staring at him. My brain screams to attack him with more questions. But something tells me to hold off because I don’t want to make him suspicious of me.
“And is this where you lived the other parts of the year?”
“Yeah. My father was born and raised
here. He started this shop himself.” Matteo looks around the store, smiling.
“Wow. That’s incredible.” I appreciate the shop in a new light, knowing it’s been passed down by each generation.
“Well, I know this town is smaller than one New York city block, but I love the people and the quiet.”
“You’ve got that right. I’m still getting used to walking past the same people every morning and having them smile at me. In New York, if I smiled at a stranger, they might call the cops on me for suspicious behavior.”
Matteo laughs. It’s a full and hearty sound, with his eyes crinkling.
