Chapter 20
Chapter 20
Present day
Taormina, Italy
Eli’s purpose in life appears to be keeping Rue happy, rested, and well fed, so I’m not surprised when his activity of choice for the night is a pasta-making lesson. The class is held at a traditional restaurant downtown, because, “ No amount of coin or banknotes will convince Lucrezia to let anyone inside her kitchen, and I respect that ,” Tamryn said.
It’s been a long day, not just because of the near-drowning. The heat beat us down. The salt and the sand and the sweat drained us. The offer to join the class is extended to everyone, but Minami and Sul decide to stay in with a beach-drunk Kaede, Tamryn says something about work calls, Paul has a project meeting that he really cannot miss, and Axel…Who knows where Axel is?
“He probably got lost on his way from the room to the bathroom,” Tisha tells me.
“I thought all rooms had en suites?”
“Exactly my point.”
The class is open to more than just our party. It requires working in pairs, assuming couplehood as the default state, as though the world and its activities are built for two. Discomfort in all social situations is the toll loveless singles must pay for not conforming to its demands.
“People in happy relationships love to rub our noses in it,” Nyota grumbles.
She and I, naturally, pair up. Also, just as naturally: Diego and Tisha, and Rue and Eli. Avery and Conor, too. So natural, the two of them don’t even seem to need a conversation on the topic. Conor takes a seat, and Avery plops down next to him. She has a clean bill of health from Dr. Cacciari—who, given the frequency of our calls, may be considering setting up a tent in the citrus grove.
I hope Eli’s tipping him well.
Making pasta, as it turns out, is not difficult. And yet, Nyota and I are terrible at it. So much so, the instructor makes an example of us in front of the class. Not once, not twice, and not even thrice.
“Can you believe this asshole?” Nyota whispers furiously. “Where is this Mayageddon I hear so much about? Shouldn’t she be turning green? Flipping the table?”
“Sadly, she only comes up during explicitly framed competitions.” I take a sip of my second negroni, working toward a nice buzz. “There has to be a trigger—tallied points, a race. That kind of stuff.”
“Okay, sir,” Nyota tells the instructor the fourth time he approaches, likely to show the other students how not to create a nest of tagliatelle. “I realize that you may perceive us as easy targets, but this girl right here? She splits electrons and blasts them into the atmosphere.” I may have no idea what Nyota does at work, but that’s obviously mutual. “ I am able to list the world’s fifty top assets by market cap, including ETFs, crypto, and precious metals. So stop treating us like we’re the village fools, and show some respect.”
“I don’t understand.” The instructor’s English is serviceable, but his vocabulary appears to be mostly carbohydrate adjacent. “What you say?”
She leans toward him. “ Step. Away. From my tagliatelle .”
He recoils. Nyota’s glare, clearly, is a universal language.
The worst part comes later: sitting outside, on the restaurant’s patio. As a piano man croons an Italian ballad, we get to eat the fruits of our labor.
“I didn’t think pasta could taste bad,” I tell Nyota, washing it all down with my third negroni.
She grimaces into her wine. “And yet.”
But after I come back from the restroom, I notice that the flavor and the consistency have vastly improved. It even looks better.
“Hark switched his plate with yours when he thought I wasn’t paying attention,” Nyota whispers at me, her told you so stare even more pronounced than usual. “Totally the act of someone who doesn’t want you. Please, tell me again how I imagined the way he stares at you—”
It’s half instinct, half alcohol, that has me rising to my feet, looking for him. He’s not at the bar, though, nor anywhere else inside. I wander around the large, softly lit courtyard in the back, enjoying the soothing feeling of being outside at dusk as the first few stars begin to blink into view. Wondering if Nyota switched my and Conor’s plate herself, because she wants to give me a chance with him that badly. That’s when I hear the tinny sound of something metallic hitting the floor.
A silver hoop earring gleams on the cobblestone. I crouch down to pick it up.
“I believe that’s mine,” says a man with light brown hair. When I glance at his earlobes, I find no piercing holes.
“Is it?” I ask.
“Well, my girlfriend’s.” He points at a girl in a pink sundress who’s on the phone right outside the courtyard gate. She was at the pasta lesson. Asked a question, and—was she American? I think so. Midwestern, maybe.
“Here you go.” I drop the loop in the man’s palm.
“Thank you. For this, and for the many educational opportunities you and your partner provided during the class.”
“Hey. There is a learning curve to pasta making.”
He smiles. “A steep one, clearly.”
I squint at him. He’s around my age. Built like some kind of athlete. He has an accent, definitely not Italian. German, maybe? “How did yours turn out?”
“Excellent. But only thanks to you modeling what not to do.”
I refuse to show my amusement. “I’ll leave you to your meal, then. Do choke on your excellent tagliatelle.” He chuckles. I’m about to go back toward my table, but freeze like a statue when I notice a pair of dark eyes staring at me.
Conor is at the bar, sitting back against a stool, feet spread apart on the floor and arms folded on his chest. The quintessential How long are you going to keep this bullshit up? pose. His eyebrows are sunk together, the picture of unhappy irritation.
As though he thinks that I’m doing something wrong. As though he has a right to.
And that’s the thing about my temper: it goes from zero to a million really quickly. Annoyance bubbles up with so much force, I instantly whirl back to the German. “This is going to sound really weird. However.”
His expression is patient.
I continue: “Could you please flirt with me?”
The words my and girlfriend are out of his mouth in less than a millisecond. And I must admit, they endear him to me.
“Oh, I’m not hitting on you,” I hurry to say. “But, and do not let him catch you staring, there is a man at the bar. Tall. Dark hair, bit of gray. Couple days’ stubble. Cute.”
“The guy angrily eyeing me?”
“Yes.”
“He’s not really my type.”
“More for me, then.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
“Nope.”
“Brother?”
“No.”
He purses his lips. “He’s not your father, is he?”
“Yikes. What’s up with everyone thinking that we are related?”
“Simple process of elimination.”
“Okay, well…Can you act like you’re flirting with me? Only as long as he’s looking?”
The corner of his mouth lifts up. “If I do, will he come and cause a scene? I’ve seen the way Italians run public transportations. I doubt I’ll survive their penitentiary system.”
“No, he won’t.”
“You seem certain.”
“He’d first have to admit to himself that he cares who I talk to, and I can’t see him doing that. I’m not even sure he does care.”
The guy’s eyes briefly flicker up. “He does.”
“It’s complicated.” I lean my arm against the rough stucco wall to our right. He does the same, giving me a curious look. “He’s my brother’s closest friend. And he’s…older.”
“How much?”
“Fifteen.”
“That’s not too bad.”
“Says the dude who thought he was my dad.”
Said dude shakes his head, laughing. “Is that your type? Older guys?”
“Just the one.”
“You don’t sound happy about it.”
“He’s been a bit of a chronic issue for me.” I sigh. “I fear he might be terminal.”
“Is that why you’re playing games with him? Making him jealous?”
“It’s not—” I cut off. I don’t know this guy. I could not care less about his opinion. And it’s refreshing to admit to my most immature impulses without fear of judgment. “I wish I could make him jealous.”
“But?”
“The simplest explanation is that he’s protective, and thinks that chatting with some guy I’ve only just met is putting myself in danger.” I close my eyes, feeling suddenly exhausted, weighed down by the sheer stupidity of the stunt I’m pulling. I should try harder to fall for someone else. “I’m the one who’s pining from afar, not him.”
The German nods slowly, as if considering the situation from all angles. I bet he’s a great student. His transcripts must be a wet dream. “As someone with long-term expertise in pining from afar, I’m happy to play the pawn in your game.”
“She made you work for it, huh?” I glance at the girl, who’s still on the phone. I get the impression that if she asked him to tattoo whipped on his forehead, his only question would be: What font?
She’d get him to agree to papyrus, too.
“It was worth it,” he simply says.
“She won’t be mad that you’re helping me?” I tap my chin, thoughtful. “Maybe I can make Conor believe that we’re having a threesome.”
His small smile is hard to interpret. “Oh, she’ll love this. Give me your phone.”
“What?”
“Get your phone out and give it to me.”
“Why—oh, yeah. That’s genius.” I slowly slide the cell out of my pocket and hold it out to him. Watch him type with a small smile. “Put in a fake number. I’m never going to use it.”
“Actually, I’m giving you my girlfriend’s.”
“Why?”
“Because when she’s done talking with her mom, I’m going to tell her about you, and I already know that she’ll want updates on how things turn out.”
I accept my phone back. “I doubt anything will come of it.”
“We’ll see.” He’s just rooting for me, but his smile does look flirty, and I’m grateful for it.
“Thanks again.” I wave goodbye at him and push away from the wall. When I navigate to my contacts, I find a new name: Scarlett .