Chapter 18
Tessa
Maria comes back from the stove holding a silver tray with small, thick-walled porcelain cups on top. Handing each of us an espresso, she whispers, “This is my secret recipe. Not even my son knows the magic of how it’s made, but I’m very proud of my blend. I hope you enjoy, Tessa.”
Giovanni watches me carefully with a pointed look in his eyes. I’m getting the inaudible message loud and clear: you better make a big deal of my mamma’s famous espresso.
I lightly blow on the steaming espresso and inhale the scent of the roast. The aroma is intoxicating. Rich and complex with primary notes of chocolate and warm spice. I don’t think I’m going to have to pretend my way through this one.
The first sip feels like velvet in my mouth. It’s smooth and bold with sweet undertones. It doesn’t taste like any espresso I’ve had before. There’s a delicious, overarching flavor I can’t quite place.
Maybe I can get a hint from Maria and order this flavor profile from my local coffee shop back home. “Mmm… What’s that sweetness? Is it caramel?”
“I’ll never tell,” Maria teases, looking gleeful with my initial reaction to her espresso.
I take another sip, but the sensation is no longer velvety.
In fact, my throat is starting to itch. As I swallow, a flurry of little paper cuts rain down my esophagus.
I start coughing, and my tongue flops out of my mouth, because it feels like it might be on fire.
Oh… ugh! Setting down the espresso a little too forcefully on the table, the liquid spills over the rim.
“Tessa,” Giovanni hisses. He presses his lips into a thin line of dissatisfaction.
Shit. I might’ve said “oh ugh!” out loud. I can’t be sure, because I can’t stop coughing. Grabbing my glass of water and chugging it, I try to wash the taste of espresso out of my mouth. Through my hacking, I catch Maria’s deep frown.
Giovanni leans forward to mutter in my ear, “If you don’t like it, just pretend to drink it.”
Hazelnut.
It took me a while to place the flavor, considering I haven’t had a tree nut since I was little. But I’m confident it’s hazelnut now. No wonder it’s so delicious. Unfortunately, it’s also killing me. I feel my eyes swelling up as my throat begins to close.
Giovanni’s anger turns into confusion on a sharp inhale.
“Tessa? Are you okay? What’s wrong?” He reaches out to gently touch my under eye, which I’m sure is riddled with small, white hives.
I violently cough in response, attempting to suck some air into my lungs. My EpiPen is in the bedroom. Fuck. I try to stand, but my body revolts, gluing me to my chair.
“What’s happening?” he asks, his voice laced with panic. “Mamma, what’s in the espresso?”
I can’t see Maria through my blurry vision, but it sounds like she’s crying. “Hazelnut. It’s my secret ingredient.”
Giovanni’s voice comes out low, strained. “Mamma, she has a tree nut allergy. I told you that before I came here. I told you to throw away all the nuts—even peanuts. I said to bleach all the surfaces.”
“I’m sorry! I removed the pine nuts from the pasta, but forgot about the syrup,” she wails. Roberto runs to my side and starts rubbing my back.
As my heartbeat rockets up, I find myself idly wishing I didn’t have to die in Italy.
It’s so inconvenient. Poor Daniel. It’s going to be a nightmare to get my body back to America.
While I think about the logistics of transferring my corpse to my country of origin, the anaphylaxis progresses, and coughs turn into gasps.
A deep voice cuts through the chaos. “Tessa, where’s your EpiPen? I know you keep it in your purse. Where is it, baby?”
I weakly point down the hallway toward the bedroom.
“Papa, bada a Tessa. Mamma, chiama il 118. Cazzo!”
I hear fast footsteps, accompanied by clanging, rattling, unzipping.
And as everything goes dark, I wonder, did Giovanni just call me baby?
* * *
My hand is sore. I flex my fingers, but that makes it worse. Shifting uncomfortably, I slowly open my eyes and locate the source of pain—an IV.
I quickly realize two things: I’m not dead, and I’m in a hospital.
I barely recall the trip here, but I’m certain that Giovanni rode with me in the ambulance, translating what the first responders were saying.
I was too exhausted to pay attention, though, and fell asleep as soon as we arrived at the hospital.
I remember incoherently mumbling throughout the night, I just don’t remember what I said.
Hopefully nothing too embarrassing. It’s already bad enough that I caused a huge scene at dinner.
The fluorescent lights bounce off the shiny floor tiles, causing my unadjusted eyes to squint. Turning my head, I’m surprised to find approximately one hundred flowers lining various surfaces in my room. Where did all these gifts come from? Who are they for?
It takes me about a minute to focus on—yes, that is Giovanni, snoring softly next to me, head lolling down and to the side.
His large frame on the small, hard hospital chair looks so uncomfortable.
One arm is resting lifelessly on the flimsy metal arm rest, and the other is draped over my thigh, like he’s trying to keep me in place.
As if I’d go anywhere, hooked up like this.
“Giovanni,” I nudge softly, then shake his arm. “Giovanni, I’m up.”
He slowly blinks a few times, his eyes adjusting to the daylight now spilling in from the window. Glancing at me casually, he yawns and gives me a soft smile before lazily turning his head to the side, like he’s not aware of his surroundings.
About one second later, he whips his head back in my direction, eyes wide with panic.
“TèSSA? Infermiera!”
My ears ring from his volume. I don’t know why I’m surprised he awakened with a roar. Maybe I thought he’d be more peaceful since I was ill, but nothing about him screams zen. Everything about him just screams.
“Hey.” I rest my hand on his arm. “I’m fine. No one needs to rush in here. Don’t worry.”
My reassurances seem to mean nothing as his eyes narrow.
He scans my body for injuries, starting at my forehead.
Tracing his fingers down my upper arm, he lifts it and checks underneath, like I’m hiding a stab wound in my ribs.
I suck in a sharp breath as he unintentionally shifts my IV, which I must’ve jostled in my sleep.
“What! What is it? What’s wrong? INFERMIERA!”
“Don’t call anyone, I’m fine! It’s just that my IV site is a little sore.”
A nurse power walks into the room, speaking in fast Italian to Giovanni, who is wildly gesturing.
I wish I knew what they were saying. At the same time, I’m exhausted, and it’s kind of nice letting someone take over.
I lean back in the bed and let Giovanni yell—or talk, hard to tell—on my behalf.
Another person, pushing a rolling cart, comes in and introduces himself to me as an infusion nurse.
He fiddles with my IV, flushing it out and then inserting a fresh one in my other hand.
Giovanni leans closer to me and asks, “Do you want me to tell him anything? Let me know if it hurts. I specifically asked for the nurse who gives the best IVs, but I can have them bring someone else.”
As a friend-proclaimed people pleaser, the fact that he’s making demands on my behalf horrifies me. “Oh my God, no. Tell me how to apologize for someone’s attitude in Italian so I can repair my relationship with these people you’ve been terrorizing.”
I see the infusion nurse smirk. He definitely understands what I’m working with.
Giovanni scoffs. “We need to make sure you’re fine. I didn’t like it, you know. When you had your reaction.”
The simple way he put it makes the corners of my mouth twitch. “I didn’t like it, either.”
“So then get with the diagram, Tessa. We need to make sure you’re getting the best care.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s ‘get with the program.’ And I’m feeling much better now. This happened before, about eight years ago. It only took me a day to recover. Daniel helped and—”
Giovanni grimaces. “Your brother. Shit. We need to call him back, now that you’re up.”
My jaw ever-so-slightly drops. “We? Call him back? Did you… speak with my brother?”
“Of course I called your relative, Tessa, don’t be silly. You’re in the hospital.”
I flex my feet underneath the bedsheet. “How did you get his number?”
“I called Esme, who went on some social media site and found your brother’s wife’s friend’s cat’s page… Detective Purrlock Holmes, I believe. The odd man who owns the cat, Benjamin Fischer, I think his name was, then texted Grace, who informed your brother.”
I blink. “Oh. That’s, um, quite the journey.”
“After getting your medical history from Dan, I promised him that you would call once you woke up,” he tells me casually, like acquiring my personal health information is the same as receiving a weather forecast, then shoves his phone in my hands. “Here. I’ll step outside.”
“Okay, thanks,” I mumble, overwhelmed, as Giovanni leaves the room.
I made some flimsy excuse to my brother about how we needed to stop by Giovanni’s old stomping grounds for some special fabric after Milan.
He knew it was a lie, I knew it was a lie, Grace knew it was a lie.
Even their yellow labrador, Honey Bumble McClane, knew it was a lie.
But I didn’t want to delve into the realm of playing pretend with the tailor, and they graciously let me get away with it.
Beginning to input my brother’s number, I realized it’s already saved into his phone: Tessa (Cohen) Thompson (from Lamont) Brother Daniel Thompson (New York Mustangs).
Simultaneously surprised at the amount of characters allowed and the entire backstory he was able to fit into the contact line, I press the video call option.
The screen shows nothing but darkness, until a light is flipped on and a mess of red curls comes into view. “Tess, oh my God. We’re so worried, are you okay?” Grace asks, clearly in bed. It is the middle of the night there, after all.
“I’m fine—”