“You don’t have to thank me. I’m glad to be here.”
She holds my gaze for a moment before saying very quietly, “You must have been so angry with me.”
And here we go.
I take a moment, let myself settle, because the mention of the past four months has the effect of lighting up everything in my body, and not in a good way. I inhale slowly through my nose and wait for my nervous system to calm before I speak. “I wasangry, yes. But more than that, I was hurt, and I was confused.”
She nods and rolls her lips in to bite down on them.
“I wanted us to talk, to figure out how and if we could find…” I sigh. “I don’t know what. Something. Anything. But when you agreed that we were casual, I started to accept maybe that’s what you wanted.”
“No, that’s whatyouwanted.” She’s not loud, but she’s firm when she says it. She glances at the table closest to us, surmises that the couple there is paying no attention to us, and repeats, “It’s whatyouwanted.”
She’s not wrong. “I know. It was. I insisted on that, but…” I lift one shoulder and pick up my wine. I look away from her. Her dark eyes are too intense right now.
She lets things sit for a moment, and the waiter arrives with our salads. She seems to study hers for a moment or two before glancing back up at me. Her eyes are wet, which makes my heart squeeze in my chest. “It wasn’t.” Two words. Two simple words that lodge a lump in my throat.
“Wasn’t what?” Yeah, I’m gonna make her spell it out. It’s the least she owes me.
“Casual. It wasn’t casual for me. It’snotcasual for me.” She picks up her wine, and her eyes don’t leave my face. I can feel her gaze, even as I look everywhere but at her. “Was it for you? Tell me the truth. Be honest with me and I will accept whatever you say. I promise.” Her words are firm, but when I return my gaze to her face, she looks terrified. If it wasn’t such a serious moment, I might laugh.
Tell me the truth.
She’s not asking a lot, wanting the truth. Of course she isn’t. And I owe her nothing less than that, right? My heart is hammering in my chest now, I can feel it in my head. I clear my throat and glance down at my untouched salad for a beat before I whisper, “No.”
“No, it wasn’t casual or no, you won’t tell me the truth?”
I lift my gaze, wondering if she’s toying with me, but her face is open. “No, it wasn’t casual.” I clear my throat again, because what the hell with the lump that won’t go away? “It started out that way. It was my intention. It was what I wanted. Something fun. Something not serious. And it started out that way.”
Marina nods and sips, and the terror is gone from her expression now, replaced with something I can’t quite put my finger on.
“I honestly don’t know exactly when it changed for me, but it did. I didn’t even realize the extent until after I was home and had time to mull it all over, to replay everything in my mind.”
“And what was it that you realized? After the replaying?”
Goddamn, her questions are poignant.
I sit for a moment, not sure if admitting my true feelings will help or hurt. Will it mean happiness or disappointment? Why is being true to myself—out loud—so fucking daunting?
While I’m stuck in my own confusing head, the waiter arrives with our lasagna and penne and a plate of the largest meatballs I’ve ever seen, and I take the opportunity to breathe, to think, to glance across the table at Marina, who’s trying to help him make room, since neither of us have touched our salads yet. Before he leaves, he tops off our wine, and then I’m looking across a feast to meet dark, sparkling, loving eyes.
“I was in love with you.” I just blurt it out, and I’m not even surprised. There it is, hovering in the air between us.
“Was?” she asks, raising her dark brows.
“Am,” I clarify. “Iamin love with you.”
“Well, thank fucking Christ,” she says as she blows out a breath and it ends up a snort-laugh. And the F-word in her accent is…
“Wait. You’re happy about this?”
“Of course I am. Shouldn’t I be?” She’s laughing outright nowas she puts down her fork and leans toward me. She lowers her voice and says, “I’m in love with you, too,sciocco.”
I have no idea what that means, but her smile is radiant, and I let myself bask in it for a moment or two. I smile back. Maybe not as hugely as her, but I do. I can’t look at her face and not. “Now what?” I finally ask.
She cuts a meatball in half, then in half again, stabs a bite, and pops it into her mouth. She gazes at me as she chews. “Well,” she says after what feels like an hour of staring at me, “we can’t not try to make this work, right? We are in love.”
“Are you going to grin like a goof every time you say that?” I ask softly.