Page 20 of I Think Olive You

“Nice to meet you,” I say, a little shy I can’t say it in Italian. But they don’t mind.

Chiara chatters at me in English. “Why are you here? Are you Giuliana’s boyfriend? Why aren’t you speaking Italian?”

My mouth is agape as I consider each question. “I—I’m from America and I’m here to work for the summer.”

I’m not going to touch the question about being Giuliana’s boyfriend. Best to move right past that.

Isabella urges me to sit, placing a plate of fresh bread and a pot of some kind of jam. “Pane, burro e marmellata.” Isabella confirms and sets a steaming cup of cappuccino in front of me.

“Chiara…” Giuliana warns but I’m not paying attention because I’m caught up in the breakfast in front of me and the woman who served it.

Isabella gives me a scrutinizing look and I fight the urge to squirm under her gaze. The older woman only breaks her perusal to look at Giuliana but settles back on me, as if something in my face gives away more than it should. But it melts into a small, guarded smile after a moment.

Taking the seat beside me, Giuliana leans over to whisper conspiratorially, “I apologize for their enthusiasm. We don’t get many new faces, especially not young men.”

“I don’t mind. It’s kind of nice.” It’s the truth. I should keep it guarded. But having someone fuss over me is poignant in a way I hadn’t expected.

Wow. The bar is on the fucking ground. An old lady gave you toast and you’re ready to weep over it? Pathetic.

“Yeah?” Giuliana asks, pulling me from my thoughts, her smile bashful. Her professionalism drops for a second, her eyes softer than they’ve been since I showed up at the grove.

“Yeah. I don’t have any siblings.”

That you know of.

Ugh. SHUT UP.

“My family isn’t super domestic,” I say, “so this is a welcome change.”

We turn back to the scene, and Chiara jumps into our conversation.

“Did you have to fly to get here?” Her brown eyes are large with curiosity and I wonder if she’s had the opportunity to fly anywhere.

“Yep! From New York and it took hours and hours. I even slept a little bit on the plane.”

“All just to be here? How long are you going to stay?”

I open my mouth to try and answer but realize too late I’m not too sure, imposter that I am.

Thankfully Giuliana intercedes. “He’s going to be here until the harvest—at the latest the first week in October. And we’re going to help him settle in. And we’re not going to bother him with all our questions. Sì?” She gives the little girl a pointed look until Chiara grumbles her agreement.

Harvest could continue into October, but for the purposes of the program I don’t need to stay longer than then. It’ll be plenty of time to get a feel for the process.

Chiara’s questions are stilled by Giuliana’s hand, an unspoken command to quiet herself and eat. Chiara pouts a little but perks up when Nonna tells us she’s going to make torta colonne for dessert tonight. And then all is forgiven, and we turn to simple sustenance to provide us with the energy we’ll need for what lies ahead.

Despite it being early in the day at the start of July, the sun pelts us with heat. Summer is well underway, and I have three months to make this happen—whatever this is. It’s hard to think about what I came here to do surrounded by her family, with the sweet tartness of homemade jam dancing on my tongue.

Once we're sated and ready for the day, Nonna shoos us away. Even though I don’t understand the words, the sentiment comes through: you’re wasting time, get a move on.

“Your family is great.” It hurts to think about—to consider if I carry through with my plan, I’ll be leaving them out in the cold.

They’re not merely a name on a contract or some intangible thing. Giuliana, Chiara, and Isabella are lovely ladies who are forging out a life despite loss and grief.

“They are. I’m lucky to have them even though they drive me up the wall most days.” Giuliana chuckles to herself and her smile does something to me, my mouth stretching in response even though I’ll never be in on the joke.

I have no grandparents I’ve met. No younger sibling to pester me. Loneliness was a construct to me before, something which felt less acute in New York with all my vices to distract me. Here, faced with the real thing, it’s sharper.

I’m tempted to ask her about some of those instances, to hear about what it was like. Giuliana looks up at me with an open expression on her face. It’s like she’s relaxed incrementally back into the woman I first met—the one unhindered by expectation and duty. But then it’s gone as quick as it came.

---