Chapter 20
Tessa
The air smells as sweet as the figs on the trees. Sitting on the wooden garden bench, which is beautifully crafted out of sturdy dark wood, I run my hand along the smooth arm. The sun caresses my skin, not too hot, but warm enough that I don’t need a sweater today. It’s the perfect weather to read.
And read, I do. Flipping open a copy of the beginning pages Michael designed, I smile when I see solid, colorful character drawings.
Before I left, he asked if I wanted to read his first chapters.
You’re the perfect person to give me an honest opinion, he said solemnly.
Because you’re not related to me. I enthusiastically agreed, though I can’t imagine telling him it’s anything short of wonderful.
Instead of taking the original manuscript to Italy, I made a copy at my local print store.
The primary is sitting safely in a metal box on the top shelf of my tiny apartment closet where I’m confident no harm, be it the occasional pest or spilled latte, will befall it.
With four days left in Brescia, I’ll definitely have enough time to finish the novel before we leave.
I read the first two pages in awe. This kid is talented. His characters are drawn in an anime-inspired style. The novel is about a boy and girl who team up together to save the world from a group of fighters who want to destroy it with robot alligators. Gripping plot. I’d read the hell out of this.
I pick up my phone and type a few notes of what I’m loving to share with him later.
“What do we have here?”
Roberto’s low, rich tone fills my ears. When I look up, he’s standing over me. From this angle, he can see Michael’s manuscript.
I smile, happy to see him. “This is the start of a handmade graphic novel. I’m not sure if Giovanni’s ever mentioned them, but he’s quite close with his employee, Lucia, and her son, Michael, in New York. This is the beginning of his book.”
“Ah yes, Micheletto the Artist! We’ve done video calls with him before. A lovely boy. He must’ve trusted you deeply to lend you this,” he says, eyes twinkling.
My face heats in response. I didn’t think about it that way, but Roberto’s right. I feel honored that Michael let me read his work.
“May I sit by you?” he asks, barely getting the question out before I start eagerly nodding.
“Of course! Giovanni is fixing a chair, I think,” I say, unsure if that’s the reason he came outside.
“I was only looking for you,” he responds warmly.
“Oh?” I tilt my head, wondering what he might need from me.
Roberto waggles his eyebrows mischievously. “I think we should fare uno scherzo a Gio.”
“Far-ay-uno-share-zoh?” I attempt to repeat.
“Sorry, I don’t know the correct English phrase, but I’m trying to say we should trick my son.”
I throw my head back. “You want to pull a prank on Giovanni?”
He snaps his fingers. “Yes! I want to pull a prank on Gio. He won’t stop scolding me for feeding Giuseppe, and it’s time for us to fight back.”
“Us?”
“Yes. Me, you, and Giuseppe.” He throws me a wink.
Oh my God. I might be in love with this man. The married father of my pretend boyfriend. And his pet pigeon. Who is apparently intelligent enough to join us in prank planning.
Roberto launches into a lengthy pitch of his prank idea at a low volume, leaning close to me as though he’s providing me with top secret information.
We’re like the boy and girl in Michael’s novel, which makes Giovanni the robot alligator.
I’m hooked at every turn, nodding in all the right places and picturing the shocked look on Giovanni’s face.
“What are you two doing?” Giovanni’s booming voice echoes from the stone walkway.
His dad stands immediately, before awkwardly saying, “It was nice speaking with you.”
Just as I’m about to ask Roberto not to leave me, he jogs away from the bench. Huh. He’s surprisingly fast. I might be mad he stranded me here with his son if he wasn’t so darn adorable.
Now that we’re alone, Giovanni gives me a very strange but definitely warranted look.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” I absentmindedly grab the graphic novel from the bench.
Giovanni points at the novel. “What’s that?”
Michael didn’t tell me to keep it a secret, but I don’t want to overstep. I decide to answer truthfully, while keeping the manuscript close to my chest.
“It’s Michael’s graphic novel.”
His jaw drops. “He… gave you his graphic novel?”
Remembering Roberto’s words about Michael trusting me, I smile. “I’m an alpha reader.”
“…an alpha reader?”
“Yeah, I did my research. An alpha reader is someone who reads the book first and provides honest feedback.”
His eyebrows knit together. “You’re providing Micheletto with ‘honest feedback?’”
I sigh, looking down at the pages. “I said ‘honest,’ not mean, Giovanni. Do you think I’m going to write a one-star blog review for him or something?”
“Well…”
I snap my head back up, ready to tell him off, when I notice he’s smiling. Is he being playful?
He leans in, trying to get a peek of the pages. “Can I see it?”
“Absolutely not. Michael said it was for my eyes only, and I’m not breaking his trust. It’s a sacred code of alpha readers everywhere. Probably.”
He smirks and steps back. “Mhm. I came out here to tell you that my friend Enzo called. We’re going to hang out with him tomorrow, if that’s okay.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “You… have friends?”
This time, I’m the playful one, throwing him a grin.
“Very funny.”
“Dinner’s ready!” Maria’s voice shouts through the kitchen window.
“That probably means dinner will be done in twenty minutes, but we should go inside anyway,” Giovanni mutters.
* * *
“One moment on the spaghetti!” Maria scurries out of the dining room to the kitchen. Five minutes later, she comes in holding a massive bowl of pasta and sets it down in the only remaining table space.
I dart my eyes conspiratorially toward Roberto. His pale blues twinkle back at me.
Showtime.
Raising my fork up, I dramatically frown at the dangling spaghetti.
“Giovanni, sweetheart,” I say sweetly, “would you mind grabbing me a knife?”
Giovanni drops his fork, and the sound of it banging against his dish echoes off the walls. His eyebrows knit together suspiciously as he asks, “…for what?”
Roberto takes a sip of his water, trying not to laugh.
I study the pasta. “The spaghetti. Obviously.”
Giovanni blinks a few times. A forehead vein I didn’t know existed makes an appearance, pushing against his reddening skin. I keep my smile firmly in place as I wait for his mouth to catch up to his brain.
I glance at Maria, who’s grinning at Roberto, clearly onto us.
Giovanni meets my eyes in disbelief, as I lower my fork gently to my plate. His lips press into a thin line. “And… Why would you need a knife?”
I fold my arms and scoff, giving an Oscar-worthy performance.
“To cut it up, of course.”
Giovanni blinks at me, probably mulling over how he’ll break me out of prison after this, since cutting spaghetti with a knife is practically illegal here.
Roberto coughs into his water cup, sputtering a few drops on the table. Maria starts clapping him on the back, angling her head behind him, hiding her smile. Biting my lip to avoid giving myself away, I stare Giovanni down.
He hastily picks up the napkin on his lap and sets it down with a little too much force on the table, rattling the silverware. I allow myself a small smile, a tiny reward for my flawless charade.
Meanwhile, the vein in Giovanni’s forehead might as well be playing a supporting role at this point. As he shoots up from the table, I settle in for a rant, eagerly awaiting the “gotcha!” moment.
To my shock, the rant never comes.
“Fine,” he chokes out, slightly keeling over in what appears to be physical pain.
It’s my turn to swivel my head, and I look directly at his parents, whose mouths are ajar.
Giovanni departs from the room on an exaggerated huff. A string of angry Italian gets quieter and quieter. I may not be fluent, but I understand perfectly.
“Mio Dio,” Roberto whispers in awe.
I shift in my seat awkwardly. His parents are busy planning our nonexistent wedding; meanwhile, I haven’t ruled out the possibility that the knife he gets will be for my organs.
A few moments later, our ears are treated to loud, stomping footsteps.
I hear a deep breath, and then Giovanni appears in the arched doorway, holding the knife like it’s a bomb.
His eyes flit between me and the knife several times, in a you still want this, or have you come to your senses in the two minutes I’ve been having a coronary in the kitchen kind of way.
I maintain eye contact, standing my ground, as he trudges in my direction.
He briefly breaks his gaze to shrug at his parents on my behalf…
Silly American, his desperate eyes communicate.
When he sets the knife down on the table like it physically pains him, I burst.
“Oh for God’s sake, it’s a prank!” I throw my hands up in the air.
Roberto starts laughing, a deep molasses type of laugh. Maria’s sweet, staccato giggles complement him perfectly. Their laughter is contagious, and I simply have to join them.
My mouth opens, my eyes close… and no noise comes out.
I’m a silent laugher through and through. An amateur comic’s worst nightmare, Daniel always jokes. A change in facial expression and shallow breathing are the only signs anyone ever gets that I find something really funny.
“Are you… laughing?”
A heavy hand rests on my shoulder and I open my eyes, mid-laugh, to find an incredulous Giovanni staring at me in wonder.
“Yes?”
Appearing to forget we’re boyfriend and girlfriend, he murmurs, “I’ve never heard you laugh like—”
I cut him off before he blows our cover. “What do you mean, babe? You have me laughing like this all the time!” I quickly glance at Roberto and Maria, who are thankfully still giggling in their own little world.
He shakes his head like he’s snapping himself out of something. “Oh, yeah. Ha ha,” he says woodenly, “you got me.”
We resume eating, though Giovanni keeps glancing at me. A minute passes before I notice him slowly slide the knife closer and closer toward his plate, like he’s not convinced I won’t snatch it back.
Roberto, still smiling from our success, shouts, “That was for your rudeness toward your brother. Leave Giuseppe alone.”
Instead of retorting back with a classic rib, Giovanni says, “Mhm.”
He’s looked a little off ever since I laughed, and I can’t put a finger on why. Maintaining eye contact with me, he reaches for his glass of water, nearly spilling it when he knocks it awkwardly with his thumb. I reach over and hand him the glass.
His lack of usual finesse intrigues me. I suppose even perfectionists falter, showing little slivers of humanity along the way. I study him closely, curious about this Giovanni, the one who doesn’t have it all together.