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“Then who? Who dares to say that we can’t be friends? Tell me and I’ll—”
I clamped my mouth shut. “That is why I do not say. Please, can we just not be doing this? You are able to be flirting with whoever as long as it is not me. There are many reasons for this.”
My eyes were suddenly quite dewy. I swiped at them with the backs of my hands. “What reasons could there be for two people not to be friends?”
“So many, Arlo, please…”
I lowered my arms. He stepped around me, his wide shoulders now sagging. Amid the trees and songbirds, I drew in a few shaky breaths, pulled on the well-fitted Arlo cares about nothing face, and strolled along at his side as if we were strangers. No one spoke. It was ghastly. When we cleared the stretch of forest, the small eatery could be seen about a mile away.
We both sped up, the need to get a few minutes away from Donvino and his rejection of me paining me with every step. Like an arrow in the gut, each step cut deeper and deeper. Why had I allowed myself to let someone in? It always ended this way and always would. God, I hated that I’d been vulnerable, and once more, my feelings were thrown back in my face.
The wind had picked up now that we were out of the trees. It pulled on our hair and clothes as it rattled the yellow and blue awning shading two tiny tables. The outdoor seating was a mere foot from the road, which didn’t seem at all safe to me, but then again, maybe that was part of the thrill. The Blue Duck Caffè seemed to not be open, or if it were just barely.
“Ah, service,” Donvino said as I walked in through the open doors of the wood-sided restaurant, stopping just inside to let my eyes adjust. I didn’t reply to his statement. I just sailed into the trattoria.
The interior was much nicer than the exterior. To the left, up a small set of steps, was a lovely dining area with perhaps twenty dark wooden tables. In front of me was a register atop an empty glass refrigerated case. Behind the register was a coffee machine with all the accoutrements. I called out. A heavy man with a thick black mustache appeared from around the corner, smiling brilliantly at me as he hurried behind the counter.
“Buongiorno, amico mio!” His voice was deep and merry.
“Buongiorno, could I order two coffees? Uhm, due caffè?”
“Oh, American. Yes, two coffees for my friend from the United States!”
“You speak English very well,” I said as he turned his back to me to begin tamping down the ground beans.
“Thank you. I lived in Chicago for ten years with my older brother,” he called over his shoulder. “Double shot?”
“Please, yes, lots of foam if you would.”
“Very good!” He worked on my order as I stared at Donvino, pacing outside the open doors. It hurt just to look at him. Still, I could not stop admiring the man. He was just so damn perfect. When he was done with his call, he slipped his phone into his back pocket, ran his fingers through his hair, and then whipped his head in my direction, catching me staring at him. His eyes grew stormy. I jerked my sight away and focused on the plants on the windowsill as the proprietor chattered on about the Chicago Bulls. Donvino turned away, but not before I saw a flash of pain that made me wince. So he was hurting too. None of this made any sense to me.
“…watch basketball?” He was asking as he created some sort of design in our coffee.
“Sorry, no, I’m not a sports guy.” I turned to watch him set our cool blue cups on the counter, the white foam crafted into darling little hearts.
“I see amore between you two, so I make the hearts,” he said, his eyes sparkling with joy over his creation. “Oh! You must have some of my wife’s cheesecake al limone. It is for the gods! I get you some.” Off he raced to the back as I sighed at the romantic gesture he’d created in our coffees. “Here! Is only two slices left but I think for you two lovers is perfect.” He placed the dish on the counter, peeled off the plastic wrap, and ran off to find plates and forks. All the while Donvino stood outside, unwilling to enter the restaurant.
“Thank you, this looks amazing,” I said to the owner as he bustled back with two blue plates, two silver forks, and a spatula.
“This is different from New York cheesecake. She makes it with ricotta cheese, so is much fluffier than what you are used to. Here, here, now go feed your man!” He pushed the plates across the worn wooden counter, grinning madly as he took my euros. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the man outside and I weren’t even friends anymore.
“Grazie,” I said after paying. I carried out our coffees first. Donvino turned from his study of the sheep across the road as I placed the saucers on the table. “We have cheesecake as well if you’re able to lower yourself to eating with me.”
He grimaced at the verbal spear I had just flung at him. Yes, it had been catty, but I was in pain and bitchy was my default setting when hurt.
“Arlo.” He sighed as I whirled away to get our treats. When I returned, he had taken a seat, rising quickly to take his food from my hand before sitting back down.
I dropped down into the dusty seat, shucked myself closer to the table, and picked up my fork. Nothing quite hit the spot when you’d been sliced open like a ripe avocado than sweets. I’d be hitting the baked goods for a few days after this set down.
“Signor Arlo,” he opened with. I glowered at him. “Arlo,” he quickly amended. “Bianca will be here within the hour. Perhaps you should contact Signor Piravino to let him know we had a tire go bad and will be late?”
“I’ll do that after we eat.” I forked up a bite, chewed it, and nearly wept at the beauty of this cheesecake. He nodded at the reply and slowly ate his treat.
“Thank you for the food and coffee,” he whispered as a car rolled past, the older couple gawking at us as they passed. I was tempted to give the old folks in the green Fiat Panda the finger, but I decided to save that for someone else. Like the guy sitting across from me, who looked like he had just kicked a puppy. “It was generous, but I can pay for mine.”
“I have it,” I snapped before taking another bite. Truth was, I was about ten euros away from being flat broke. It sucked. Being penniless was totally not recommended. I was hoping today would be considered work by the people who held the purse strings.
“Sì, yes, of course,” he murmured, and all conversation dried up and blew away. We ate and drank in dank silence, the sun above unable to burn off the cloud of uncomfortableness we were sitting under. I reached out to the olive mill manager to let him know about our tire trouble. He seemed most understanding, but then again, he would be as he worked for us. Finally, after what seemed like days, a gray pickup truck trundled up.
