Wish You Weren't Here

Chapter 26

Ava

The dinner table has doubled in size since last weekend. Nina and Leo have set up a white tent along the side of the villa to accommodate us, just near enough to the pool so that we can hear the murmur of the water falling over its edge beneath the chatter of the guests and the hum of the music from Verdi’s La Traviata spilling from the open windows. The trays of antipasti that Uvaldi has talked me through—in far more detail than I might have liked as I now know each animal body location from whence the meat came—lay in ruins between us, waiting for the primo piatto to take its place alongside the candles James and I lit when we set the table.

James’s hand rests on the white linen tablecloth between our wine glasses so that when I reach for the stem of my own glass, my fingertips just barely brush against his knuckles. The effects of the Sangiovese wine Franco has supplied for our first course has nothing on the warmth that spreads through my body as I lift the glass to my lips and feel his eyes on the side of my face. Who knew sitting at a table beside him would be this—challenging?

“Are you alright?” he whispers just low enough for me to hear.

I don’t meet his gaze. I know I’ll spontaneously combust or fall headlong into his irises.

“Mmmhmm. Just taking it all in,” I tell him, swirling the wine in my glass to make a ruby cyclone that sends the unlikely duo of cherry and tomato out of its vortex and into my sinuses.

I see James’s dark head nod in my periphery as I glance at Nina. She’s smiling at me from the head of the table. The smile of a knowing mother. Or a devious sorceress.

“Just making sure you aren’t all wrapped up in that head of yours,” James says as he rises from his seat and grabs one of the empty trays.

I lower my wine glass to the table and stand to help, reaching for the other almost empty meat tray while Uvaldi dives to save the final pieces of prosciutto (pig’s hind legs) by tugging them off onto his plate with a smile. He’s informed me that his father taught him never to waste any part of the animal. And I do mean any.

I follow James into the house just as Pavarotti finishes a power duo with his soprano on the record player, and I step around Verga who is standing in front of the oven like it might burst open at any given moment and spray food at or into his mouth. I can’t say I blame him. The savory smell of roasting beef is enough to make my stomach do a back handspring.

I go to place the empty meat tray at the Beast’s feet for a lick-down and nearly bump heads with James, who is doing the exact same thing. I make a face to let him know how sickening our cuteness is.

He chuckles and leans back against the butcher block island, studying me in that way he knows makes me squirm.

“What now?” I ask, trying to match his pose, arms crossed, ankles crossed, but nearly topple sideways in the attempt. I reassess his positioning, then give up altogether and lift myself onto the counter across from him and sit on the edge.

“I’m wondering when you’re going to ask about your mother,” he says.

Ugh. He looks all concerned and kind. His eyebrows are doing the tight V thing they do when he cares. That look does more to my stomach than the smell of the roasting beef. I don’t know what to make of concerned, kind James.

I shrug. “I will. I’m just letting everyone catch up before I selfishly hijack the conversation.”

“You do realize that this is all you.” He makes a whirlwind motion with his hand. “They are here for you. For your mom. They want to tell you about her.”

“You have dinner together like this all the time,” I point out.

“True, but tonight is different.”

He didn’t shave today. The fresh shadow of stubble runs up the side of his jaw toward his hair. My fingers flex, remembering what that jaw felt like. I grip the counter edge a bit harder.

I need to deflect and distract. Distract and deflect.

“You know, we never talk about your parents,” I say, and immediately I want the words back.

The jaw I was just admiring hardens so quickly that I can hear the click.

“There’s nothing to talk about. Dad left. Mom chose chasing a dream over motherhood. The only parents I’ve ever known are Nonna, Nina, Leo, and the adults around that table.” He points over his shoulder toward the window.

It feels like someone is hanging on the bottom of my heart, tugging and pulling it down into my stomach. He told me about his Nonna—that she’d passed when he was young—but the parent piece had remained under the rug, until I reached my big tactless broom in there and swept it out of course. I imagine a ten-year-old James, confused and abandoned by the two people that are meant to anchor you—protect you and support you.

“I’m so sorry. I—”

“Gi! Le tagliatelle!” Nina’s voice manages to boom through my apology despite the fact that I can see her still sitting at the table through the window over James’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat softly.

He nods and waves it away.

“It was a long time ago. Don’t worry about it,” he says.

Oh, I’ll worry about it.

He pushes off the counter, takes a step toward me. The massive kitchen is suddenly far too small. La Traviata plays on. Violetta’s high-pitched voice reaches us, sad and desperate.

“Stay with me—get out of your head,” he says, running his finger along my cheek.

This is not part of the arrangement—this careful, cautious James—staring at me like I’m his camera, something he wants to handle and comfort. I want garden James. I want to be stared at like dessert again. To be teased and flirted with. That feels safer.

“The water is boiling over,” I say, clearing my throat.

He curses and grabs the oven mitts just in time to remove the huge pot from the heat before the water reaches the rim. He pours the pot into an enormous colander in the sink with a satisfying hiss.

“Are you running away again?” he says over his shoulder, but I’m already out of the kitchen, moving through the living area.

“Yes!” I holler back.

I hear his sigh from the front porch and then his operatic ringtone just after. Italians are so dramatic.

Nina throws me another unsettling smile and a wink as I start to slip back into my seat beside Aldo, freezing halfway when I see James’s face as he steps out onto the porch with the phone against his ear.

“Certo. Subito,” he says with a nod, his jaw clenched tight as he ends the call and meets my eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, a thousand irrational fears take flight in my mind.

“It was Luca,” he says, making his way around the table. “Steven’s been arrested in Pesaro.”

He grabs his jacket off the back of his chair and pulls the keys out of his pocket. Steven is a jackass. Only last week he received a warning from Urbino’s carabinieri for being in the fountain and the week before he sprayed a fire extinguisher through Lindsay’s open dorm window screen, but no one could prove it was him. He should have been sent home by now.

I push my chair back and James stops and meets my gaze.

“Stay,” he says. “You have questions that need answers.”

I ignore him and look around the table, giving an all-encompassing wave.

“I’ll see you all tomorrow?” I ask. “Nina, thank you as always.”

There’s a murmur of agreement and well wishes, then Nina throws me a wink and shoos us off.

We don’t speak until we get into the car.

“You really don’t need to come,” he starts. “You needed to ask about—”

“Stop, James. We’ve had this fight already. Besides, I want to.”

“It’s an hour away and we have to pick up Steven’s passport first,” he says.

“I don’t care. The Batphone rang so we are in this together.”

He smiles over at me but still doesn’t start the car. I lift a brow.

“Shouldn’t we be hurrying?”

James’s smile widens and my heart does a somersault. The silence around us feels pleasantly heavy.

“I think Steven could benefit from a little extra time in the cell.”

I laugh and his gaze falls to my mouth. I stop laughing, forgetting what the hell was funny in the first place. In fact, there’s nothing in my mind but the memory of that kiss in the garden and how badly I want more. I turn my body and lean back against the door, watching the way the muscle in his neck and jaw move as he grinds his teeth. If he doesn’t start the car I’m going to do something reckless, like climb over the gear shift and—

“We should go,” he says thickly, eyes still on me.

“Should we?”

He breathes out, lifts the keys, and puts them in the ignition. The engine revs to life and I relax into the seat, realizing that I have an hour to study James’s profile and the way his strong hands work the gearshift. I put down my window and let the night air rush over my bare arms, but the space around us still feels stifling. His fingers graze the outside of my thigh as he shifts into second and I tip my head back against the seat and shut my eyes. It’s going to be a long night.