Page 42 of I Think Olive You

Slightly wobbling, I stick my hand out and trace my palm against stone walls as I stumble down each step. Prosecco on an empty stomach was such a rookie move. When did my feet get so heavy? Halfway down my brain catches up. Her nickname for me pierces the haze.

Twisting to face her, I drink in her expression—the concern and vulnerability there.

I open my mouth to ask her to say it again so I can watch the word leave her lips. But as usual drunken mistake is an ethos I live up to.

My shoes slip against the floor as I’m sucked backwards, the earth calling me down. Giuliana’s expression shifts to one of fear, that hand with the ring outstretched toward me but it’s too late. Gravity wins.

A sick thud, a faint scream, and then darkness settles around me like an old friend.

Ice is painful when you think about it. It pierces. I’ve heard freezing to death is a peaceful experience, but that’s a fucking lie. The back of my head is wet and freezing. I blink up into the light of a chandelier and the second sensation I’m aware of is Giuliana’s shaking hands surveying my body.

“Teo… Please. Wake up.” Her voice sounds different than I’ve heard it before, shaky and scared.

“Lia,” I groan, pain filtering in through the haze. And then her hand cups my cheek, the warm pad of her thumb stroking to soothe.

“Francesca went to find help. One of the guests is a doctor. For now, I just need you to stay awake, okay?” Her voice is gentle, kind and caring as it wraps around me. I want nothing more than to have her keep talking while I slip back under.

“I’ll try. I’m assuming I fell down the rest of the stairs?”

Fucking idiot.

“Yes, but it doesn’t look like anything is broken. I’m more concerned about your head.”

Her words filter through and I realize the wet cold is an ice pack against the back of my skull.

“Ow… Could have been worse.”

“How?”

“Could have been all the stairs,” I joke, and she gives a little laugh and a shake of her head that tells me she thinks I’m totally ridiculous. But beneath it there’s a softness and I wonder if I heard her call me “Teo” or if it was my own deluded fantasy from my drunkenness and the bump on my head. I’ll likely never know. Even if she did slip and give me a nickname, Giuliana will probably want to pretend it never happened.

Francesca, and a small group of people filter into the bottom of the stairway. The supposed doctor kneels beside me, a phone flashlight shone into my eyes. He asks me to follow the movement of his finger and then probes around the giant goose egg on the back of my skull.

He presses against parts of my body to assess my pain and within a few minutes he’s deemed me okay to try and sit up.

“There’s no bleeding, no broken bones. You might have some muscle soreness, especially on your back, and your head is definitely going to hurt for a while. It doesn’t appear too serious but given that you’ve been drinking and we can’t rule out a concussion, you’ll have to be observed tonight.”

“No, no hospitals.” The last thing I need is to have to deal with that on top of everything else.

“The hospital is quite far and we’ve all been drinking. It might be best to stay here if you have someone to look after you tonight.”

I’ve never had anyone to care for me overnight, not unless you count the nannies my parents paid for. My mom was a hotshot model, my dad a mogul. Neither had time for a sick or scared child. Before I can protest, admit that I don’t have a person, Giuliana speaks up.

“He’s my fiancé, I’ll take care of him tonight. You just tell me what I need to do.”

Her statement does something funny to my insides, leaving them warm and gooey. Despite the fact that I should decline—should definitely not infringe on her whole evening when I know she’s mad at me—I don’t.

“First thing is getting some food and water in him. Then you’ll have to try and keep him awake for a bit. After that he can sleep for short periods of time but you’ll have to wake him up sporadically to check for any issues. If he starts throwing up at any point, especially if there’s clear liquid or blood coming from his nose, you call for an ambulance immediately.”

It does me no good to remind them that I might throw up anyway because I’ve been drinking. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.

“I’ll send some food up to the room,” Francesca promises.

The doctor helps me to my feet and I only flounder a little before I’m able to right myself. Giuliana wraps her arm around my waist, propping herself under my arm to help with my balance. Once I find my feet her touch is gone.

When we walk up the stairs to our room this time there is no hand holding, no pretend affection. I change into pajamas in the bathroom and Giuliana does the same when I’m done.

Shortly after, Francesca sends a tray of food up for each of us and I might die from how good it smells. Italy never ceases to astound me with its beauty and its food. The antipasto is a plate with summer melon wrapped in prosciutto and burrata cheese adorning it. The taste dances on my tongue like I’m the rat in that scene from Ratatouille. By the time I get through the primo piatto of pasta orecchiette, I feel halfway human. The pasta are these tiny bowls perfect for holding the delicious tomato-based sauce.

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