Chapter 17
James
We are one hundred meters from the guest house when Ava finally breaks the silence between us.
“Can you stop looking at me like I just told you I’m the queen of Genovia?”
“I didn’t realize I was looking at you at all,” I lie. She has this trail of freckles along her chin that reminds me of Orion’s Belt. “And what the hell is Genovia?”
Ava murmurs something about me being culturally illiterate and focuses her attention back on the road. I study her profile.
Annette Barrett’s painting Urbino Under Storm was my first memory of art—of beauty, really. It hung in Nonna’s small kitchen in Brooklyn—watched us eat dinner together every night beside the empty place setting my grandma left out just in case, ever-hopeful that my mother would join us. That painting with the ghostly white pallor of the palazzo against the deeply bruised sky that I’d catch Nonna gazing at while she stirred the marinara—that staple of my childhood. That had been Ava’s mother’s work? Until I was eight, I had believed that Urbino was surrounded by walls of snowy ice because of that painting. And, of course, my Nonna did nothing to dispel my beliefs. She’d encouraged them.
To this day I smell her marinara when snow falls in Urbino.
“Really, James?”
My viewfinder goes black and I realize she’s put her hand in front of the lens. I hadn’t even realized I’d been taking pictures.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, but she’s already stormed off. “Ava—”
“What?”
She’s got her shoulders pulled up to her ears, her chest pressed outward, her elbows akimbo. All puffed up like a house finch taking on a hawk.
“I’m sorry about your mom,” I tell her, taking a step into the shadow of the cypress trees. Ava seems to command light and darkness according to her mood.
“It was a long time ago. I’m fine, really,” she says looking upward. I keep my hands in my pockets to resist the pull of my camera. I know that time doesn’t heal a wound like that. The loss of your mother is something you feel over and over again, like a circle of Dante’s Inferno.
“And I’m sorry about whatever happened today with Edward.”
She looks straight at me. Narrows her eyes as if she’s assessing my sincerity. I imagine her pulling a cord that opens a trapdoor beneath me as she yells liar down into the hole.
“Are you sorry—about Ethan?”
She steps forward, her tone suddenly curious. The way she says his name is like she’s cursing. Her body language shifts—her puffed-up anger relaxes into something warmer—more languid. I should step away, but the way she moves—tilts her head to the side, teeth tugging at her bottom lip—has me frozen where I stand. My gaze slides to her mouth, then down her chin, past the constellation of freckles and along her neck. My fists clench and unclench at my side as I imagine how soft she’d feel. The chorus of “O Fortuna” breaks through the sudden thickness around us, and she jumps back as I pull my phone from my pocket, still watching her.
I tear my gaze away from her and look at my screen. It’s Tommaso, the owner of Il Pinguino, a college bar in the center of town. I run my hand along my jaw, trying to find a positive explanation for this call. An explanation that doesn’t end in a headache for me.
There is none.
I accept the call, tapping the speaker button.
“Pronto,” I say.
The noise from the bar seeps into the quiet of the night like we’ve opened a bag of pissed-off hornets. The bass is bumping and the sound of laughter and yelling makes Ava put her fingers to her temples. I feel her pain.
“Gi, ho bisogno di te,” Tommaso yells over the din. “Gli Americani …”
His voice gets swallowed by shouting.
“Va bene. Sto arrivando,” I say, already making my way back toward town.
Ava’s footsteps crunch behind me. I turn and look down at her.
“Go to bed,” I say. “You don’t need to deal with this.”
She lifts a brow. “Yeah, I do. I’m your assistant. I’m literally supposed to assist you.”
“In the classroom, Ava. We aren’t Batman and Robin,” I say.
She lets out a laugh, and it’s ridiculous how much the sound pleases me. I walk away faster, but she just hurries after me.
“I think I’d rather be Catwoman—the Anne Hathaway one.”
“I don’t have time for this. What if it’s a fight? I don’t want you to get hurt,” I say.
She waves me off like I’m an overprotective dad. Or a horsefly.
“I do kickboxing and tai—”
“Ava!”
I stop and she steps forward and clenches her jaw, her eyes wide and chin up, as she pokes a finger into my sternum harder than necessary.
“I’m coming, James. You think I can’t handle a little Italian scuffle. I’m from Philly for fuck’s sake.” Her eyes drop to where her finger is pressed against me and she lets out a long breath, then adds quietly, “Besides, I need a distraction.”
She shakes her head like she’s physically trying to remove something from inside and then looks back up at me. I let out a long measured breath and turn back toward town, calling over my shoulder, “Fine. Let’s go, Robin.”
I don’t bother to look back and watch her eyes crinkle in the corners when she giggles behind me. And when she starts singing the Batman theme song, I just keep my focus forward—away from her—where it needs to be.