Chapter Thirty #3
The summer Dmitri taught me to drive in an empty parking lot.
Matteo listens.
Sometimes he asks questions.
Sometimes his face reveals how much it costs him to hear about years he missed.
Dessert arrives without anyone ordering it.
A lemon tart is placed in front of me.
Matteo notices my expression.
“Your mother’s favorite.”
“I like chocolate.”
He looks toward the server.
“Bring her chocolate.”
“No.”
The server stops.
Matteo frowns.
I take one bite of the tart.
It tastes like furniture polish.
I make a face.
Gio exchanges his chocolate cake for my plate.
Matteo watches.
“You don’t like lemon?” Gio asks.
“I do. That tastes like furniture polish.”
The server looks offended.
Marco takes a bite from the tart.
“She’s right.”
Gio tries it.
“Definitely has notes of Pledge.”
I laugh.
Even Matteo’s mouth moves.
The tension breaks.
Briefly.
When dinner ends, Matteo insists on paying.
None of us argues.
He walks beside me toward the entrance while Marco and Gio follow several steps behind. The main dining room is crowded, and conversation rises around us after the closed silence of the private room.
“You should come to Providence,” he says.
“I will.”
“This weekend.”
“I have plans.”
“Change them.”
I stop.
Matteo takes another step before realizing I am no longer beside him.
“I said I have plans.”
“What plans?”
“The kind I made before you asked.”
His expression tightens.
“Next week, then.”
“I’ll look at my schedule.”
“I’m your father, Lucia. You don’t need an appointment.”
“No. But you do.”
Behind me, Gio makes a sound suspiciously like a cough.
Matteo looks past me.
“This is amusing to you?”
“No,” Gio says.
He’s lying.
Matteo turns back to me.
“Next time, I would prefer we meet alone.”
“They aren’t my entourage.”
“I didn’t call them that.”
“You were thinking it.”
“Yes,” he admits.
At least he’s honest.
I kiss his cheek.
The gesture surprises him.
“Thank you for dinner.”
His expression softens immediately.
“Thank you for coming.”
“I’ll call you.”
“I’ll call in the morning.”
“After nine.”
“Eight.”
“Nine.”
He almost smiles.
“Eight thirty.”
I shake my head.
But I don’t argue again.
Outside, the evening air is warm and close. Traffic moves along the wet-looking pavement, and restaurant doors release brief gusts of music and chilled air whenever they open.
Dario holds the rear door of the SUV.
I slide into the middle seat.
Marco sits on one side of me.
Gio takes the other.
The arrangement is cramped.
No one suggests changing it.
Armando pulls away from the curb.
For two blocks, I remain silent.
Then I turn toward Gio.
“You love me?”
There is nowhere for him to escape inside the car.
Marco looks out the window with more concentration than the view requires.
“Yes.”
“You never told me.”
“I had a better setting in mind.”
“Where?”
“I hadn’t decided.”
“So there was no plan.”
“There were possibilities.”
I study him.
“Did you say it because he insulted you?”
“No.”
“Because he insulted me?”
“Partly.”
“I didn’t need you to defend me.”
“I know that.”
“Then why?”
“Because he asked what I wanted from you, and I’m tired of pretending the answer is uncomplicated.”
“What do you want?”
Something vulnerable moves across his face.
“Whatever you choose to give me.”
“That sounds suspiciously reasonable.”
“I practice when you aren’t around.”
Marco makes a quiet sound beside me.
“What?” Gio asks.
“Nothing.”
“You have an opinion.”
“I have several.”
I look between them.
“Do either of you ever answer a question normally?”
“No,” they say together.
I close my eyes.
“I walked into that.”
“Yes,” Marco says.
“Completely,” Gio adds.
I laugh.
The sound releases some of the pressure inside the car.
I reach for Gio’s hand.
His fingers thread through mine and settle on the seat between us.
Then I look at Marco.
He meets my gaze.
I don’t take his hand.
Not yet.
But I don’t look away either.
When we reach Belmont, Angela has left coffee and a covered plate of cookies in the kitchen.
I read the note beside them.
“She wants details.”
“She’ll interrogate us at breakfast,” Gio says.
Marco removes his jacket.
“She’ll interrogate you,” he tells Gio.
“Why me?”
“You’re easier.”
“That isn’t true.”
“It is,” I say.
I take a cookie.
I’m tired now.
Not physically.
Somewhere deeper.
“He loved her,” I say.
Marco leans against the counter.
“Yes.”
“I think part of him believes that means he already knows me.”
“He wants to,” Gio says.
“That isn’t the same.”
“No.”
My phone vibrates on the counter.
A message from Matteo illuminates the screen.
Next time, just us.
I read it.
Then turn the phone facedown.
“He’s my father.”
Neither brother answers.
I look toward the dark windows.
“He isn’t going to like my life.”
“He doesn’t have to,” Marco says.
I glance at him.
Something warm moves through my chest.
Then I look at Gio.
“Neither do you.”
“I like most of it.”
“Most?”
“I remain opposed to the amount of my food you steal.”
I smile.
The heaviness doesn’t disappear.
It shifts enough for me to breathe around it.
I pick up the plate of cookies and walk toward the living room.
“Are you coming?”
They follow.
No one walks away from Angela’s cookies.