Page 78 of Our Chaotic Love Affair

I checked my watch a couple of times. We were supposed to have made appearances to prove my engaged status, but I didn’t want to leave. And I no longer cared about making an impression. Watching her enjoy the place was far better.

I was warm and I could feel my shirt sticking to my back, but I didn’t care. My hair was probably a disaster. I kept running my hands through it, which was a terrible habit I’d broken myself of years ago, but I felt nervous.

I was buzzed. Not drunk. That was sloppy and put me at risk of doing something that jeopardized my reputation and the family name. My brothers could get away with that shit but not me. I felt loose in a way I hadn’t felt since… I couldn’t actually remember when. She wasn’t suggesting we leave and I didn’t want to bring it up. I promised her sightseeing but she seemed to be perfectly content to stay in the courtyard.

The wine kept coming. So did the food. Little plates of cheese and cured meats and olives and bread that our waiter brought without us asking. We were sitting at the table, occupying space, and that meant we were supposed to be eating. I was fine with that.

Our waiter had taken a shine to Cleo almost immediately. She was an easy person to like for most people. I seemed to be the only that had disliked her at our first meeting. She was just not my normal cup of tea. She was loud. Bold. And just Cleo.

It wasn’t just our waiter that seemed to be drawn to Cleo. When we’d first sat down, the staff had been cool, professional but distant, the way service industry people were when they clocked you as tourists with money and decided you probably weren’t worth the effort.

But Cleo had asked our waiter’s name—Luca—and then actually used it. Had complimented the wine selection. Had asked where he was from, and when he’d said Calabria, she had gone wide-eyed and told him she’d been dying to go there, what was it like, should she visit in the spring or the fall?

By the time the second bottle arrived, Luca was bringing her samples of things that weren’t on the menu and telling her about his grandmother’s restaurant in Tropea. Now, every time one of the servers passed our table, they smiled.

She made everything better, I realized. Even people.

I watched her across the table. She was in the middle of a story, gesturing wildly with a piece of bread in one hand and her wine glass in the other. She was so animated that she didn’t notice she was about to knock over the olive oil. I reached out and moved it before disaster struck. She didn’t even pause.

“So I’m eight years old,” she was saying. “And I begged my parents for a pet. Begged them. I wanted a cat but my dad’s allergic, so we compromised on a hamster.”

“Compromised,” I repeated.

“Shh, I’m telling a story.” She pointed the bread at me. “So we go to the pet store and I pick out this adorable little hamster. White and brown, very fluffy, extremely cute. And I name her Francesca.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Like our tour guide?”

“Purely coincidental. Anyway, I loved this hamster. I cleaned her cage every week, I bought her the fanciest hamster wheel, I read to her and told her all about my day when I got home from school.”

“You read to your hamster.”

“She had excellent taste in literature.” Cleo took a sip of wine. “But then a few months go by and I notice Francesca is looking a little different. Specifically, she’s growing these enormous testicles.”

I choked on my wine.

“I’m talking huge,” Cleo continued, completely deadpan. “Like, disproportionately large. Bigger than his head. I was horrified.”

I was laughing so hard I had to set my glass down. “You didn’t notice when you bought him?”

“I was eight! I didn’t know what I was looking for!” She was laughing too now, that snorting laugh that she tried to hide behind her hand. “So I go running to my mom like, ‘Mom, something’s wrong with Francesca!’ And she takes one look and sighed like I told her the sky was falling.” Cleo dissolved into giggles. “She just says, very calmly, ‘Honey, I think Francesca is a boy.’”

“What did you do?”

“I changed his name to Franklin immediately. Gave him a proper masculine identity to match his massive hamster balls.” She took another drink, still grinning. “He lived for three more years. Very happy life. Extremely well-endowed. Now, as an adult, I feel bad for him.”

“Why?”

“He had those big balls and no lady hamsters to show them off to.”

“You’re under the impression males can only be happy if we’re showing them our testicles?”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “Is it not true?”

“Do women need to show their boobs?”

Another very casual shrug. “We don’t mind showing a little cleavage.”

“No. Men do not need to flash their balls to be happy. I’m sure your little hamster wouldn’t have minded getting laid, but I’m not a hamster. I don’t know hamster libidos.”