9. Il momento illuminante
9
Il momento illuminante
The Lightbulb Moment
Omar
I can’t help but grin when Bri cheers from the sidelines. Naturally, my family all start giving me knowing looks and I shake my head, trying to send them a silent message to cut it out. The last thing I want is for Bri to feel awkward.
We keep playing for another half-hour until we’ve had enough. By the time we finally call it quits, my T-shirt’s practically glued to me, and sweat’s dripping from my hair.
“Alright, spill—what’s really going on between you and Bri?” Khalid asks as we cool down by the small fountain in the farm’s courtyard. He loves practising his Arabic with me so when we’re alone that’s the language we switch to.
“Nothing,” I say, a bit too quickly.
“Come on,” he laughs, “you couldn’t take your eyes off her at dinner.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I was just making sure she was alright,” I reply with a frown. Did I really look at her that much? I didn’t think I had. Sure, she was adorable when she blushed after Aurélie asked if she’s single, but other than that—
“Omar, it’s me. You can tell me the truth,” he presses, dropping onto the bench next to the fountain.
“I’m serious. It’s purely business,” I insist, digging my heels in.
Khalid studies me for a moment, then hits me with, “What if it wasn’t just business?”
Bloody hell, that’s a loaded question.
“I… you know I don’t do relationships,” I mutter.
Khalid lets out an exasperated sigh. “Oh my god, are you still on about that? Look, what happened between your mum and dad was rough—he was a right arsehole, and your mum’s better off without him. But come on, look at the rest of us. We’re all happily married. I’d die for my wife. Not every relationship has to end in complete disaster.”
I shrug, knowing he’s right but not quite ready to admit it.
“Don’t you ever feel lonely?” Khalid’s family to me. We got tight during our time in Lebanon, even with both of us already having siblings we care about. I know whatever I say will stay between us. But am I ready to admit it? I don’t even like admitting it to myself.
“Doesn’t mean I have to jump on my boss,” I sigh, half-admitting the truth.
“What if she wasn’t your boss?”
“I wouldn’t be here,” I chuckle, trying to deflect.
“No, don’t play dumb. You know what I mean. If you met her somewhere else, through friends or something, are you really telling me you wouldn’t be interested?”
“I don’t know,” I mumble.
“Yes, you do,” he shoots back, calling me out.
“Fine, what do you want me to say? That she’s beautiful? That her joy for life makes me want to show her the whole world? That I can’t stop smiling when she orders another croissant in her adorable Frenglish—” Okay, where the fuck has this come from?
Khalid just grins. “Now that you’ve admitted it to yourself, what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” I repeat, resolutely. “She’s my boss.”
“That’s a shit excuse. Firstly, plenty of people fall in love while working together. And second—”
“Whoa, whoa, who said anything about falling in love?” I object quickly.
“And secondly,” he continues, ignoring me, “I’m not talking about a casual fling. We’re talking about you having real feelings for her, and her having real feelings for you—”
“She doesn’t,” I interrupt.
“You’re starting to piss me off,” Khalid says, shaking his head. “Fine, spend the whole trip driving around Italy pretending you’re not attracted to each other. But I’m telling you now, it’s going to be a long month.” With that, he stands up and heads towards the house, just as Bri steps outside.
She’s wearing my hoodie, the one I left inside, and she’s got a sheepish grin on her face.
“Sorry,” she says, tugging on the fabric, “I couldn’t find the car key to get my bag and I was getting cold.” She drops down on the bench next to me. The moon’s up now and the night is clear. Our breath forms little puffy clouds in the chilly air.
I know I should probably get out of my sweaty clothes before I catch a cold, but with Bri sitting next to me, I’m suddenly not in any rush to move.
“Sorry, I should’ve grabbed your suitcase before the game,” I say.
“Don’t worry,” she replies, gently touching my upper arm. “Your family’s great.”
“They are,” I grin, feeling warmth that has nothing to do with the leftover heat from running around and everything to do with her hand on my arm.
“Thank you for bringing me here. It’s the perfect start to our trip.” She flashes me another big smile. Our trip. Again, it almost sounds like we’re friends on an adventure together, not just me doing a job.
“You’re welcome.” We sit there in silence for a little while.
“So how come your mum moved to England and not here with her sister? If you don’t mind me asking?” She looks at me with the same curious eyes that she has every time when she reads yet another interesting fact about Italy from one of her guidebooks.
“During the civil war in the seventies and eighties a lot of young people tried to leave Lebanon. My mum got a job as an au-pair in London. My aunt moved to France to marry my uncle, who she was engaged with before he left for France to study here.”
“Oh, that’s romantic.”
“Yeah,” snort. “More romantic than my mum’s story. She fell in love with a British man, they married and had two boys and that’s when my dad realised maybe having a family wasn’t for him, so he buggered off.” I sound bitter.
“Oh. I’m sorry. Is your mum still in England?” Her hand is on my arm again.
“Yes. She had friends there and me and my brother had never lived anywhere else so she stayed. But she always made sure that me and my brother know where we come from. We both have a double name representing England and Lebanon. His is Stuart Khalid and mine is Walter Omar. I just always hated Walter because I felt it made me sound like an old man and so I’ve gone by Omar ever since I can remember. Stu goes by his English name.”
“WOB,” she giggles and I can’t help from grinning myself.
“Mum’s on a cruise in the Caribbean at the moment with her boyfriend.” She didn’t ask so I’m not sure why I’m telling her.
“I’m glad she found her happy ending,” Bri says.
“Yeah.” We both stare into the distance, lost in our own thoughts, until Bri breaks the silence again.
“Omar?”
“Yes?”
“Can I tell you something, as a friend?” Bri asks with a serious look on her face. Knots are forming in my tummy and my heart starts racing.
“Sure.” My voice is almost a whisper.
“You really need to take a shower,” she laughs and then pulls the collar of my hoody over her nose pretending I stink to high heaven.
“Oh, funny,” I chuckle and poke her in her side, making her squeal with laughter.
“Don’t! I’m really ticklish,” she giggles.
“Fine. I’ll go and get our suitcases and then will take a shower so madame doesn’t have to put up with my B.O. any longer.” I get off the bench and head towards the house to grab the keys from where I left them in the kitchen.
“I’ll wait here in the fresh air,” Bri calls out after me. I shake my head laughing. What can I say to that?
Khalid’s words are swirling around in my head as I step into the shower. There’s no denying Bri is a stunning woman, anyone with eyes can see that. But she’s more than just a pretty face. She’s feisty, sassy, warm, and has a sense of humour that could brighten up even the dullest moment. It’s no wonder she’s managed to charm my entire family. They’ve all, in their own not-so-subtle ways, dropped hints that they’d love to see me as something more than just her driver.
Of course, these are the same people who think marriage is the answer to everything. What do they know? When I got back into the house I found a few texts from Mum that made it obvious Aunt Thérésa’s been gossiping about me and Bri. Apparently, the family grapevine is running overtime and now half of them are convinced I’m secretly smitten with Bri.
I’m relieved we’re leaving tomorrow. Once we’re back on the road I can put this matchmaking nonsense behind me and focus on maintaining a professional relationship. But, if I’m being honest there’s a nagging voice in the back of my mind telling me I’m deluding myself.
We've been stuck in this fucking traffic jam for nearly two hours now and we've barely moved. It's driving me mad. There has been a massive pile-up ahead of us and now everything's come to a standstill.
Bri’s mood doesn't seem to be affected. She just sits there bobbing along to French pop, not a care in the world. I, on the other hand, can't stand it. It's painful. And not just metaphorically. I need to piss so badly.
The brake lights on the car in front of me dim and it rolls away. But not for long. He comes to a stop again after a metre at most. I follow him slowly as we sneak our way along the motorway. After about 30 minutes I finally see an exit. There's no point staying in this nightmare.
“I think we're going to turn off here,” I tell Bri, drawing her attention on me.
“Do you think that’s wise? The surrounding roads will be gridlocked as well.”
“If we cut to the east and drive along the German border we can bypass this whole section. It might be a little bit longer distance wise but, given that nothing is moving here, I’m sure it’ll be faster. I scan the map on my phone and there are no traffic jams indicated on the route to the east.
“OK, sounds good,” Bri grins. I don't know if anything ever shakes this woman, she just takes it all in her stride.
A few other cars have the same idea and the exit is busy as well, but once we get past the first roundabout we're on a quiet road. Most of the cars were just trying to bypass the one junction, but we are heading away from it all together and that means the roads are clearing quickly. As we get closer to German border the radio station loses reception and white noise fills the car instead. So Bri is back on her mission, trying to find the next station to listen to. She comes across a German one. This close to the border airwaves crossover and you can pick up both countries’ signals.
“Ohh, this sounds amazing!” Bri hums along to a song that was a huge hit in Germany a few years ago.
“Can you translate the song for me?”
“It’s basically about living in the moment and experiencing the thrill of love and freedom, as a couple races through the night, feeling invincible and lost in passion.”
“What's it called?”
“‘ Atemlos durch die Nacht ’. That means breathless through the night.”
“Oh, I like that! I need to add this.” She pulls out her phone and starts typing.
“What are you doing?”
“I'm compiling a list of songs I like and that can become my playlist when I'm back home to remember this trip.” She smiles. Her happiness is so infectious.
“How do you spell the title?”
“A.T.E.M.L.O.S. New word D.U.R.C.H new word. D.I.E. New word N.A.C.H.T.”
She finishes typing and then tries to pronounce it. I have to bite my lip. It’s not bad for a first try but it’s still not even close.
“It's Atemlos durch die Nacht .” I try to pronounce each word clearly. Bri repeats it again and she’s getting better.
“What's the artist called?”
“Helene Fischer,” I reply.
“How do you know so much about it?”
I shrug. “It just was a very popular song in German speaking countries a few years back when I was living in Austria. Everyone knew this song and they played it over and over during après ski.”
Bri gives me a big smile and returns to bobbing along to the music. It’s a cheesy love song but if it makes her happy, who am I to judge?
A few hours later we pass the border sign indicating that we are now entering Italy. Bri claps excitedly.
“We're here. We're here, we're here,” she shouts.
“Just about,” I reply, but I can't hold back a grin. Again, her joy is so infectious. “Right. How about a first cappuccino? I know it's not that far to Milan but I could do with a coffee,” I suggest.
“A break sounds great. I can call Bella. Oh wait, I thought Italians only drink cappuccino for breakfast?” she asks, holding up the guidebook she always has to hand.
“I’m not Italian,” I wink at her.
“Well, if you would like to be authentic you should drink espresso,” she points at a page in her book.
I crinkle my nose in disgust, “No disrespect to Italians, but I need milk in my coffee.”
“Typical tourist,” she giggles and jumps from the car. I can’t wait to point out that her beloved croissant, which she’ll be scoffing down any minute now, is even less authentic than a cappuccino. Two can play this game!