Chapter 12 #3
The waitress brought arancini—three fat balls, crisp and golden, the inside molten and spiked with green peas. I cut into one and it steamed, the rice creamy, the cheese stretching out in threads. I shoved half of it in my mouth and groaned.
“This is the best thing I’ve eaten in months,” I said. “Maybe forever?”
He tried his. Chewed. Swallowed. “Not as good as my mother’s.”
I snorted. “Of course not. But it’s better than what I grew up with.”
He gave me the mafia eyebrow. “Your family didn’t cook?”
“Nonna did, but only for holidays. Her arancini were perfect.”
He made a face. “Impossible. Nobody’s are perfect.”
I shrugged, grinning. “These are good. But they don’t even have a crust.”
He pretended to be mortally offended, hand to his chest. “If you say that again, I’ll have to walk out.”
I laughed, for real this time. Loud enough that people at the next table looked over. I didn’t care. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed like this. Maybe never.
He watched my face, the smile lingering. Then he reached across the table and brushed his thumb over the corner of my mouth, slow, then held it up: a flake of breadcrumb.
“You missed,” he said.
I felt my body react, thighs tight under the table, the echo of his touch burning across my skin. I wanted him. I wanted to be fucked, fed, held, all at once. It was almost overwhelming.
I said, “Pietro,” in a low voice.
He let his hand drop, slow. “Not yet. Eat your lunch.”
I blinked, then looked at the food, the wine, the mess of crumbs on my plate. I took another bite, just to prove I could. He watched, satisfied.
The next course came—stuffed peppers, oily and sweet, with breaded chicken and lemon. I didn’t even try to be polite. I tore into them, sucking the juice off my fingers. He followed, not as messy, but just as hungry.
We ate in silence for a while, trading glances and smiles, letting the food fill the space between us. The room was warm and crowded; for once, I didn’t care about being invisible. I wanted to be seen. I wanted him to see me.
We finished the wine. The waitress brought coffee, then a tiny dish of gelato with two spoons.
I said, “Are you trying to seduce me?”
He leaned in. “Is it working?”
I scooped a bit of gelato, tasted it. “Maybe.”
He watched me, his eyes dark and intent. I thought about the confession in the greenhouse, about the promise he’d made to never lie to someone he loved.
I wanted to believe it.
He said, “You look happy.”
I was. It terrified me.
I said, “Thank you for today.”
He shook his head. “We’re not finished.”
I stared at him. He grinned.
“Next,” he said, “books.”
I finished my coffee, the taste bitter but good, and let him lead me back into the cold.
The bookstore was a block away from the restaurant.
We ducked inside and the bell above the door gave a sad little ding.
The shop was dim, lit by a line of bulbs strung across the ceiling and a few mismatched lamps at the ends of the aisles.
The air smelled like paper and dust, and also like the waxy apples the owner set out on a plate near the register.
There was a cat—grey, old, enormous—sleeping on top of the counter. Its tail thumped once when we walked in, then stopped. The woman behind the counter didn’t look up from her crossword, just nodded in our direction.
I drifted toward the fiction shelves, trailing a finger over the spines, reading titles at random. Pietro went straight for the history, head down, hand skimming the shelf like he was checking for a secret door. We separated without speaking.
I liked this. I liked being left alone but knowing he was still in the room, that every few minutes I’d feel his eyes check for me.
I watched him through the gap between two shelves: the way he stood, one hand tucked in his pocket, reading the back of a book with complete focus.
He looked serious, the lines between his eyebrows deepening.
Every so often he’d set a book aside in a small stack, then move on.
I found a battered hardcover of The Master and Margarita on the third shelf, the cover creased, the corners gone soft. I plucked it out and carried it around, cradling it like it was alive. It felt right, somehow—magic, devils, truth hidden inside a joke.
Pietro found me at the end of the aisle. “Did you find something?”
I held up the book. “Homework,” I said.
He looked at the title, smiled. “I have not read this in fifteen years. University, maybe.”
“Time to brush up,” I said.
He tucked a piece of my hair behind my ear. “You look so beautiful, Angela.” He said it like it was obvious.
I wanted to say something smart back, but I couldn’t. My throat went tight.
He bought the book at the register. The woman didn’t bother with a bag, just handed it over and scratched the cat behind the ears. The cat stared at us, yellow eyes unblinking.
Pietro said, “Wait here a second,” and slipped back into the stacks.
I stood by the window, watching the street. The sky had changed, the afternoon gone gold at the edges, buildings across the street turning pink. For a minute I imagined what it would be like to just do this every day—pick a book, walk home, read on the couch, never have to run again.
He returned with something behind his back. I arched an eyebrow. “Did you get me a present?”
He brought it out: a small leather notebook, black, unlined, the kind of thing you carried everywhere and filled up too fast. He handed it to me. “For the work you’re doing,” he said. “For the patterns. For the lighthouse.”
I held it in my hands. It was soft, the cover thin, pliable, like it had already been worn in. I flipped it open. The blank pages stared at me.
“Thank you,” I said. It wasn’t enough, but I meant it.
He watched my face for a long second, then leaned in and kissed my forehead, slow, right in front of the cat and the crossword lady and the empty shop. I felt it all the way through my skull.
He put his hand at the small of my back and we walked out into the last bit of daylight.
I tucked the notebook into my coat. The cold didn’t bother me this time.
We walked toward the car together, not touching but always close. My shadow fell over his, long and dark and perfectly aligned.
The city was going pink, and I was going home.
The walk from the car to the apartment was quiet. Not tense—just full, like all the talking had already been done. The elevator creaked on the way up. I stood next to him, the coat half-unbuttoned, the collar turned up, his hand on my elbow, like I might tip over and break.
Inside, the lights were low. He hung up our coats, brushed the back of his hand down my spine before letting go. I walked into the kitchen, put the notebook on the table, and flipped it open to the first blank page.
He came in a minute later with two mugs of tea, set one down in front of me. He poured milk into mine before asking, remembered from days ago, from before. It was the kind of thing that made my chest hurt.
I traced the pen over the edge of the paper, then wrote: Today, I was not afraid.
He watched me from the doorway, arms crossed. I could feel his eyes, the way they moved over me, over the room, over the notebook. He was cataloguing something, or maybe he was just memorizing me, the way I did him.
I said, “Will you stay with me tonight?”
It was not the way I’d asked before. Not a safety check, not a logistical question. It was a plea. I meant it.
He looked at me, for a long time. Then he crossed the kitchen, pulled out the chair across from mine, sat down. He reached over the table and took my hand.
“Yes,” he said, voice rougher than I’d heard it. He squeezed my hand, thumb on the inside of my wrist, where the pulse is strong and easy to find. “I will stay with you tonight.”