Chapter 8 #2
I frowned at him, “Yes, Milo, I know. It’s me—Elizabeth Finney.”
He blinked at me, clearly startled, then grinned, “Oh, hey. I didn’t recognize you.” He openly studied me, perhaps trying to find the waifish teenager in the woman who stood before him. “Nice to see you again,” he said with an approving smile.
Milo was twelve years older than Nico and therefore thirteen years older than me. I knew him only as a heart-breaking teenager when I was in elementary school; then, later, as a serious and studious graduate student turned physics professor who visited his family intermittently.
He indicated a long table in the smaller dining room. “We’re taking these over there. Can you go in the kitchen and start bringing out the silverware?”
I stepped to the side, and he winked at me as he passed. Just like the restaurant, he looked exactly the same. Even though he had to be nearing forty, he still looked like a twenty-something graduate student.
I turned to Franco and gave him a small smile. “Hey, Franco.”
Franco’s smile mirrored my own, small and shy.
He was by far the quietest member of the Manganiello family.
He was ten years older than Nico, and used to play with us when we were kids.
He allowed us to help him fix his trucks or tinker around with strange machine parts.
Franco Manganiello was the reason why I knew how to change the oil in a car.
When I left for college, he’d just opened his own auto repair shop.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I had hero-worshipped Franco Manganiello while growing up.
He nodded at me once, then carried the tray over to the long table. With no new excuses presenting themselves for delaying my trip to the kitchen, I took a deep breath and plowed through the swinging door.
I was greeted by a scene of chaos.
Children were everywhere—running around, playing with pots and spatulas, “helping” the adults put the finishing touches on dishes of food, wrapping silverware in napkins, or poking each other with the butter knives.
A cluster of kids was busily pairing crayons with coloring books at one of the far tables, and that was where I found Nico.
He was bent over a coloring book; a little boy was on his right, and a little girl was on his left.
He looked just really, honestly, achingly adorable.
A small frown of concentration pulled his dark brows low over his eyes, and a memory of a seven-year-old Nico— in the same spot, doing the exact same thing—spurred stirrings and symptoms of nostalgia within me.
My heart and stomach engaged in a fencing match as they struggled with conflicting emotions.
I was still staring at him when he glanced up and did a double take.
I held my breath. His gaze tangled with mine, like thorny vines.
If I looked away first, the thorns would draw blood.
I didn’t want to draw blood. I wanted to gently disentangle him from my life.
I wanted him to move on from whatever fake memories and feelings he’d imagined to be real.
I wanted to pretend that the last twenty-four hours had never happened.
Except, the last twenty-four hours did happen, and I couldn’t forget. I didn’t want to look away, and a growing part of me liked being tangled with him and his thorny vines.
“Elizabeth—the silverware.” Milo knocked my shoulder as he rushed past, and I automatically turned toward his voice.
The moment was over, but I could still feel Nico’s eyes on me. I thought about meeting his gaze again, and I really wanted to. But if I looked at him again, if I allowed our gaze to tangle, then it wouldn’t be fair to him. So I kept my attention focused on Milo and his rushing about.
Milo crossed to the counter and I followed him to receive into my outstretched arms a stack of dinner plates with forks, knives, and spoons piled on top of them.
I spied Robert, the oldest of the Manganiello children, instructing a teenage girl on the appropriate ratio of parsley to parmesan cheese.
I realized the girl must be his daughter, the same daughter who was only four the last time I saw her.
This realization made me feel each of my twenty-six years and then some.
Milo made introductions to any member of the family I didn’t know.
This included Robert’s wife Viv and their five children; Franco’s wife Madeline and their three children; Christine’s husband Sam and their six children; and Manny’s wife Jennifer and their three children.
It was explained to me that Lisa—Nico’s second sister—couldn’t come, as she was a busy and important attorney in Chicago and hardly ever made it to family events.
I was thankful for Lisa’s absence and the fact that Milo was still single—fewer names to remember.
I tried to make mental notes in order to remember names, pairing spouses and children with the Manganiellos I knew; after a while, I just accepted the fact that I wasn’t going to remember everyone’s name. So I did a lot of smiling and nodding and calling little girls “dear” and boys “cutie.”
Through all of the introductions and handshakes and smiles, the back of my neck itched and tingled.
I could feel Nico’s gaze intermittently follow my movements.
I didn’t want him to see my confusion or my lack of a specific plan, so I went with my de facto plan—pretend everything was fine, feign ignorance, and act normal.
I didn’t mind that Milo appointed himself as my handler. Once he seemed to be satisfied with the introductions, we left the kitchen with stacks of plates, cloth napkins, and silverware and set to the task of setting the large table in the dining room.
“We’ll put the silverware and napkins around the table but leave the plates on the buffet.” Milo announced, indicating with his chin toward the long buffet table in the smaller dining room where he and Manny had already placed some of the food.
My attention moved to the indicated table but snagged on the sight of Sandra and Rose with their heads together, engaged in deep conversation by the jukebox. This sight made me frown. This sight also made the back of my neck itch and tingle.
I kept my eyes on them as I placed the flatware. Rose had her hand on Sandra’s arm. Sandra bent her head lower to hear something that Rose said. Rose laughed at something Sandra said. It all looked very benign, and was therefore extremely suspicious.
“Do forks go on the right or the left?” Milo’s question pulled my attention away from Sandra and Rose. I blinked at him, then at the settings I’d just placed. Some places had two knives and no forks; some had all spoons.
“Oh, I’ve made a mess.” I immediately moved to remedy my mistake.
Milo laughed, and it caused a twinge of awareness between my shoulder blades. He and Nico had the same laugh. Except for Milo’s curly hair, they also looked a great deal alike.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s actually something I would do. In fact,” Milo winked at me—again—and with a crooked smile, a smile that looked a lot like Nico’s, he added, “I think I’ve done that before.”
I returned his smile with a grateful close-lipped one of my own and realized that his green eyes were twinkling at me. This gave me pause. Perhaps the eye twinkling was simply genetic and hard-coded into Manganiello DNA.
“Why don’t you take the dishes over; I’ll finish with the place settings…if I can remember which side the forks go on.” Milo glanced at the table and moved a fork to the left then the right.
I grabbed a stack of plates and called over my shoulder, “Forks go on the left; knives and spoons on the right.”
“Thanks…” I heard him respond distractedly. “I think you’re right.”
Milo reminded me a lot of my father. They were both distracted in a way that might be misconstrued as lofty.
Since both were professors—Milo a professor in the physics department at NYU and my father a professor in the agriculture department of Iowa State—I guessed that the behavior was not unusual for tenured faculty.
I stacked the plates at the start of the buffet then ferried over another pile while keeping one eye on Sandra and Rose and another eye on the door to the kitchen.
I was waiting for Nico to emerge, wondering if he were going to speak to me or if he’d also decided to go with the de facto plan of acting as if everything was normal.
I didn’t have to wait long to discover the answer.
Nico exited the swinging kitchen door carrying a stack of medium-sized plates just as I’d set down my last load.
I immediately stiffened, straightened, and averted my eyes to the buttery croissants on the buffet table.
I needlessly shifted the platter containing the croissants and fiddled with the edge of the tablecloth.
He stopped at the end of the table. “Hi.”
I failed at swallowing again and lifted my eyes to his. Even at this distance, I could see that his eyes were twinkling.
“Hi? Oh, hi.” I wondered at my ball of nerves. I didn’t even recognize myself. Who was this girl who was anxious around a man? I hadn’t been anxious like this around a man since—ever, and I hadn’t been anxious around a boy since—well, since Nico.
He set the plates on the table—at the other end—then sauntered over to where I stood. I tried my best to cease fiddling with the croissant dish.
He halted just in front of me, planted his feet, and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m glad you decided to come.”
“I said I would.” My eyes were darting all over the restaurant.
I forced myself to settle down and meet his gaze directly.
When I finally did, I began to understand why my subconscious preferred to look everywhere else.
It was trying to defend me from his soulful gypsy eyes, big and brownish green, so large and open and mesmerizing.
A small, playfully wry smile pulled his mouth to one side. “Actually, you said you couldn’t. I believe it was your friend who said you would.”