Page 72 of I Think Olive You

Settling into the town car, Clyde heads us back to the apartment. If there’s anyone with experience in dealing with Alan and going up against my father where the law is concerned, it’ll be my mom.

Iwait until at least four bites into dinner to bring it up to my mother. At least that way there’s a small portion of food to combat the inevitable burn of stomach acid.

“So, I don’t know if it’s true or not but Alan told me if I didn’t take over the grove, I lose the business and my inheritance as well. He’s been harassing me to come into the office and sign it all over. Needless to say, I’m not jumping for joy at the prospect, even though I don’t want to run Palmer Enterprises. But it was a dick move on his part.”

“Matt, I wish you’d told me Alan’s been threatening you!”

“I was preoccupied with other stuff, sorry.” I try to sound contrite but it’s hard to feel much more than apathy giving way to anger. How could I have been so stupid, with Giuliana and with Alan?

“I saw.” She scoffs, pointing at the messages lighting up my phone screen throughout the meal. No more vibrations or chimes, it’s been soundless beacons hounding me for almost a week now. “Are you going to tell me, or do I take Buzzfeed’s word for it?”

“I heard it actually got picked up by People, so even non-internet people will be aware of it soon.”

Genevieve Palmer levels me with a look, one saying I won’t enjoy this path if I continue down it, so I sigh and come clean.

“It’s not what it looks like. I was trying to help Giuliana spy on a business model and got carried away. They didn’t have any tours left—I told the receptionist I was bummed because I planned to propose… and then all of a sudden, I had a ring, and the staff and other guests were in on it. Giuliana didn’t know. Her shock is real.”

Chest aching with the massive breath I try to suck in, my lungs stretch within my ribcage.

“It bit me in the ass. I had no idea someone was taking those pictures, and even less of an inkling they’d leak them. I’ve lived in this world, she hasn’t. I should have known better.”

Our cutlery scrapes on our plates, tiny parcels delivered into waiting mouths. It’s nowhere near Nonna’s cooking, a little too bland for my preference. Steamed asparagus, poached white fish, no crispy skin to speak of. There’s a hint of lemon and pepper—a saving grace—but I’d sell my left kidney for the pizza I had in Naples, or the focaccia Giuliana and I made that day in the kitchen. I’d have to sell my kidney, considering I’m supposedly broke now.

“How is Giuliana handling all this?” my mom asks. “I can’t imagine it’s been much easier for her.”

“I have no idea. After the pictures were leaked, she was pretty upset. That only got worse when she found out I’d lied to her about why I was in Italy and then kept lying throughout the summer. She said she never wanted to see me again, so I went. I haven’t heard anything since.”

“You need to make this right. That poor girl.”

Tension grows between us. Agitation spreads through me with each bite of food I’d rather not eat, stuck in a conversation I’d rather not be having.

“I don’t know how, not when she won’t talk to me. I already gave up my inheritance for her, I don’t know what else I could offer that would make it right.”

Please drop it, Mom. I’m so tired.

“Have you tried?”

“I don’t deserve to talk to her after I caused nothing but mess. No way am I going to insert myself there again when all I’ve done is hurt them. She made it clear she wanted me gone, and it didn’t seem like a temporary thing.”

It sounds noble, maybe I even mean it a little. But I think back to my session with Pritchard and the fear of failure—the abandonment and rejection piece rears its head.

“Then fix it without talking to her. The least you can do is reach out to the press and deny it, get them off your backs. It’s been days and it’s still going strong. I don’t think it’ll blow over this time, kiddo.”

I want this to feel normal. The conversation flowing—the intimacy of us sitting down to eat a meal together—shouldn’t pinch. But then I’d have to ignore the view of the city and the couch that costs more than a car, and the sleek bar top we’re eating at in lieu of the well-used wooden table from Abundantia. I want to tell her all about it and share the sweet moments with Chiara where I barely got a word in. I’d love to laugh over the long-game Isabella played in pretending not to understand me. It’s my mom. But we’ve never been close like that, and I don’t know how to bridge that gap.

“We may not talk all the time, but I love you. I care about how you’re doing and I’m here, okay?” Her manicured hand rests on top of mine, calming me where I’ve got my fork in a death grip.

“I love you too, Mom. I appreciate that. Enough about me though, how’ve you been?”

Her smile grows, eyes soft and I see some of those wrinkles she tries so hard to hide. My mother rarely smiles with her whole face. It’s a pleasant change.

“I’ve started working on a shoe collection. I’m not doing much runway or editorial anymore. Older models aren’t in demand. But I’ve spent more than half my life in a pair of high heels so I’m working with some designers on a line to go along with next year’s New York Fashion Week.”

The excitement beams off of her and it fills my chest with an ember, a spark of something good.

“Yeah? That’s so exciting. I’m happy for you!” And I mean it, she’s managed to thrive in an environment that’s rough on women and come out on the other side, still enthusiastic.

Smiling at each other, I want to bottle this moment, save it and send it back in time. Toss it into the Hudson or the East River and watch it bob along until an eleven-year-old me found it. I wish I could tell younger me that my parents loved me in their own way. It’s not my fault it wasn’t enough.

---