Chapter 17 #2
“Seven?” she asks, blinking at him and then looking down at herself. “I . . . have to start getting ready now.”
“You have three hours.”
“My hair, Xavier. My hair is a disaster.” He opens his mouth to disagree, even though she’s right, but she just raises a finger to cut him off. “Do not speak. I’ll be ready to go in time, but now you have to get out of my way.”
“You got it, boss,” he says, and she smiles at that, the way she always has before, and something warm squeezes inside his chest at it and then loosens for the first time in three damn days. They’re okay. They’re going to be okay.
“Oh,” she says, looking down at her hand. “Does he . . . Should I wear . . . Does he think that we’re . . .”
“Wear the ring,” Xavier manages to rasp. “You know how word gets around. He thinks we’re engaged, so we might as well keep it up.”
“Yeah, we might as well,” she agrees and then finally shoos him away again, but as the door shuts behind him, he can’t help but smile.
Nearly three hours later, he’s on the living room couch, dressed and ready to go, tapping out a halfway decent essay that might make an okay introduction to his thesis-turned-book one day, when she walks out of her bedroom.
Is it weird he misses the frizz paired with t-shirt and sweatpants?
This Bianca has her armor on, with a turquoise pencil skirt hugging the generous curve of her hips.
There’s a sliver of skin at her waist showing between it and the bottom of a silky cropped white tank, looking just as good as when she wore it to dinner with her parents.
Her towering, wedged sandals bring her up to at least average height, her makeup is done to perfection and her hair flows long and shiny, the curls once again a victim of her blow dryer.
She looks great, as always.
He still prefers the frizzy curls.
He thinks about telling her that, but . . . after the last three days, it feels like maybe he needs to start keeping some of that shit to himself.
When he stands up, she smiles at him and yeah, that was a losing battle.
“You look beautiful.”
She hesitates for a second and then another before the smile grows. “Thanks, you said we’re going to Nunziata’s, right? Nunziata’s is nice, I figured I should look the part.”
“You more than look the part. Fuck, boss . . . I . . .” He rocks back on his heels and rubs at the nape of his neck trying to extricate himself from this moment where all he wants to do is kiss away that shiny lip gloss she’s wearing and help her work up enough of a sweat in her bedroom to bring those curls back to life.
She shrugs with one shoulder, as if, somehow, she half knows what she does to him and half doesn’t quite believe it’s true.
A long, dangly gold earring sways with the motion against her neck, where, if he squints, he can almost make out the small bruise his mouth created the other night while she arched into him.
“We better go, if we don’t want to be late.”
He wants to be late, very late, wants to text Paolo and tell him that they’re not coming, wants to scoop her up into his arms and carry her back into that bedroom and spend some time truly convincing her that she’s the most gorgeous fucking thing he’s ever seen.
As they drive toward downtown, her phone keeps buzzing and she taps out responses as quick as they come in.
“What’s up?” he finally asks, curiosity getting the better of him.
“It’s Lexi. She keeps sending me listings in Los Feliz.”
“So everything’s okay there?”
“Yeah, I guess it’s fine and I probably should look at some of these soon, if I want to get into a place before I start work.”
“What . . . what are you gonna tell them when I’m gone?” he asks, not really sure he wants to know the answer.
“I . . . think I’ll just tell them that it didn’t work out. That we couldn’t make the distance work. No relationship can survive seven thousand miles and what? A ten-hour time difference.”
“So you don’t want them to know it was fake? That this was a lie? Wasn’t that . . . wasn’t that the point?”
“It was, but . . . I guess I don’t even think I’m angry anymore. Not how I was, anyway. And I don’t want to hurt them.”
Her voice is flat, emotionless, and he knows there’s no way underneath it she’s not pushing down some strong emotion. He just can’t quite tell what it is.
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? But – tell me if I’m wrong or to shut up, if you want – but it doesn’t seem like you’re all that happy about it?”
“I . . .” She starts then stops; he glances over to see her shoulders sag while she ignores the next text from Lexi.
“What?” he asks, training his eyes on the road.
“I don’t want them to . . . hate you, I guess? And they will for something that wasn’t . . . isn’t even real.”
“I wouldn’t want them to hate me either.”
He likes her friends, at least most of them, and despite the issues he has with her family, he knows they love her and would do anything for her, including loathe him for the rest of their days for breaking her heart. But there probably isn’t a way around it.
“I guess I’ll say it was mutual, but . . .”
“. . . it won’t stop them from blaming me and honestly, I get it. Who’d leave you?”
He adjusts his grip on the wheel and stares straight ahead, feeling her eyes on him. Fuck, how’d he let that slip out?
Thank God, they’re almost there. There’s a valet up ahead and an old-fashioned sign jutting out over the sidewalk proclaiming NUNZIATA’S FAMILY RESTAURANT in deep red letters to the street.
Paolo’s already inside at the bar when they walk in.
He kisses Bianca hello on one cheek and then the other, like the suave-as-shit Italian he is, and then does the same to Xavier before hugging him tight.
His mentor is just a little taller than Bianca, and his perpetual tan and twinkling blue eyes are the same as ever, even if there’s a little more salt in his salt-and-pepper hair than the last time Xavier saw him.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” Bianca says, once they’re led to their table, “to put a face to the source this one cites in every paper he writes.”
Xavier scoffs. “Oh, now it’s nice to meet him. Weren’t you the one lecturing me last semester that I wasn’t diversifying my sources enough?”
“Lecture is a strong word. I was concerned about the peer-review process,” she says, primly lowering her napkin to her lap.
“You just couldn’t come up with anything else to criticize. Admit it.”
“Never.”
“Oh, I like her,” Paolo interjects.
“Of course you do.”
Dinner is easy, almost comically so. Bianca charms Paolo and has the older man eating out of the palm of her hand by the time their drink orders arrive.
And before Xavier knows it, embarrassing stories about his undergrad years are being revealed one by one, like the time one of the other students asked him to meet her out in the desert during the night and they got caught, literally with their pants down, when a sandstorm was approaching and no one could find them in their tents.
And she’s laughing that throaty laugh, the one he loves so much it actually makes his chest ache.
“I’ll be right back,” she says when their dinner plates are cleared away.
She stands from the table and takes her purse with her, letting her hand linger on his shoulder for a moment before walking toward the ladies’ room.
“So, Dr Byrne,” Paolo says, grinning at him from over the rim of his wineglass, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief from across the table. “Engaged? I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Stranger things have happened,” Xavier says and takes a long sip from his own glass.
“Have they? I believe you once told me that marriage is an archaic institution created to . . . what was it? Keep the populace exhausted and broke.”
“I have no recollection of those words,” he says, lying through his teeth.
“Bullshit. We were drunk, but not that drunk, and I agreed with you, if you remember correctly.”
“Things change. People change.”
“Do they?”
“When they want to, when something makes them want to.”
“And Bianca changed you?”
“Fundamentally, down to the marrow.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Elephant in the room then, we can’t wait to get you out to Athens. Any chance you’d be able to fly out early? We’d put you up, of course. You’d be able to dive right in, see what’s happening on the ground, get familiar with the local landscape before the real fight starts.”
“One hell of a fight we’re taking on. The odds we win?”
“Oh, slim to none.”
“Still gotta try though.”
“And keep trying until we win.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
They clink their glasses together and down them in one gulp.
“And what about Bianca?”
For a second he thinks about telling Paolo everything. Bianca has Miranda to confide in, why shouldn’t he have someone, but . . . no, he can’t, because saying this shit out loud, admitting to anyone what he’s feeling would make it way too real and he can’t risk that, not now, probably not ever.
“Her life is here. We’re . . . gonna figure it out, but for now, it’ll just be me.”
“Dangerous thing to do, you know, leaving her behind.”
“I trust her.”
“No reason not to, but in my experience, women like that, they deserve to be prioritized.”
“I know she does.”
“That much is clear. But . . . but I’ve never seen you like this before, Xavier. I’ve never seen you lose focus.”
“I haven’t . . .”
“It’s not a bad thing. In fact, I’m thrilled it’s finally happened.
It makes you human. The work we do, it’s frustrating and usually unsuccessful in any measurable way.
Having a life outside it – hell, just having a person who gets it – is incredibly valuable.
She’s welcome to come, you know. We can get you slightly larger accommodations. ”
“I can’t ask her to come with me just because I need someone to vent to at the end of the day.”
“Have you asked her? What am I saying, of course you haven’t.”
“I haven’t asked her because I know the answer.”
Paolo furrows his brow, eyes narrowing. “But you asked her to marry you? How is that much different?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Yeah, seems like it is. You might want to uncomplicate it before you’re halfway across the world and the distance does what you wouldn’t.”
“I thought you liked her.”
“I do like her. A lot. I’ve just seen what the kind of life you and I lead does to a relationship.”
“We’re figuring it out.”
“You said that before, but I don’t know what it means.”
“It means we’re figuring it out.”
“You forget, I’ve heard you bullshit before, Xavier.”
“What am I supposed to do? What would you do?”
“No way, this is why I don’t do relationships, and last I checked, it’s why you didn’t either. It all happened fast, yeah?”
“Excruciatingly slow and then whiplash fast.”
“Are you sure it’s not just the ticking clock – you know you’re leaving, she knows she’s staying, so everything got heightened and exciting?”
“I’m not sure of anything, man. All I know is she’s worth it, for however long it lasts.”
Paolo frowns in concern, but Xavier’s saved from whatever he was going to say by Bianca’s return.
“Please tell me we’re doing dessert because I just walked by the display and the cannoli are calling my name,” she says as she sits next to him and smiles brightly at them both.
Xavier lifts his hand toward their waiter. “Let’s get you cannoli then.”
They all get cannoli, only leaving behind a smattering of fried dough as evidence of the demolished dessert course before they push away from the table and head out in the night.
“Where are you headed?” Xavier says as they hand their tickets off to the valet, annoyed that Paolo gave the waiter his credit card before he even met them at the table. He should at least be able to buy the older man a drink or two tonight.
“Ah, I have an appointment in . . . about an hour.”
“An appointment?” Xavier asks. “At . . . ten o’clock at night . . .”
Paolo shakes his head. “A lovely woman I knew back in Prague lives in Los Angeles now and I promised her we’d catch up while I was here.”
“That’s the most polite way I’ve ever heard someone describe a booty call in my life,” Xavier jokes, but leans in for a farewell hug.
“Booty call? Your generation doesn’t understand romance at all.
Meeting up with a long-lost lover after years apart, and he calls it a booty call.
I’m ashamed of you,” Paolo teases back when he pulls away and then takes Bianca’s hand, pressing a kiss to it.
Then, as the valet approaches with his rental car – an Alfa Romeo, of course – he turns back to Xavier.
“Remember what I said. Think about it and let me know what you decide.”
Xavier shoves his hands into his pockets and nods. “Will do. I’ll see you soon.”
“A presto ad Atene!”
“What are you deciding?” Bianca asks as his car is brought around and the valet holds the door open for her and Xavier slides a tip into his hand.
“What? Oh, nothing, just a thing about housing in Greece. I’ve got time to figure it out.
” He lies through his teeth because the only thing he can focus on, the only image running through his mind, is thirty years from now, him in LA for business, reaching out to Bianca, getting together for, what did Paolo call it, an appointment .
. . long-lost loves reuniting for a moment before going their separate ways again.
His old professor might think it’s romantic, but to Xavier it’s the saddest thing he’s ever heard.