Wish You Weren't Here

Chapter 57

Ava

There are too many things here that I’m going to miss: the views, the food, the slow leisurely pace of life, James. But this—this—sitting around a table, dining al fresco with a group of family and friends while music plays softly to the tune of wine glasses clinking and people chatting and laughing—I will ache for this every night of my life.

James has barely stopped touching me since I told him about tomorrow. Maybe he thinks his touch will anchor me to him. Stop me from leaving him like his parents chose to do or like his grandmother did without a choice. The thought of his pain sends spiderwebbing cracks through me, and I’m worried the soft breeze will blow me away over the hills.

“Stay with me,” James whispers, squeezing my hand. And for a second, I think he means stay in Italy. Don’t go back to the life that I built brick by brick while wading through grief and sadness. But then he adds, “I can see you retreating into that head of yours.”

And I know he means stay present. Stop overthinking. Enjoy the moment. Be Italian.

I take a sip of the wine I’ve barely touched. I want to be sober. I want to remember every detail of this night. The way Nina’s eyes crinkle while Leo tells a story. The way Uvaldi pats Franco on the back whenever he laughs. Even the way Maso winks at me across the table when I meet his eyes.

“I’m just trying to memorize everyone,” I say.

He rubs his thumb over my knuckles.

“I’m doing the same,” he says, studying me.

“I’m sure you have enough pictures of me to last you a lifetime.”

“I can’t photograph the sound of your laugh.” He leans in, his breath grazing my earlobe, “Or the way you feel when you’re just about to—”

“Gi, you know there’s a man staying in town who can’t stop talking about your art,” Franco says from across the table.

I shake off the sensation of James and rejoin the world.

“He even offered to buy one of your photographs right off my cellar wall,” Franco says while dipping the bread in the ragù left on his plate.

“I hope you got enough to repair the hole in the wall from hanging it,” James says with a smile.

“Che merda. Non stai umile,” Uvaldi chimes in. “I’ve heard he arranged an assignment at Cambridge per te.”

“Cambridge?” I ask, nearly sputtering my wine.

James lets out a measured breath and nods at me.

“It doesn’t change anything,” he says quietly.

How could it not? He’s offering him two careers in one package. I know he loves it here, but surely he understands that Urbino and his family will be here when he gets back. He owes it to himself to see where this opportunity could go. I want to push him, but he’s giving me a look that screams leave it be.

I’ll push him later.

“Insomma, it is perfect timing with Leo’s news,” Franco says between mouthfuls.

James turns his head toward Leo, who is carefully studying his empty plate.

“You have news, Zio?” James asks.

Franco looks at Nina. Nina looks at Leo. Leo keeps looking at his plate.

What the hell are they up to?

Leo waves his hand in the air. “è niente,” he says.

And before anyone has a chance to challenge him, he stands to clear the table, Franco right on his heels.

James locks eyes with Nina, who simply shrugs and then engages Aldo’s wife in a side conversation.

“What the hell are they up to?” I ask James.

He watches Leo and Franco through the window as they put the plates down for Verga in the kitchen.

“I have no idea. But I’m starting to get nervous,” he tells me quietly.

I put my hand out to him and he turns to look at me as Sara Brightman starts singing in her flawless soprano.

“Will you dance with me?” I ask, hoping I can distract him from his family’s plotting.

He puts his hand in mine and pulls me out onto the grass, where I kick off my sandals and melt into his arms. We move together through the sad lyrics, me doing everything to keep the tears from starting anew, him holding me so tightly that the rest of the world blurs around us. There’s nothing but the sound of the haunting music, the smell of James’s soap mingling with the chocolate cakes in the oven, and the feeling in my chest that nothing will ever feel as right as it does in this moment, in his arms.