Wish You Weren't Here

Chapter 11

James

Dinner should have been a relaxing break with Ava markedly absent. Conversation about our first day of summer semester should have bounced freely across the table. And Nina should have been scolding Zio about his foolish placement of our guest as my TA.

But even Verga is anxious, pacing back and forth out on the front porch like a hungry lion.

Nina has her phone at the table. Of all the things she’s whacked me for, this is the one that makes me rub my head now in memory. Massimo is watching his mother with wide eyes, shocked by her blatant negligence of her own rules as she taps away with her right thumb like she’s stamping her fingerprint over and over. At this rate, she may have a text message composed within the month.

“Do you worry about me like this when I go into town?” I ask. Though I can’t believe I’m admitting this, I only made it through the antipasti before the pit in my stomach could not be pawned off as hunger.

“Sì,” my Zio says just as Nina says, “No.”

Nina gives him the malocchio but continues stamping her phone screen while she explains, “Gi, you have been here far too long to make me fret like this. She is new. And she looks the way she does—”

“She does look the way she does,” Massimo says with a wide smile. Head smack from his left. Zio’s never sting like Nina’s. They feel more like encouragement.

“I’m sure she’s fine, Zia. Are you saying she’s better looking than me?”

This time everyone says “Sì” at the same time.

“As if you haven’t noticed,” Max shoots.

“Vero, Gi. We have noticed you noticing,” my uncle adds.

E tu, Zio? E tu?

I choose to focus on the bread I’m balling between my fingers and transplant myself back into this afternoon, when I was at ease driving through the country, stopping only to capture something when it demanded to be captured. Cool as a cucumber. Breeze in my hair. Snapping blissfully away.

“Ahhh. Bene. She’s at Vincenzo’s with Franco,” Nina tells us, leaning back in her chair with a hand over her chest.

“Alas, the lost treasure has been found,” I murmur, ignoring the flash flood of annoying relief in my own chest. “Can we have dessert now?”

Nina clucks.

“I need you to pick her up,” she says, topping off her wine glass. She takes a long sip, and I notice my Zio doing the same out of the corner of my eye. She motions between them across the long table. “We’ve had a bit to drink. These curves can be dangerous—”

“The only danger is you two and your devious nonsense.” I stand and toss my napkin at Massimo. It bounces off his forehead. “You wanna come?” Be my chaperone?

My Zia shakes her head. “No. No. Maso, you have things to do—”

“No I don’t.”

“And Vincenzo mentioned Ava might be a bit ubriaca, Gi. So be prepared.” She finishes with a dismissive hand wave.

“She’s drunk?” I ask, trying not to laugh.

Nina lifts her shoulders and opens her palms.

“I’ll walk then,” I say, whistling for Verga. “She’ll need the fresh air.”

Though it’ll be a lot of fun to watch her normal swagger teeter out of control. No one at the table gives a shit about what I do now that Ava is accounted for. They are all digging into the dessert that I am missing for the drunk American. I get a nod and a wink from my uncle as I pass through the front door and tell Verga how much I appreciate him.

“Just me and you, buddy.” I get beneath the wrinkles by his ears and he pushes his head against my thigh. “You wanna help me pick up the drunk American?”

And he’s off. Kickin’ up dirt like he’s Seabiscuit racing for the Triple Crown as he disappears down the road and around the hill. And I’m alone again. What. The. Fuck.

Admittedly, there is something charming about the American—if she doesn’t despise you, of course. Even the students were taken by her as she sat beside them and listened to their ideas for what they wanted to write about for the assignment we gave today. When she’s not fixating on some contrived plan, she is a natural people pleaser. Until she looks my way.

I touch the worn leather strap around my neck, twist the dial of the camera to bring it to life, and center the giant illuminated keystone of Porta Valbona as soon as it comes into view. A few buses are left in the huge square outside the city’s walls, dropping some of the college students off after their trip to the beach in Pesaro. The smell of suntan lotion and exhaust fumes hurries me along through Borgo Mercatale as the students chatter about which bar they’ll meet at after showering. No matter that it is nine PM on a Monday night. To be young.

I ignore the young potential drunks and focus on finding the nearing-thirty-already-drunk that is unwittingly in my charge. It takes only moments to find her outside of the tiny osteria two buildings up Via Mazzini as I pass beneath the archway.

I stop. Lean into the shadow that runs beneath the stone, lift the viewfinder and let loose.

She’s wearing a man’s homburg hat—Franco’s from the looks of it—her hair still twisted like earlier beneath the straw brim that turns up in the front. And she’s smoking a cigar, one far too large for her tiny frame; she wets her full lips, takes a drag, bright eyes wide on Vincenzo across from her. Her brows lift as her mouth makes a tiny O and she tries to mimic the donut holes Vincenzo makes across the table. She’s so focused on the task at hand, her body leaning over the iron table scattered with empty plates as she studies her mentor, that she doesn’t even notice when I get close enough to capture the way her nostrils dilate as she exhales carefully. She succeeds in making a round puff, no O in the center, and her face lights up with excitement as Franco pats her shoulder in encouragement. I lower the camera when I see Verga lounging beneath her feet. She’s kicked off her flats and is stroking her bare toes into his fur. I try to compose my face into something that masks the wonder. Who the hell is this? Surely not the uptight American who wrinkled her nose at me at the airport.

I pull out a chair at the table beside Vincenzo and he puts his arm around my shoulders onto the back of the iron seat. Franco tilts his head toward Ava and widens his eyes at me, lifting his gray brows up into a question. Verga doesn’t bother to move.

“Where have you been hiding this charming little thing, Gi?” he asks, pointing his cigar at Ava. She pushes the tip of her index finger into her cheek and twists and tips her hat at me with her other hand.

“I take no responsibility for that.” I nod toward her as she fills the wine glass in front of me from the bottle of Vernaccia. Franco’s favorite wine.

“You didn’t make it very far into the city,” I tell her as she tops off the rest of the glasses.

“The wine in the window spoke to me. And then Franco got me drunk.” Franco puts his hands up in surrender. “A wine store just inside the gate is entrapment, no?” She smiles at Franco and he nods his agreement.

“And you?” I poke Vincenzo’s meaty flank. “How’d you get into the mix?”

He shrugs, his suspenders lifting and falling as he purses his lips beneath that impressive silver mustache. Vincenzo taught me to cook when I was sixteen. And Franco. Well, Franco taught me to drink when I was fourteen. Ava was in far better hands with them than with me.

“She must eat,” he says, standing and collecting the plates.

Ava stands from her seat and nearly tips over on the cobblestones before Vincenzo steadies her.

“I can help,” she protests, and Vincenzo’s deep laugh drifts into the open sky.

“You can help tomorrow when I make you coniglio in porchetta,” he promises.

Ava looks at me and grins. Then whispers, “That’s bunny rarebit.”

“Okay, Elmer Fudd, sit down before you end up with a concussion,” I tell her, pointing to the chair and, surprisingly, she does as she’s told, just as Franco excuses himself to check on the shop. I glance over my shoulder to find the shop window completely dark and decidedly safe.

“How much Renaissance art did you learn about today?” I ask her. The light from the single candle on the table keeps catching flecks of emerald in her eyes. If her at-ease smile hadn’t already transfixed me, that color would have done the trick. I look away, reminding myself what lies beneath that beauty.

“So,” Ava begins, her S only the tiniest bit softened by the wine. “Funny you should ask that. I learned a lot about the work of a local photographer. Talented man. Well-liked by the locals. I doubt he runs in your circle.”

She flicks her wrist and waves off her sentence, trying hard not to laugh at her own sarcasm. She’s seen some of my work.

“Anything they told you about me is a lie,” I say, letting the crisp Vernaccia slide over the back of my tongue.

“Well, that must be true since it was all good.”

How is she still this quick after this much wine? I count the empty bottles on the table as she leans back in her chair.

“Your photos,” she starts, then looks away as she finishes more softly. “They are incredible.”

I shake my head. “Alright. Something’s not right. Let’s get you home before you say something you’ll regret.”

“No, Dad. Please let me stay.” She widens her eyes, puffs out her lower lip. Then takes another sip of wine and rolls her eyes. “Did Nina send you?”

“Yes. She was worried,” I say.

She winces a little bit and then tilts her head. “Well, if someone hadn’t tossed my phone over a cliff, I could have texted her.”

“Maybe said phone would have remained safe if you’d left it in your pocket and weren’t always checking it to see if what’s-his-face called,” I say, and her face falls like I’ve stuck a pin in her.

“What a dick,” she whispers. At first, I think she’s talking about me, but then she pulls her shoulders back and meets my gaze and I realize she meant him. I nod my agreement.

“Besides, I wasn’t checking to see if he called,” she lies. “I was setting up my Italian Tinder. Tinder-o.”

I nearly spit out the sip of wine at the smile she gives me. This Ava is terrifying. I should get the hell out of here, but this conversation is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.

“Italians don’t need Tinder,” I tell her, pressing my lips together when she raises her brows.

“Is that so?” She runs her finger around the rim of her wine glass. “How do Italians find lovers if they aren’t sending dick pics over an app?”

“Jesus, Ava,” I whisper as a group of college kids hustle by. I narrow my eyes at her, watch the smile falter a little, the corner of her lips pulls down. The wine has given her the softest blush along her neck.

“What?” she says, touching her face. “Why are you looking at me like that?” She glances toward her reflection in the window of Vincenzo’s osteria, wrinkles her nose at herself.

“I’m just thinking I like you better this way,” I tell her when she turns to face me.

“You like me better drunk? That’s a little pervy, Professore.”

I chuckle. Shrug.

“Vabbè,” she provides, and I nod.

“Is that how you met Edward?” I start softly, knowing I’m treading on dangerous terrain. “He doesn’t sound like the type to send you—”

“Dick pics,” she finishes. Making sure to harden the Cs at the end more than necessary.

I bite back my smile.

“It’s Ethan. And you’re right. Though I’m sure it has more to do with fear of ruining his mother’s campaign if it were to surface.” She’s studying my face as she speaks. “His mom’s a senator. Great lady.”

“A senator’s son? Sounds like a lot of pressure.”

She presses her lips together. Sighs. Places her chin in her hands.

“Let’s not do the boyfriend chat tonight, k? Let me forget for a bit.”

I duck a little to meet her gaze that has drifted down below my neck.

“Are you asking me to help you forget him, dolcezza?” The words slide out of their own volition. I reach for her hat. Tip it back so her eyes are no longer in its shadow. They sparkle like the Vernaccia in her glass.

She stares at me a second, and I’d give anything to hear her thoughts. She glances down at my mouth and swallows. Her teeth slide along her bottom lip, then release, popping it back into place. I can’t form a coherent thought.

She reaches for her wine glass and downs what’s left and fixes her smile back in place.

“The wine will do the trick—for now,” she adds with a wink. “Let’s talk about you, no?” I lift my brows and she mistakes that for consent.

“You grew up here with your aunt and uncle?”

Ah shit. Here we go.

“I grew up in Brooklyn with my Nonna, but I moved here when I was ten—when she passed,” I clarify, watching her face change from interested to saddened. She has zero emotional filter right now.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. And mio Dio does she look sorry. She looks like she’s about to cry. I force myself to look up the cobblestone street.

“You came over here by yourself? At ten years old? That must have been terrifying.”

I shrug. It was. But she doesn’t need to know that.

“Nina and Leo were here. Believe me, I was never alone,” I say.

She nods, understanding how impossible it is to be alone with two personalities so big.

“You must have been incredibly brave,” she says to her wine.

“Bravery is making a choice despite your fear. I had no choice.”

Her hand falls on top of mine and I study her expression as she registers that she’s touching me. Her eyes widen, and she pulls her hand back so fast an empty wine glass clatters against the table.

She stands, too quickly, and through willpower alone, barely teeters. I imagine her stubborn ass could will herself sober if she chose. She’s a tiny whirlwind right now and, despite myself, I can’t help but enjoy the view. Verga immediately pops up by her side, looking up at her like she’s the sun. Poor shmuck.

She strides away, lifting her purse over her shoulder as she passes and slipping her flats back on her toes, both arms out to balance as she pokes her head inside the restaurant and yells goodbye to Vincenzo. She makes her way down the hill and back through the archway. My traitorous dog doesn’t follow at first, just looks at me, and I swear in that moment as he takes in the stupid grin on my face, I can hear him repeat my thought right back at me.

Poor shmuck.