Chapter 26
The steps are slick as I walk my usual routine the next morning. Overnight rain and August humidity have created a head-to-toe mistiness that shrouds the town. I imagine it’ll all burn off as the sun gets higher, but for the moment, I love the sensation of the moisture holding in the quiet.
With the usual landscape view obscured, I sit on my regular bench and notice again that poem etched into marble next to it, the one that starts with Ti Amo Maremma.
I do love Maremma. Whether it’s draped in the sunset hues mentioned in the poem or misty in the morning, I can’t deny this place has worked its magic on me too.
It’s not like I could ignore it—the signs are everywhere, carved into stone here or as optimistic poems in rocks at the beach.
They’re everywhere, if you’re willing to read them.
And I appreciate that I’ve allowed myself to slow down enough for the first time in my life to actually do that kind of reading.
But ever since I talked to John, my restaurant’s resurgence has become a reality.
And the creep of missing New York has also started to surface.
I miss being in charge of my kitchen. I miss striving for something.
I miss the constant fizz of the city. When I arrived here, I was striving to learn again, and I’ve always been great in the role of hard-charging student.
But I know the learning here isn’t forever, and it isn’t sustainable long-term.
As asked, John emailed me the plans for the new restaurant and also, as asked, didn’t request anything else from me. And he got Gavin to send me a comprehensive report on the renovation, including photos, that made it actually seem like maybe I do have a job to go back to in a few weeks.
And both sets of emails got my mind whirring with ideas and menus and the kind of creativity I know I’ve been missing out on here.
I tossed and turned for a lot of the night. When my alarm went off, I got out of bed quickly, my mind still buzzing and my body ready to start moving.
I can’t stay out in this humidity forever, though, so I stand up and make my way carefully down the steps, heading over to Belpagna. As I get closer, I try to shake off whatever stopping to read poetry has done to me, as though I can wring out the sappiness along with my damp clothes.
When I’m inside, I see that the usual regulars are ruminating over their espressos, but Nico isn’t here yet—he often slips out to go see Luce and shower at his place in the morning.
I like getting a few minutes alone with Emilia anyway.
She sets my tea in front of me, along with a slice of that apricot ricotta cake I love so much.
“Is it still as vile outside as it was early this morning?” she asks.
“It’s barely eight a.m. It’s still early morning.”
“Not to a baker,” she says with a smirk.
She turns around to make herself an espresso, then comes back and leans against the counter to face me. She sees that I’ve already eaten all my cake and chuckles. “I’m going to have to readjust my quantities when you go back to New York.”
My brow furrows. I know I was thinking about going home this morning, but I’ve never let that inevitable endpoint encroach on my time here.
“What?” Emilia says, immediately picking up on the shift.
“I got a renovation update last night,” I venture. Emilia just nods, waiting for me to continue, even while I’m not quite sure what to say. “Everything will be ready again by the end of the month.”
“Wasn’t that always the goal?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I sip on my drink, fidgeting with the tea bag string.
“I’d have thought by now you’d be itching to be back in your own kitchen.”
“I am in a lot of ways,” I say truthfully. She nods again, the understanding implicit.
She goes to the other side of the counter, grabs my favorite type of bombolone, and puts it on a plate in front of me; I marvel at the small intimacy of having someone know all your little snacks.
“Show me the renovation photos,” she says, letting me use that as a distraction. I open up my phone and hand it over. All her comments are the exact ones an anal-retentive restaurant owner would make, so obviously we have the same opinions.
“You’ll be ready when it’s ready,” she says when I finally put my phone away.
I purse my lips, the other specter still looming.
“I also got a call from John, my ex, the one who also is the investor in my restaurant.” Her eyebrows raise in surprise, but she doesn’t interrupt.
Instead of explaining, I just click on the email John sent me last night, detailing the space and the offer for the new restaurant.
I hand the phone over to Emilia, and she takes her time reading.
I watch her eyes to see how they move—where she’s surprised, where she’s impressed, where she’s skeptical.
Finally, after what feels like a torturously long time, she sets the phone down in front of me.
“Well, obviously you’re doing this,” she says, “so let’s not pretend like you’re not going to.”
I chuckle at the brazenness I now rely on. “I wasn’t going to.”
“Good. I mean, negotiate the hell out of it, obviously. But if this is where they’re starting, they clearly want you, and they’re willing to build out whatever you want.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
“What’s got you sour?” She slides over a second bombolone, a little more sustenance to keep me going.
“It’s just weird to get handed this,” I say.
She slaps her hands on the counter. “Who are you?”
“What?” I ask, not following.
“You’re Kit fucking Roth. You’ve worked and built up a reputation that’s unmatched.
No one is ‘handing’ you anything. Your stupid ex-boyfriend is smart on one thing, and that’s that he invested in you early and has recognized he needs to bring you new opportunities to keep that investment growing.
You are the asset here. You are the talent.
I don’t want your bullshit false humility here. ”
The fervor in her voice is surprising for someone who’s usually so deadpan. “Why is this your reaction?”
“Don’t get complacent here,” she says, wagging a finger in my face. “You don’t chase accolades, and I love that about you. But this summer is a learning pit stop. Don’t question your greatness just because you’ve taken a minute to reload and a fire messed up your routine.”
I put my hand out and cover hers, momentarily a bit overcome by her vociferous defense. “Thank you,” I say quietly.
I know she’s right, that it’s not a question of whether I’ll take it. But it’s hard to admit when something is scary. This summer was a leap, but it was a temporary one with an endpoint.
Saying yes to a dream restaurant will mean inviting in scrutiny again; it will mean raising my own bar. And while I know I’m ready for it and that I’m the best person for the job, I need to readjust to getting my head back in the game.
Before I can say anything else, the bell chimes on the door, and Nico walks in.
He didn’t shave this morning, and the scruff looks delicious. It’s impossible not to smile when I see him.
“Hey,” I say, and now I get the extra enjoyment of the small blush that creeps up his cheeks from however I’m looking at him.
“Show Nico the email,” Emilia says, interrupting my dirty thoughts by handing Nico my phone. Part of me wants to stop her and not let the reality of home problems intrude on this short-term fantasy Nico and I have dug ourselves into. But I do want his opinion.
He scans through the pitch and nods along as he reads. When he finally looks up, I’m like a kid who’s been told to wait for a marshmallow, all anticipation.
“This is a great offer,” he says. “How do you feel about it?” At whatever look comes over my face, he chuckles and says, “What?”
“Sorry, I’m just used to men mansplaining,” I say honestly.
“I’m not familiar with that phrase,” he counters with a small grin.
“It’s just . . .” I pause, and my smile grows too.
I’m enjoying him so much right now. The restaurant can have my attention next month, but for now I want to soak up this sweet man who would rather know how I feel than explain to me what I should think.
“I feel good about it,” I answer. “But I’ll have a lot of follow-up questions.
I forwarded it to my lawyer to get her thoughts first.”
“That sounds like a great plan,” he says, and I wish I wasn’t surprised that he doesn’t have unsolicited opinions to share. Who knew a man like that even existed?
I must still be looking at him like he’s delightful, because he tilts his head, his smile turning curious at my response to him. But he couldn’t possibly understand, because how could I explain to him that he makes loving him so easy?
Hold on.
Loving him?
Where did that come from.
No.
I shake my head, as though the rain is still caught on me, as though the sappiness has gotten heavy again and I need to wring it out once more.
I need to not let sleeping with this man turn me into something I’m not.
I’m probably just still not used to the idea that someone could find me attractive, be as interested in work as me, and still be a kind, caring person.
I purse my lips, and I can see that he catches my shift in expression. But instead of asking me about it, he reaches into the bag he carried in.
“At any rate,” he says, pulling out what looks like a crocheted something, “Emilia, I have something for you.”
Emilia squeals—a sound I would never have predicted hearing out of her—and holds her hands out with a grabby motion until he gives it to her.
“It’s got stretch, so you don’t have to tie it, the way you do with your bandanas,” he says, and I watch as Emilia takes off the one she has on (turtles, inexplicably, on it today) and slips on the herringbone-patterned one Nico made, varying shades of blue melding together.
“You’re the best,” she says, pulling herself far enough over the counter to give him a kiss on both cheeks. “I love it.”
“I have something for you too,” he says to me, and I’m suddenly dreading having something he’s made for me. I don’t know why that’s the sentiment that smacks into me, but it’s like a raw egg smashed on my head, dripping into every strand of hair.
My instincts are wrong, though, because he pulls out a small spray bottle. “What the heck?” I ask, taking the neon-green container out of his hands.
“For the mosquitos on your patio,” he explains. At my quizzical look he continues. “You bought that insecticide, and it didn’t seem like you’d actually followed up to ask about real bug spray.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing.
He makes it so effortless, my brain thinks, and I shake the idea off and shut my mind down again.
“Thanks,” I say, gently taking the bottle from him.
Nico and Emilia launch into a conversation about olive oil cake (can those two ever find any other topics?), but my mind wanders.
With both their eyes off me, I study them, the foreign explorer sizing up the locals.
Emilia must’ve had me pegged more than I thought, because she breezily knew I’d be the one who couldn’t handle this thing with Nico.
He’s all at ease and chatting and nonchalant, and I’m fully tied up over a lack of bad opinions and a bottle of bug spray.
I’m the one obsessing; I’m the one who suddenly enjoys gentle care.
That’s never been me, and I don’t think I like this sensation in my gut.
I’m already scared enough about this huge new restaurant, and now I’m focused on being scared of batting gooey thoughts out of my mind.
Meanwhile, he’s doing the right thing and living in the moment without a care in the world.
I stand up, needing to get my legs moving again.
“Where’re you off to?” Emilia asks, breaking her conversation with Nico mid-sentence.
Great. I must’ve looked like I had some sudden realization instead of just being an emotionally stunted person.
“Oh, nothing.” I fidget. “I just thought I’d get home and look some of that stuff over again before I chat with my lawyer later.”
“You want apricot ricotta cake to go?” Emilia asks, already grabbing a box.
“Obviously.”
She looks in the case. “Ah, we’re out—let me grab the fresh one that’s cooling in the back.”
As she walks away, I sneak a look over at Nico. By his expression, I can tell he’s caught on that I’m freaking out a little, but thankfully he seems mostly amused.
“You know, Kit,” he says quietly, and just from his tone I already know he’s handling me with the kid gloves I deserve right now. “Even when you go back to New York, and we’re just friends, I’ll always help you out if you need it.”
I gape at him. He’s so damn good at saying the right thing. It would be annoying if it wasn’t so attractive. But my brain catches on the word “need,” a twitchy desire to push back. “I wouldn’t call bug spray a ‘need.’”
I know I’m being a brat and pushing on a bruise for no reason. But I need to say it.
“Of course not,” he says, that light smile threatening to break into something bigger.
“I mean, I will use it. You’ve been on my patio.”
“I have.”
“So thank you. This isn’t me not saying thank you. I’m just saying, I don’t need stuff. I’m good. We’re good. But thank you, that was really thoughtful.”
He snorts a little at my incompetence, and I sigh.
I want to lean into him. I want my forehead on his shoulder, breathing in the depth of his scent, calming my nervous system the way it always does.
But I can’t do that in Belpagna—I can’t upend his easy life. Especially when I’m already, apparently, incapable of not having flares go off in every direction when I think about things too hard.
“I’ll see you later,” I say, backing up a bit so I don’t catch myself smelling him like an imbecile. “Gia actually sold my pasta last night, so my mood will be entirely dependent on whether it was a onetime fluke or if she’s actually accepted that I’m a skilled cook.”
“Whoa, she accepted money for your pasta?” he asks, genuine joy lining his expression. Damn it, here comes that gooey feeling again.
“It’s not a big deal,” I say, so casual, not a care in the world. He rolls his eyes at me.
“It’s not, in the sense that of course your pasta has been great for a long time. But for Gia, that’s like the most-earned compliment there is.”
I blush. I feel transparent. He’s rent-free in my head again.
“I’ll come by yours when I’m done at Gia’s,” I say, this conversation truly too much for my pea-size emotional abilities.
“Okay.” That small smile thankfully hasn’t dimmed.
And with that, I back out the door before I can think about the kind of man who crochets his friend a bandana so she won’t have to tie one herself.