Page 61 of I Think Olive You

“I love this. I do. How could I not?” She interrupts, gesturing around us to the grove stretching out below.

“My father put everything he had into this: blood, sweat, tears. Cliche, but true. And he didn’t want to leave it to me, but he wanted to keep it in the family. I was the last resort, and then he was dying, so I became the only option.”

The light fades from her eyes.

Setting down the basket in my grip, I step up toward her and cup her shoulders in my hands.

Stop. Don’t do this. Don’t touch her. You’re leaving.

You’re leaving.

It’s a warning for once, not a beratement—one I should heed.

The pink sunset glistens in the tears on her lashes and I can do nothing but lose myself in her pain. I have grief, sure. But mostly I have anger.

Giuliana carries so much more.

“I loved him, so much!” she bites out, wiping her tears away in frustration. “He was all I had after my mother died and all I ever wanted was to make him proud.”

My hand lifts of its own volition, stealing the tears from her cheeks.

“He’s proud, cara, you know he is.”

She snot-laughs at my attempt at the Italian endearment, though I know I’m getting better at rolling my r’s. Still, it has the desired effect. It breaks through the sadness that pulls at her features and makes my heart ache.

“You and your damn nicknames.” Shaking her head, Giuliana doesn’t wait for my response before carrying on.

“This first harvest without him went beautifully, and it feels wrong.” Her voice is small, even quieter once she tucks her face into the crook of my neck. Gripping my shirt in her hands, she whispers. “I miss him.”

Cradling the back of her head with my hand, I hold Giuliana while she sobs out her grief. The day blazing to an end around us sets her rich brown hair alight with gold. When her sobs calm to little hitches in her breathing she finally looks up at me.

“I’m sorry,” we both say, followed by a chuckle.

“What are you sorry for?”

“I wish I could take away some of the pain. I wish things were different.”

Because she’s hurting. Though mostly I don’t, because if any of this was different, I never would have met her.

She gives me a rueful smile, because we both know that no matter how much we want something, it doesn’t change the way things are. It doesn’t lessen our grief, and it doesn’t excuse my deception. With that thought I step away, trying to put distance between us again and respect the space she wants. Despite my numerous indiscretions the past few weeks, the least I can do is try to preserve the professional relationship she insisted on.

“Matteo?”

“Yes.”

“The harvest is over.” It means something.

I know it means something. But I can’t put my finger on it when she’s lit up by the magic hour and all I can think about is how I long to kiss away the taste of salt on her lips.

“Yes?”

Stepping closer, her vulnerability from earlier bleeds into something else—something raw.

“The harvest is over and so you don’t have to be here anymore.”

Of course. Of course, she’s sending me away.

Just as well. It could have been so much worse.

---