Chapter Thirteen #3
‘Do I go straight for the heart?’ Makes sense. Jolt him back to life. Although he’s not exactly still. Perhaps these muscle twitches and jerks are the last throes before death, and really, why is he fighting me? It’s about a lack of oxygen so I don’t have time to spare. ‘Stop squirming, Tiago!’
He wrenches the EpiPen from me. ‘No, no, I’m not having a reaction to almonds!
And for the record, you don’t stab from a great height, or directly into my heart.
’ He’s as flushed as I’ve ever seen him.
There’s a small chance I may have overreacted in my efforts to keep my co-captain anchored to earth.
My hands are shaking with adrenaline too.
‘Are you sure? What was all the violent spasming about then when I asked you about The Quill Chronicles?’
‘Actually, I am feeling a little woozy, now you mention it.’
‘To be expected. Let’s get you out of here, I don’t trust this food isn’t laced with almonds now. Some fresh air will help.’
Relief dashes across Tiago’s features, as if he’s happy to get out of here too. ‘Yes, let’s. Sorry about all of that. It’s just that I – I wanted to admit that I haven’t really …’
‘Please don’t apologise, Tiago. It’s totally unnecessary.
’ Why should he apologise for a false alarm?
It’s always better to remain vigilant when you can easily be poisoned by the food you’re served.
I expect him to give me a thankful smile, but instead his eyes are heavy with worry, and I feel a wave of protectiveness towards him.
I don’t think twice about paying for the bill, despite Tiago’s protestations.
And I don’t think twice about taking his hand as we walk outside.
While I’m not keen on being sabotaged by a love affair right now, part of me has softened towards Tiago after this evening.
He’s such a guileless innocent and a rather wholesome guy.
Handsome too, if I was to get shallow about it.
We stroll down a quiet lane under the starry Porto skies, eventually Tiago relaxes and soon his affable grin is back in place.
‘I had a great time with you tonight, Viviane. I hope we can do it again soon?’
I go to make light of it, tell him that due to safety concerns about almonds I will accompany him at dinner again, and while that is true, it’s not all of it. ‘I’d like that, Tiago. I had a good time too.’
‘There’s a port wine cellar nearby, they have a fado guitarist. Would you like to go? We can sit at a table upstairs so it’s not too loud, but we’d still hear it.’
How does he notice my discomfort without me articulating it?
‘Yes. We’re ahead of schedule.’ Fado is a traditional Portuguese style of music that’s haunting and often melancholic, featuring themes of saudade.
Saudade has no direct translation in English but conjures that feeling of yearning, of nostalgia.
As far as music goes, and noise for that matter, it’s a style I can listen to because it’s deeply moving and not offensive to my ears.
Fado means fate, so I can’t help but wonder if this is some kind of sign from the universe to take a chance, truly step out of my comfort zone in Porto.
Mother would be screaming if she knew I was thinking as whimsically as this.
Blame the balmy evening, the guy by my side and the evocative sounds of the twelve-string guitar …
After I say goodbye to Tiago, assuring him he didn’t have to walk me all the way home, I wander the busy streets of Porto delighting in replaying the evening and how much fun I had being wholly myself, quirks and all.
It’s so liberating not having to hide behind a mask.
Under the pale moonlight, I amble slower than usual, for once, enjoying the sounds that accompany life in a bustling city: boisterous laughter, the pop of champagne corks, the scraping of chairs as people chat around tables.
There’s so much beauty around me, whereas in the not-too-distant past, I’d have seen chaos.
Is it that I’m finding my place here in Porto?
My mind drifts to Tiago – is he really as perfect as he seems, goofiness and all?
I make the trek up our street, as people jump from cars and wave to friends, couples sit on balconies sipping wine.
Have I been missing this sort of connection all along, finding solace in books and figuring those fictional friends were enough?
It bears some careful thought, not that I want my interfering mother to be right.
‘Mum, your precious offspring is safely home!’ I call as I hang my jacket.
‘Darling, there you are!’ She comes through the front door, behind me, in a hurry. That’s new.
‘Were you waiting outside for me?’ How did I not see her?
‘Wait, with make-up on? Since when do you wear red lipstick? It’s all smudged.
’ My poor mother, sitting here counting down the minutes until her darling daughter arrives home, and left with nothing to do except play around with cosmetics and wait outside hoping I’m on my way home.
‘Oh, is it? Yes, I was, er, waiting out the front. For you, of course.’ I narrow my eyes.
Perhaps I need to encourage Mum to join some community groups if she’s at the loitering stage of waiting for her progeny.
‘You’re so late, you see.’ She’s nervous, probably embarrassed.
My devoted mother, unable to relax until I’m back under her roof.
‘How was the dinner with he who shall not be named?’
‘Fine, you minx. It was Tiago, but before you get love heart eyes, I can tell you that it is simply a matter of two friends meeting to discuss book club.’ Not a lie, exactly.
She hangs her gossamer-thin scarf on the rack. ‘Uh-huh. And what’s that you’re holding?’
‘A gift.’
Her softened gaze meets mine. ‘From Tiago?’
‘Yes.’ With a touch of pride I take the white shirt from the tissue paper and hold it up for Mum to see.
‘Are they book buttons?’
I nod. ‘He sewed them on himself.’
She clamps her lips together and her eyes well up.
‘Mother.’
She fans her face as if that’s the solution to stop her eyes from watering like a leaky faucet. ‘It’s just … that’s so sweet of him. Not only to gift you a white shirt, just like the ones you always wear, but the rest of it too. I need to meet this boy!’
I’m at risk of losing her to fantasyland, but risk it I must. ‘Mother, he’s not a boy. He’s a thirty-three-year-old adult. Now, I have to prepare for bed but let me ask you this, is it not a little forward feeding your dining companion petiscos?’
She tilts her head at the question. ‘No, it’s sweet. It’s more that the person wants you to feel their excitement for the food, it can be a sign of respect, or even a way to flirt, to be intimate. What did you think it was?’
‘A way to break down defences?’ If so, I fear it worked.
Sure, holding hands is not exactly a show of clothes-ripping passion, but I felt protective of Tiago, softer towards him after whatever happened with the choking incident.
I thought of a world without Tiago in it and that world seemed so colourless, so quiet.