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“No, she doesn’t,” my mother said, breezing into the front, likely having heard Nino’s voice. “She needs someone to get her out of here and force her to take it easy,” she added, giving Nino a knowing look.
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“You guys are talking about me like I’m a child,” I grumbled.
“Just a very stubborn girl who needs to be reminded that she has to be gentle with herself,” my mother said, running a hand down my back, and leaning in to kiss the side of my head. “Take good care of my girl,” she said to Nino, then made her way into the kitchen.
“I will,” he said, even though she was gone. “Ready to head out?”
“You really don’t have to keep doing this,” I insisted. But was I already gathering my things? Yes, yes, I was.
“Aren’t we beyond those objections?” he asked, holding open the front door for me, then waiting as I set the front door alarm. They worked independently, which was a feature my mom and I had both thought was for the best.
“I feel bad taking up so much of your time,” I admitted as he held open the car door for me, offering me a hand to help me slide in.
I’d like to claim that the pain was getting better, but it was staying at the same sort of constant ache followed by sharp stabbing sensations whenever I moved too quickly or carelessly.
Another week, I had to constantly remind myself, another week and I was going to start feeling better.
In a month, all of this would just be a memory.
It was cheesy of me, but the positive thinking was really all that was keeping me going. If I let myself wallow more than a few minutes here and there, I knew I would fall into the trap of it, forgetting that for me, for this situation, there was a light at the end of the tunnel.
“Where are we going?” I asked when Nino missed the turn for my street.
“I thought I’d treat you to a… late lunch. Early dinner,” he said, shrugging. “But I probably should have cleared that with you first.”
“If food is involved, I’m not entirely against being kidnapped,” I told him, watching his handsome profile as a smile started to spread across his face. His eyes crinkled a bit at the edges in a way that made my own smile pull at my lips. “So where are you taking me?” I asked.
“Famiglia,” he told me.
Panic gripped me. “Oh, no. I can’t. I’m not dressed for that kind of place,” I insisted, surprised he wasn’t aware of that. I mean, it wasn’t like youhadto wear a suit and tie to go there, but it seemed as though everybody did. And while, yes, I was absolutely more of a casual kind of person, I appreciated the idea of getting dressed up and feeling fancy when you went out for a special dinner on occasion.
“It’s not open yet,” he told me, brushing off my objections.
“Then how…”
“My cousin and uncle own it,” he told me. “We are going to eat on the deck. I figured you’d like that more.”
I would.
Famiglia was a fancy Italian restaurant that sat on stilts over the ocean. The inside was upscale and beautiful, from what I’d seen in the pictures online. But the deck was what was really special about it. It wrapped around a two-thirds of the building, wide and set with tables of two and four.
Romantic.
That was what that deck was at night.
Somehow, though, I felt like I’d enjoy it more during the day, watching the water flow beneath us as we ate.
And what I liked even more was that he knew how much I would like that.
“We could go somewhere else,” he said, looking over as he stopped at a light.
“What? No. Absolutely not. It sounds perfect.”
Except, of course, the stairs.
The very steep, very high, somewhat slippery stairs.
