Page 48 of I Think Olive You

It slides out easily enough now that I know it’s there. Inside I find yellowing paperwork, some of it brittle with age. It’s in Italian, of course. Should I even be surprised at this point? Drawings and plans. It takes me a second to realize it’s a rough mock-up of the grove and some of these notes have to do with the business. Gathering it up, I tap the papers against the surface of the desk to straighten them out. The pile hits the wood with two soft thwacks and then something smaller flits out of the plans before I can straighten the stack again.

It floats to the ground like a leaf from a tree, swaying side to side for a second before it meets gravity and wood. My dirty fingertips pick up the square, one side smooth to the touch.

Fuck.

Staring up at me are faces, familiar and uncanny at the same time. Giuliana and Chiara’s features are echoed on the man in the center, and beside him a woman I don’t recognize. On the other side, with an arm thrown around the shoulders of Lorenzo Santoro is a face I’ve grown to despise. It’s a kick to the gut to realize without the years and polish he looks just like me.

Time and money had hardened Tommaso’s look into something distant and cold. Here, his hair is longer and curly like my own, haloed around his head. His cheeks stretch into a gigawatt smile, dimples carved deeply. Gone is the slicked back, short hair. Lost is the tailored suit and the scowl. It’s like looking into a mirror to the past and I stumble back, sliding down the wall to slump on the floor.

My hands shake, the photograph blurring as the past catches up to me. Finally.

I turn the picture over—a single line in pencil. It’s the same handwriting as on the contract, that flowy script of my father’s signature continued here.

I don’t need Italian lessons to translate this. Not when his eyes sparkle with a joy I’ve never seen and affection jumps out of the image like a striking snake. This man is not my father. But I wish I’d met this man, at least once.

There will be no more cleaning tonight, no renovation or organizing. I’ve left this alone for too long and it can’t wait anymore. My mind is made up on what I’m doing with the grove now but I still need to know what happened back then. How could everything have gone so wrong?

One person might be able to shed some light on the situation.

And she’s in the big house right now.

She knows.

She’s known this whole time. There’s no way she could have looked at my face, seen me, and not also seen my father at the same time.

It’s time to talk to Isabella. It’s time for the truth.

Istorm up to the house, my breath a caged, wild thing in my chest. The photograph shakes in my trembling grip and I almost start patting my pockets for my vape before I remember that it’s been ages at this point since I’ve been able to use it.

I’m not sure what I expect to happen. I can only assume that my shit’s about to be blown wide open, but I can’t wait anymore. Running isn’t an option at this point. I’ve avoided my father long enough. There’s no rationality here, no more hiding. Giuliana might not know who I am and what me being here means, but I’m betting Isabella is more informed than she’s been letting on.

The sun hangs lower, not quite sunset, and I could’ve gotten at least another hour in before the sky changed colors. Storming in through the front door, I don’t bother with my shoes. I don’t even check if she’s even in the kitchen before I burst in.

Isabella looks up startled when I intrude, an explosion of ingredients on the countertop in front of her.

“Matteo!” she scolds, her hand against her heart as if to still the sudden ferocity of its beating.

“Isabella, we need to talk.”

She must see something on my face—must know that what I have clutched in my hand is important.

“Si. Go shower. Then we talk.”

My rage and confusion drain away when she speaks to me. In English.

“You speak English?” It sounds stupid but I’m being torn in so many different directions.

“Of course. Who do you think helps Chiara with her schoolwork?”

“I just assumed that Giuliana… and you… why didn’t you say anything?”

“Giuliana is busy working. I look after them both,” she says with a gravity I know I don’t understand. I’ve never had to care for another person and see to their wellbeing on a daily basis. I know without her saying it that it’s more than “looking after.” It’s feeding and clothing, and crying and worrying. It’s midnights and early mornings, scabbed knees and rumbling tummies, and heartbreak.

“And also, maybe I don’t like to talk to you. I speak Italian so you leave me in peace. Shower. You stink.” She chases me out with a wave and I set the paperwork on the table we’ve eaten all our meals on, before escaping to my room.

The spray is scalding but it washes rust and dust from my skin. After a few minutes of scrubbing, I’m grounded again.

You knew this was going to happen, sooner or later.

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