Chapter Eight
She’s not buying it, giving me her signature look that roughly translates to you and I both know you’re being stupid.
Despite the fact that she’s currently on a treadmill at the gym, no doubt with her phone propped up by her work laptop or a hundred-page bill, I can see her crystal clear. “You absolutely can.”
“I have to think about the long-term.” I pace around the tiny space. “I live with him, and this is a small town. If things get weird, it’ll make everything weird. Or worse, the humiliation will drive me out of town and prove he was right to think I’ll leave.”
Marisol hops off the treadmill and moves to the elliptical. I see her pumping arms duck in and out of the screen. “You’re being too puritanical about it. You’re in Italy. I’m sure Benito has slept with thousands of girls.”
The thought of that makes me queasy. “Don’t you think that’s a little reductive, Mari?”
Her arms stop suddenly, and she looks to the camera in shock. “Wait, was that racist?” She shakes her head. “I’ve been hanging out with too many congressmen.”
“I don’t want to be just another notch in Benito’s bedpost.”
“Oh my god, Izzy. You’re over 30. Use a man for sex.
Who gives a fuck?” I let out a guffaw, but she continues, “You want to tear his clothes off, right? So do it. Consensually, of course. You’re used to being overly cautious and private when it comes to the people you want to have sex with, but you don’t have to do that anymore.
Stop thinking and let your horny self take over. ”
I let her words wash over me. Following my horny self has never led me anywhere good before, but it’s becoming harder and harder to fall asleep at night knowing Benito and his forearms are just a wall away.
I shudder. These are the exact thoughts that got me in trouble with Levi. I may never lust again.
“Are you thinking about Levi right now?” Marisol asks, her arms on the move again.
“No,” I lie.
Marisol glares at me through the screen. “I hate that he made an entire nation slut-shame you, but this is not the same.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “With Giac the stakes seem lower, but with Benito it feels too sticky to try and throw romance into the mix.”
“It’s not romance, Izzy. It’s sex. You can have one without the other. You’re hot, he’s hot, why not bang it out? You hate each other, right? It’s bound to be good.”
My stomach churns because I don’t know what I feel for Benito, but I know I wouldn’t describe it as hate.
Regardless, Marisol might have a point. Random hookups were a no-go when I was in Congress, but the same rules don’t apply here.
The problem is, Benito isn’t random. Whether I like it or not, he’s in my life indefinitely.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s not like I can just knock on his bedroom door in a trench coat with nothing underneath.”
“You absolutely can.”
“His mom is here!”
Marisol gives me the look again. She opens her mouth to speak but gets distracted. “Ugh, the speaker is calling me. Can I call you back later? Or better yet, call Benito.”
I shake my head. “Call me. I’m sure I’ll be up.”
The washer beeps and I gather the next load of clothes from my room.
Maybe Marisol is right, or maybe I want her to be right.
What was the point in coming here in the first place if I live my life in the exact same way I always have?
It’s not like I have a reputation to protect anymore, and while the mayor with the new American lady might become town gossip, it’s not like it’d be a national scandal.
Then again, it’s worthwhile to consider the social ramifications of sleeping with your peer and roommate. No, it’s too much to risk. My original intent was to come here and live an easy life free from complications. I can’t sabotage my standing in a country because of my lofty personal goals again.
I reach my hand into the washer and yelp when I feel a shock. I check to make sure the washer’s cycle has fully completed and try again: another zap. I jump backward in fear. My hand tingles from the electricity.
The washer is different than what I’m used to back home, but I thought I followed the directions Anita gave me exactly.
I google instructions and make sure the dials are lined up exactly as it shows in the diagram I find online.
The words are smushed so closely together it’s hard to be certain.
I almost reach again a third time but think better of it, conjuring up a foreshadowed image of me lying unconscious on the floor.
Unclear on what I do next, I stare at the open washer and my wet clothes that are prisoners inside. I guess I’ll have to tell Vincenzo in the morning, unless—
I mean, I could go find Benito. It would make sense for me to go tell Benito. This is, after all, his house. Technically, he’s my logical first call in case of emergency. It’s not like I know the number of a mechanic. I could wait until tomorrow.
I mean, I could wait until tomorrow.
But by then my yellow sundress would be wrinkled beyond recognition. And I’m down to my last pair of clean underwear.
I walk back upstairs and dart into my room to change my clothes.
I’m in pajamas, and despite the fact that we spent an entire night together, I feel self-conscious.
I parse through the scant options for clean clothes and pull out a sweatshirt that says Hollywood across the chest. It’s one of those kitschy drugstore souvenirs that my dad bought me as a joke when I left for DC but it’s surprisingly comfortable and covers the fact that all my bras are currently inside the washer.
I knock on his bedroom door. There’s no sound of movement inside. Maybe he’s out. He said he broke up with Sutton, but he could have a new lover that’s more geographically convenient. I knock again and after a few moments, the door swings open.
“Izzy? Are you alright?” Benito is bleary-eyed. He’s wearing that old Cambridge shirt again and a pair of blue checkered pajama pants. Was he asleep?
“Yeah.” I look at the time; it sounds like I’ve woken him up but it’s only 9:30. “Sorry. Um, it’s not an emergency, but the washing machine shocked me, and I guess I got a little spooked and wanted to see if you could come fix it, which I realize is ridiculous because you’re not a mechanic—”
“I can help you.”
“It’s ok, I think I overreacted.”
“You were shocked?” he asks.
“Yeah. Twice.”
Benito walks out of his room and down the stairs. I follow him as he pulls a red toolbox out of a hall closet and six different Damsel in Distress fantasies flash through my head like an R-rated View-Master.
We make it back to the laundry room and he examines the dials. “So, what happened exactly?”
“I reached inside to pull out my clothes and it shocked me. Twice.”
Benito finicks with the dials for less than a minute. “It wasn’t all the way off.”
“What?”
He turns both dials all the way to the left.
The machine whirs off and the lights on the top of it go dark.
“It’s an old machine, and it’s finicky. It has to turn all the way off before you retrieve your laundry.
” He reaches into the open door of the washer and pulls out my yellow sundress.
He reaches in again but thinks better of it. “I’ll let you do the rest.”
“Thanks. Wouldn’t want you to come face-to-face with my unmentionables.” I think I see him blush a little and I cringe at myself. I reach into the washer but hesitate, my body still traumatized from the earlier shocks.
Benito watches me as I try and fail again. “It really got you, huh?”
“Not too bad, but I had a vision of me going all Ben Franklin’s kite with the key, so I’m a little hesitant.”
“Ben Franklin’s kite?” Benito asks.
“You know. . . when he discovered electricity.”
He sighs. “Did he really? Or is that another myth of American exceptionalism that you were told as a kid?”
“Oh shit, is it?”
Benito takes his hand and waves it in and out of the front of the washer. “You’ll be fine, I promise.”
I finally muster up the courage and pull out a pair of jeans at the top of the pile. I do a little curtsey after I escape shock free. “Success.”
“You did it.” Benito walks over to his unused toolbox and picks it up. “Happy to be of service.”
Panic rips through me as he starts heading to the door.
I need to act on the horniness now if I’m ever going to.
“Leaving so soon?” I blurt out. Benito turns back to me, his expression twisted into a question mark.
I quickly think up an excuse. “It’s just. .
. I feel bad, I woke you up for nothing. ”
“Sunday lunches are exhausting, and I tend to nod off early. It’s ok.”
“Do you want a glass of wine or something?” I ask. Benito studies me as if he’s waiting for me to rescind the offer any second. “I know it’s late, but. . .”
Benito nods. “I suppose one glass couldn’t hurt.”
He awkwardly stands in the middle of the kitchen while I struggle to open a bottle I was chilling in the fridge from Valeria’s wine shop, my hands shaky from the nerves.
“Sorry again for waking you up for nothing,” I say, handing him a glass.
I take a sip of the glass I poured for myself before gesturing for us both to sit at the kitchen table.
Benito sits in the chair next to me. “It’s ok. I’ve been learning light maintenance for my tenants, so it’s good practice.”
I turn to him. “Tenants?”
“You know the blue building with the white shutters next to the panetteria?” he asks. I nod. “I own it.”
“Wow,” I say. “You own a building?”
He blushes a little, looking down. “I do.”
“Cool,” I say, trying to parse out why he seems so embarrassed to own a 600-year-old building. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “It’s just. . . my father gifted it to me. I always intended to sell. There were interested entities, but I never pulled the trigger.”
“Your dad bought you a building?” I ask.
“I wanted a Bop It! but that wasn’t really his style.”