Chapter 15
The rest of the weekend goes by in the regular blur, and then Monday is the Palio fundraising dinner. Which means I get to (happily) work on my day off.
A helpful reprieve when I’m desperately trying to not think about Nico.
I’m not exactly succeeding.
Things haven’t been weird, exactly. But there’s been a small but distinct shift. I’m grateful that Anita has joined our mornings, because it’s created a slight enough buffer that nothing feels ruined.
Maybe it’s the playfulness that’s shifted. There are no pats on the back or secret eye rolls or dipping a spoon in the other’s gelato. The can of worms has been shut, yet the seal isn’t quite the same; the air’s been let in, even if the contents are still inside.
But we’re moving past it. Things are getting better.
In fact, even if I’m uncomfortable, I’m glad I said something, because now at least I know.
Whether he wants to kiss me or not is no longer important.
The wanting isn’t relevant anymore. We’re two adults with an attraction who logically know that giving in to it is a bad idea. What happened isn’t relevant.
It’s not.
I’m really trying to make it not.
So thank goodness for this dinner, is all I’m saying.
Gia’s really going all out. Someone brought over extra tables earlier, and the street around the restaurant has been closed off, so we’ve basically doubled the number of seats we normally have.
She’s kept the menu minimalist and very classic.
We’re starting with a shrimp crudo and burrata, to keep us from having to do much more than plate anything.
She insisted we have pici—the regional pasta shape that’s like a thicker spaghetti—and she’s pairing it with a local pecorino (of course) and a fennel sausage.
She’s finishing with her boar ragù over polenta, even though her insistence on boar is still cracking me up.
I tried to see if she’d let me make the pici this morning. “It’s the simplest pasta,” I pointed out. “It’s flour and water and then running it through the pasta machine. You know I can handle it.”
“That’s where your overtrained brain gets everything wrong,” she remarked without even looking up while we both deveined shrimp for the crudo. She didn’t even need to look at me to casually insult me.
But even if I wanted to pretend like I was offended, I mostly was curious about her reasoning. I’m also lucky to be basically impervious to insults by this stage in my life, between kitchen culture and review culture (Yelp, anyone?).
“Pici is a hard pasta because it is simple,” she continued.
“It’s not just about the exact balance of water—and salt, by the way—to the flour.
You want the right level of springiness in the dough so you get that toothy bite when you’ve cooked it perfectly.
Pici is thick, so you don’t want it to gum up or overtake whatever sauce you’re making.
The dough needs to be at an exact state to handle extrusion, and then it needs to rest for the right amount of time.
It has to cook in correctly salted water, and it needs to be removed from the heat at the exact right time to find the balance of al dente. Handling it is not enough.”
I tried to think of a comeback. Any comeback. Something witty? Something to give her confidence in me? Something defiant to rile her up and entertain both of us while we prepped double the food we normally would?
But before I could think of what to say, she’d moved on. “I’m going to make the pasta. I want you to place the gorgonzola dolce and chopped rosemary on those figs.”
“A task a small child could do,” I said.
But instead of responding, she just shrugged, as though saying Hey, if the shoe fits.
I swear, Gia must’ve been a devastating teenager.
I can’t imagine going toe to toe with her in a mean girl scenario.
She’s cool as a cucumber while cold as ice when she wants to be, and all without saying a word.
I wish I didn’t love it so much. I wonder if Nico’s grandfather ever told him stories about young Gia.
And damn it, there I go again, thinking about Nico.
I watched her make the pici. I plated the figs (like a small child). We got the rest of the food ready for the evening.
A few hours later, when I step outside to say hello to everyone before the dinner starts, I’m surprised by the number of decorations that have sprouted up over the course of the afternoon.
I hadn’t really known what to expect of this dinner.
I could tell by Gia’s extra work that this event is important to her, but I don’t think I understood how important it is to the whole neighborhood.
Lights have been strung up across the closed street. Banners and napkins and place mats all in the Cassero colors of dark blue and maroon have been festooned across the table. All the streets around us are lined with flags shaped like upside-down medieval ramparts.
The entryway to the restaurant and its surrounding area is now a bona fide party.
Unmarked wine bottles from the neighbors’ stashes have been haphazardly placed across all the tables and on any available surface.
Emilia arrives (today’s bandana featuring the Cassero colors) with trays of pastries, and everyone cheers as she ducks inside to put them away.
The conviviality of the moment reflects across all the faces ready for the evening to begin, as though the entire neighborhood is reclaiming their little corner of this town and relishing in it.
The adults drink wine and chat while kids play soccer in the streets.
No one seems to be in a rush to get dinner started, because they’re enjoying themselves plenty.
As Emilia predicted, I’ve already been asked to join the women’s team.
Apparently Anita shared that I’d been a college athlete, and that, combined with my height, seemed to make me automatically on board.
Flavia—the woman whose missing husband’s scooter I’m using—is apparently Cassero’s neighborhood leader, and she and Martina, the women’s team captain, set out to convince me a few days ago.
Flavia was thrilled to remind me that I wanted to pay her for the scooter, and this is apparently the only thing she wants.
I had no choice but to agree. So the minute I step into the decorated outdoors, I have at least five people congratulating me on my addition to the team. Once again, word gets around fast here.
After begging off all the compliments based on nothing I’ve done so far, I walk back into the restaurant. I start grabbing plates of the crudo, my mind already thinking about the next course, but I run straight into Nico.
“Oh, hi. Sorry!” I clumsily try to stay upright. It doesn’t help that he’s so solid he’s knocked the wind right out of me.
He reaches out an arm to steady me but then pulls it back. This is the part of declaring Friends Only that has made everything else feel fraught. He never would’ve thought twice about reaching out to me before.
I can’t look him in the eye, so I look at his arms, and that’s a mistake too.
His arms are so beautiful they make me long, and that’s a sensation I’m entirely unfamiliar with.
It’s like he’s scrambled my brain, and now I’m noticing everything.
I’ve been attracted to a man before—I was attracted to John—but he didn’t have forearms I found myself pining over.
“Hi,” he replies calmly, and I finally look up at him. His face is unreadable. I hate that lately I can’t read him.
“Are you helping with the . . . the service?” I ask, trying to stop my brain from overthinking.
“Yeah, Gia said all hands on deck.”
I notice Luce is hopping quietly next to him, and I reach down to give him a pat.
“You know Luce doesn’t have any hands, right?” I tease.
He smirks and rolls his eyes at me. I wish I wasn’t so relieved to have some of that playfulness back, but I am. “He wouldn’t be happy alone all night, and he promised to behave.”
“Did he now?” I ask, feigning being impressed.
“Yeah, we had a whole chat about it before we left. He said he’d make sure everyone was having a good time and cuddle anyone who wasn’t.”
“Well, thank goodness he’s here,” I continue, enjoying the levity. “Because with a perfect summer night, Gia’s food, and more wine than anyone could consume, I’m assuming most people will be having a horrible time.”
He snorts out a laugh and gives me an indulgent smile. “Exactly.”
But right then Anita—who’s also been tasked by Gia with serving—comes up behind us. “We should probably grab the shrimp, right? This dinner isn’t going to serve itself.”
“Oh, right, right, right,” he says, momentary distraction now gone. He claps his hands together, brought back to the task at hand. “All right, Luce, let’s get these people fed.”
The two of them trot after Anita into the kitchen, as though Luce might actually get something done.
I can’t help but watch Nico talk to Luce as he grabs plates and places them on trays.
He’s so comfortable in his skin, talking to his dog, helping out his former grandmother-in-law.
Like this life is the most natural thing in the world to him.
I like seeing him like this in a kitchen, because that’s my natural place. I like him at ease in my place.
But I shake it off because, of course, it’s not actually my place. It’s Gia’s. And I need to get a move on.