14. Danielle
— ? —
Danielle
I’m not watching him. I’m watching the dining room, which is my job, and if my eyes happen to land on the corner table more often than strictly necessary, that’s just coincidence.
The man who sits there every night is just another customer. The fact that he’s currently explaining something to my brother with hand gestures and a napkin is irrelevant.
“He’s teaching Emil about cars,” Talia says, appearing at my elbow with a stack of dirty plates.
“I noticed.”
“Did you also notice that Emil hasn’t stopped talking about the engine thing for three days? I don’t even know what an engine thing is, but apparently Niccolo does, and apparently it’s fascinating.”
“Emil is seventeen. Everything is fascinating when you’re seventeen.”
“Uh-huh.” Talia slides the plates onto the counter and leans against the doorframe, watching the dining room with me.
“He also helped Marco fix the tile in the bathroom yesterday. And he drove Mamma to her appointment on Monday because I had an exam. And last week he spent four hours teaching Emil how to change the oil in that piece-of-junk car.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because you’ve been acting like you don’t notice, like he’s just some random guy who eats dinner here, but he’s not. He’s been showing up every single night for weeks.”
I turn to look at my sister, surprised by the observation. “Since when do you keep track of his schedule?”
“Since he started teaching Emil about cars and driving Mamma to her appointments.” Talia shrugs. “I’m not saying it means anything. I’m just saying I’ve noticed. You’ve noticed too.”
“Noticing isn’t the same as caring.”
“Never said it was.” She grabs a clean towel and starts drying the glasses I’ve washed. “You want help with the lunch prep tomorrow? I’ve got a gap between classes.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“I’m offering to chop onions. Take it or leave it.” She grins at me, and some of the tension in my shoulders loosens. “Just think about it, okay? That’s all I’m saying. Whatever you decide, I’ve got your back.”
She disappears back into the dining room, and I turn to the stove, stirring a sauce that doesn’t need stirring.
***
The car thing started two weeks ago. Emil found a rusted-out Fiat at a lot outside town, the kind of car that looks like it might fall apart if you sneeze too hard.
He fell in love with it immediately, the way seventeen-year-old boys fall in love with anything that has wheels and an engine, and he came home talking about how he was going to fix it up, make it run, drive it to school in the fall.
The problem was that Emil knows nothing about cars.
Neither do I. Neither does Talia. And Mamma can barely tell the difference between a sedan and a truck.
Niccolo, it turns out, knows a lot about cars.
“My father had a collection,” he told Emil that first day, when my brother was complaining about the Fiat over dinner. “Classic cars. I used to help the mechanic work on them when I was your age. It was the only time my father ever noticed me - when I was useful.”
I wasn’t supposed to hear that. I was in the kitchen, technically busy with orders, but the dining room was quiet and voices carry.
“Your dad sounds like kind of a jerk,” Emil said, with all the diplomatic grace of a teenager.
“He was. But I learned a lot about engines, so something good came out of it.” Niccolo paused. “I could take a look at your Fiat, if you want. No promises, but I might be able to figure out what’s wrong with it.”
That was two weeks ago.
Since then, they’ve spent hours in the yard behind our house, bent over the open hood, covered in grease. I’ve watched them through the window while pretending to do dishes.
Emil asking questions. Niccolo answering patiently. The two of them laughing about something, and the sound of my brother’s laughter mixing with my husband’s makes something twist in my chest that I don’t want to examine.
Emil never had this.
Our father left when Emil was six. Just walked out one day and never came back, left Mamma with three kids and a stack of bills and no real explanation.
I was eighteen. Old enough to understand. Old enough to become the second parent, the one who helped with homework and made lunches and pretended everything was fine. Emil doesn’t remember much about Papa. He remembers a voice, sometimes. A hand on his shoulder.
But the details have faded, replaced by a father-shaped hole that he’s spent his whole life trying to fill.
Now there’s a man in our yard, teaching him about engines.
A man who also grew up with an absent father. Who also spent his childhood trying to earn attention from someone who didn’t know how to give it. Who understands, in a way I never could, what it means to be a boy without a guide.
Damn him. Damn him for being good at this. Damn him for showing up in all the ways that matter to everyone except me.
Damn him for winning over my family one small kindness at a time, while I stand in my kitchen and try to pretend it doesn’t affect me.
***
“The engine’s shot.”
Emil’s voice carries through the open window, dejected. I’m drying plates, but I stop to listen.
“Not shot,” Niccolo says. “Damaged. There’s a difference.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Shot means it can’t be fixed. Damaged means it can, but it’s going to take work.” A pause. “The question is whether you’re willing to put in the work. This isn’t going to be a weekend project. It’s going to take months. Maybe longer.”
“I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Parts aren’t as expensive as you think, if you know where to look. And the labor’s free - I’ll teach you everything you need to know. The question isn’t money, Emil. It’s commitment. Are you willing to show up, day after day, even when it’s frustrating? Even when you want to quit?”
There’s a long silence. Then Emil’s voice, quieter: “Is that what you’re doing? With Dani?”
My hands go still on the plate.
“Yes.” Niccolo’s voice is steady. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
“Is it working?”
Another pause. “I don’t know yet. But I’m going to keep showing up until I find out.”
I put the plate down and press my palms against the counter, breathing carefully.
Through the window, I can see them standing side by side, both of them streaked with grease, both of them looking at the broken-down Fiat like it holds the answers to questions they haven’t figured out how to ask.
My brother. My husband. Two fatherless boys, finding something in each other that neither of them expected. I’m scared.
I’m scared because he’s doing everything right, and I don’t know what to do with that.
I spent three years waiting for him to see me, to choose me, to fight for me.
And now he’s fighting, and I don’t know how to let go of the anger long enough to see it.
The back door opens and Emil comes in, grinning despite the grease on his face.
“Niccolo says we can get the parts by next week if we order them tonight. He’s going to help me rebuild the whole engine. From scratch. Do you know how cool that is?”
I look at my little brother, seventeen and hopeful and so desperately in need of someone to look up to.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I know.”
Emil bounds upstairs to shower, and I’m left standing in the kitchen, watching through the window as Niccolo wipes his hands on a rag and looks toward the house.
Our eyes meet through the glass.
He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t smile. Just looks at me for a long moment, then turns and walks back to his car.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.