Page 10 of I Think Olive You

“Broo-sketta,” she emphasizes.

I repeat and she gives an almost proud nod, as if it’s her sole duty to inform ignorant Americans of their faux pas. More items emerge from the bag, and soon I sample the second most delicious thing I’ve tried since I arrived in Italy. Although the prosciutto crudo is scrumptious, it doesn’t quite compare to the pizza I tried. She gets even more determined when I tell her about my pizza Napoletana experience.

“Local food is as good as what you can find in the cities. Even better because it is so fresh, sourced from farms in the area. You tourists always choose the dishes closest to your American fare and miss out on a proper taste of Italy.” She bites into her own delectable morsel of cured meat and cheese, her expression darkening as irritation sinks between her brows.

“Are you saying real Italian pizza isn’t good?” I challenge, guessing it’ll get a rise out of her.

“Of course, I am not saying that,” she scoffs, “only, you miss out when you limit yourself.”

“Well, trust me when I say I’m not missing out right now.” My voice drops slightly, trying to convey how diverting I find her company.

“It’s just a taste. Pace yourself.”

I wonder if she’s aware of the effect she has. Probably—she seems comfortable in herself, not fazed by me at all. My glass of wine stays topped up and between the two of us, we drain the bottle. Throughout it all, she talks to me about the history of the aqueduct and the ancient Roman influence on the city. We snack and drink, and I soak up her words like parched earth enjoys the rain. It’s refreshing to see someone so at home in their skin.

I like to talk a good game, and my swagger is a maintained front to see me through my daily interactions… but Giuliana carries herself like someone who knows their place in the world and has worked to get there. I think again about our handshake, the calluses on the pads beneath her fingers.

“What brings you to Italy?” she asks, fist tucked under her chin as she leans her elbow on one of her knees.

“I’m here to find my purpose and discover more about my roots in the area. Vacationing in between.” I shrug, unsure how to be concise about being here to secure my future by fucking over someone else.

“Ah, so nothing big?”

Tilting her head, she examines me and gives me a little smile. What can I say? Coming here to find my path is the biggest step I’ve taken in my whole life. But things with her are light and easy, so I respond with a smile and a shrug, trying not to dwell on how big this contract thing might be. Focusing on her instead…

God, I haven’t had such an enjoyable conversation in quite a while.

“It does make sense then, why your name is Matteo.”

“And why I look like a Roman god?” I say it with a cheeky smile and my insides warm up when she laughs.

“And why your ego is as awful as your driving. All that Italian machismo pumping through your veins along with the marinara.”

“You’ve got me pinned. Half Italian, half toxic.” Fully overwhelmed by how much I want to touch you.

I lift my wine glass and she clinks hers against mine in response, drinking to what is a true statement. There’s something about the fresh night air. Early summer floats on the wind and stirs the ends of her hair, sending her scent swirling around me. The heady taste of good Italian wine and the lingering essence of food feeds my soul. It makes me feel like I can be better than I’ve been, better than everyone back home believes me to be. Because I want to be that man—I want my confidence to be real, my body to be honed by work, and my mind to be quiet.

Our plates are nearly empty, our glasses of wine dangerously low, but my chest aches with the prospect of our parting.

“Tell me about yourself. Do you have any deep dark secrets? A boyfriend? A nickname only certain people get to call you?” I ask, eager for whatever bits she deigns to share before the night’s over.

She shakes her head at me. “No. No boyfriend. No nicknames. I don’t like them very much. It’s always been Giuliana.”

I know then, at least for the rest of the night, I’m going to try and squeeze in at least one nickname or endearment—even if it’s to push her buttons and see if I can get her fiery again. Like she’d been when we almost collided. She carries on though, unaware of my plans.

“My job has been killing me—financials getting in the way—and although it’s necessary, the numbers are soul-sucking. I needed a break, so I thought I’d treat myself to some downtime before things pick up at work. Gravina is a world away from my troubles, but unfortunately, tonight is my last night here. I figured I’d bend my own rules and take a chance on a man who looked as lost as I felt.” A sad sigh leaves her and there’s an air of something different. The hollows beneath her eyes are shadowed and when she isn’t smiling or laughing, her expression settles into something weary.

Swirling the last bits of wine in her glass, she stares at the liquid as if it might provide her with something she needs.

“Lot of pressure?”

“Oh”—she gives a dry chuckle—“too much. But I never shy away from a challenge.” Her mouth is a resolute line, softening only when she lifts the tiny whirlpool in her glass to her lips and swallows.

“And I’ve run from almost every single one of mine. Totally opposite, you and I.”

I lighten the conversation, attempting some self-deprecation to make her smile—which works. Sort of. It’s a wry smile, one that makes me reach both hands out to touch the one she has resting on her crossed knee.

I turn her hand so it rests palm up on my own, tracing the lines with my fingertips—skimming over the rough edges of her skin and the lifeline carved deep into her skin.

---