Page 75 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

16

The Kiss of Betrayal

A few days later I drove to Alberto’s restaurant in response to his invitation to check on some stuff. ‘Hey, Chef, I got your message. What’s up?’

He turned at the sound of my voice and grinned as he reached out to wipe his hands on a dish towel. Did this man never leave the kitchen?

‘Is that how long it takes you to return your calls? Two weeks?’

‘I’m sorry, Alberto. It’s been crazy.’

‘I know you have your own cake business and that it’s doing very well, but a bride should not make her own cake. So I wanted to show you what I can do,’ he said, whipping a lid off a cake stand.

I gasped. Was he trying to kill me? It was halfway between a cupcake and a cake, obviously delicious and white, like real love should be. That it looked virginal in its whiteness was beside the point. It was too good for me.

And the guilt for not having gone back (yet) to the gym was gnawing at me. Mr. Clean must have thought I was a flake, all mouth and no action. But right now, that was the least of my problems.

‘Don’t be fooled by its apparent innocence,’ he said, taking my elbow. ‘Inside it’s a tiramisu with the wickedest darkest chocolate – a mini version just for you.’

Andofme, as well, apparently. Layers and layers of sinful thinking. Yep, that was me.

‘And you made this just for… me?’

‘Sì… to give you a taste of what is to come.’

‘Thank you so much, Alberto, but I already told you I’m not getting married—’

‘I’m sorry for you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Here,’ he said. ‘Just a taste – a small one. You’ll love it. I made it to cheer you up. You shouldn’t be sad. Ever. Not with those eyes.’

Little did he know his kind gesture had been for naught. This wedding wasn’t going to be. Ever.

He took a step closer, waving the cake under my nose. The fragrance of coffee and chocolate caressed my nostrils, which twitched like a rabbit’s. My very own wedding cake. Just mine. Mine the wedding cake, mine the wedding plans, mine (and mine only) the dreams of a life together. Because Julian had drifted out of my reach. How long before he packed his bags for good and gave me ‘The Speech’? Or would he go on behind my back as long as possible as Ira had?

Was he in love with her, or was she one of the many? And then the Tattinger came to mind again. They’d go to the hotel, pour themselves a glass, clink and drink to themselves. And then he’d take her glass, put it on the nightstand and push her long red hair off her neck and… I burst into tears.

‘Ehi, ehi, che succede? What’s wrong?’ he asked as I buried my face in the collar of my jacket, not wanting him to see me like this and most of all, wanting to disappear into thin air.

‘The wedding is off!’ I blurted. ‘This time for good.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Because he’s cheating on me!’

‘Impossibile,’ he sentenced.

At that, I dug in my pocket for the offending credit card message on my cellphone and shoved it under his nose. He read silently, his eyes hardening, shaking his head.

‘Idiota,’ he muttered. ‘Che idiota. If I had a woman like you, I’d treat you like a princess,’ he seethed.

The sensation of déjà vu was too painful to relive. Not too long ago, Julian had said the same about Ira. He’d promised to cherish me and love me forever, and yet here I was again. Damn men.

‘You all say that in the beginning. Then you get fed up and crave fresh meat. You’re all the same.’

‘No, that’s not true, Erica,’ he murmured, way too close for comfort.

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