Chapter 29
I lost Nico in the sea of celebrations Saturday night.
After the presentation of the ridiculous pink trophy, a whole area of the town had been set up with a live band and food stalls and people milling around, drinking—all the inhabitants of Cassero still covered in cheap tacky glitter even hours after it was thrown haphazardly on everyone.
Nico found me there and congratulated me, but with so many people around, we never could find a moment to actually talk. And when he came to tell me goodbye, since he was going to bed early to rest before his race, I didn’t have a chance to ask if he wanted me to come with him.
I figured I’d take him at his word and that he’d need the rest. After all, I don’t think I caught my breath for a full hour after our race finished, and now with Sunday morning staring me in the face (or . . . after looking at a clock, apparently midday), my limbs feel like stiff taffy.
But I don’t like how weird it feels to wake up alone.
He doesn’t need me to pump him up before a race. And I don’t need him.
But I don’t like the weirdness of the feeling.
I groan as I roll over to get my phone. Texts from Anita parade across my screen.
Anita: We won! You won! You did it!
Anita: My cousins sent me pictures—why was there so much glitter on everything!?
Anita: How many drinks were purchased for you? Are you never going to be allowed to leave?
Anita: I hate not being there for this!
I sit up and stretch, my muscles on fire. I hadn’t realized quite how out of shape I was until I attempted to run three races with a barrel in short succession.
Kit: I was hoping you’d explain the meaning of the glitter.
My phone immediately rings, and I pick it up. “Uh hi,” I say. “Glitter is all I need to mention to get you to call me?”
“Hush,” she says. “It’s early here, but I wanted to hear all about it. I don’t need your sarcasm.”
“But my legs hurt,” I whine.
“Your legs don’t have any bearing on your mouth.”
“So snippy.”
She ignores my comments. “I can’t believe Cassero won. It’s been so long. Do you think the men can win too?”
“Doesn’t it count for something that the women won?”
“Not really.”
I shake my head and get up, stumbling over to the kettle to make myself a necessary cup of tea. “Well, I’m not a barrel-rolling expert—”
“Except clearly you are after yesterday—”
“—so I have no idea what our men’s team is capable of vis-à-vis the other teams. I’m not going to place any bets.
And I’m also going to take one fucking second to relish the fact that I practically tore my arm off to secure the victory for your damn neighborhood, and I will not have that be ignored. ”
“Your neighborhood now,” she teases, and I hate that it makes me think of Nico’s words yesterday.
“For like half a week,” I retort, and that shuts her up.
After a pause she asks, “Have you finalized everything with the investors at the new restaurant?” It’s the subject we’ve mostly avoided, but that little reminder of time apparently puts it back front and center.
“My lawyer’s been going back and forth with them.”
“John’s lawyer,” she quips.
“She’s my lawyer, Anita,” I huff. Ever since I told her about the proposal (and she made me send it to her), she’s been trying to insist that I not stay so passive in this process.
But I’m not sure I’m ready to face the reality of everything that will come when I officially say yes.
I’ve already had to say yes to the restaurant reopening date, and it’s truly official now that the media has been notified.
I’ll only have ten days back in New York to get my bearings again with the revamped space and make sure the staff is all up to speed again.
I know they want to make an announcement about the new restaurant on the same day we’re back up, but I’ve been hesitant to finalize it.
“So why don’t you just call them?” she asks.
“Call who?”
“The investors. Shoot them an email, say you want to go over the final details with them and talk through it. You don’t need John on a call; you don’t need anyone else.
This is your name on the restaurant from the start.
You’re the name that’s bringing people in the door.
It’s not like the last time, where you were brought in and then proved yourself.
You’re the draw and an owner of this new one.
They’re all working for you. Get your ducks in a row and finalize the plan. ”
“Damn,” I chuckle, thinking about having gotten a similar speech from Emilia mere days ago. Maybe growing up together made them more alike than I’ve even realized. “Isn’t it like six in the morning for you? Where are you getting all that fire from?”
“From looking at videos of you hauling your ass down a stretch of Manciano and seeing Cassero’s good name honored!”
I sit back down and blow on my tea. I wish Belpagna wasn’t closed right now due to Palio prep. Every damn thing in this town is prepping for the main event this afternoon, so I’m stuck with my tea and my stale taralli.
“I know you’re right,” I say quietly.
“So what’s stopping you?”
I haven’t told her about Nico, and in this moment he’s all I can think about.
In the beginning, my rationale was that it wasn’t my secret to tell, when Anita’s so connected to everyone Nico knows. But I know it’s an excuse, a glaring red arrow, reminding me that Italy hasn’t magically cured me of my emotional compartmentalizing. I know I should tell her.
But not today. I need to get my head on straight—Nico doesn’t have any actual bearing on this conversation anyway.
Soon this thing between us is going to be over.
I’ll be back in New York, grinding at my restaurant and talking to media about opening a new one.
He’ll be here, quietly tweaking his machines and making olive oil. Why should it matter?
I’ve loved living in this moment, and I’m going to soak up the next few days, but Anita’s right. I need to let myself be stronger from this break. I need to take what I’ve learned, be grateful for it, then get back to what I love. I need to let that fuel me to fully steer my own ship for once.
“Nothing’s stopping me,” I finally say. “I’ll shoot them an email right now.”
“Perfect,” she says. “Then I’ll let you get to it. I can’t wait to watch everyone in New York go apeshit when they announce this new restaurant. You deserve all the good things, cara mia.”
She hangs up, and I stare at my phone. I shoot a note off to Brian, the lead guy for the property, asking if he has a few minutes to chat about details tomorrow, and I suggest a time. He sends an email back almost immediately with a calendar invite, so I guess this is really happening.
I get myself together and head over to Pasta Fresca. It’s hard to imagine a bigger night than last night, but we’re prepping enough food for almost double the number of people. More music, more dancing, and apparently more snacks.
At quarter to five we walk over to the edge of town, where a procession is going to begin.
There’s a lot happening before the race can start.
The procession is along the route of the race, and people from each neighborhood come out in outfits with flags and horns and a lot of noisemakers.
I’m not sure how people get designated to be in the procession versus a necessary fan on the side cheering, but all I know is that as a member of the Cassero women’s team, I’m given no choice but to participate.
I’m in the back of our large crowd but can see Nico up front, made into everyone’s favorite flag-bearer because no one could think of anyone better to stand at the front for Cassero.
He gets the loudest cheers, old ladies give him kisses on the cheek, and the procession keeps getting slowed down because so many people want to stop him to say hello.
The whole thing takes around twenty minutes to do this tiny loop since everyone’s constantly chatting, but it’s amazing to be a part of something so competitive and yet so unifying.
After the procession, the teams break off to warm up, and everyone else goes to see a live performance of some local band everyone seems to go crazy for, followed by a very dramatic draw for the teams, and finally, the first rounds are set to begin.
When it’s Cassero’s turn, we make our way back to Piazza Garibaldi, where I spot Nico finishing his warm-up with his team.
I’m powerless to not just stop and stare.
His floppy hair is being held back by one of those stupid sweatbands that I think usually make people look like douchebags, but in this case it somehow works on him.
He’s so focused that he’s got one side of his bottom lip between his teeth.
It’s an expression I’ve seen on him late at night, but from a very different angle.
Just the thought makes me involuntarily blush.
Usually when we’re in public together, he’s not like .
. . stretching and curling the edges of his T-shirt up so I can see every cord of his arm muscles.
I think that’s torture enough, but then he catches me staring and breaks out into a grin.
And somehow that is even sexier than any of the one-step-from-my-personal-porn warm-ups I’ve been panting over.
He’s this singular ray of sunshine in a sea of combatants ready for battle.
Everyone else is shouting and trying to pump up their teams and getting riled up (most frequently with bottles of beer that someone is selling out of a cooler).
But he’s simply unfazed, looking over at me like he’s spotted me across a café and we’re about to sit down for some bomboloni rather than in the middle of a giant crowd of barrel-rolling spectators.
And it’s so strange that that—that one look—hits me so hard.
Because it’s so abundantly clear how much I love him, even if I’ve tried not to.
And simultaneously I know, because of that, it’s even more important that I let him go.