Page 2 of The Lucky One
When she reaches the table, she turns around. I raise my chin to a respectable angle just in time. Although I’m still taking in every last detail—her high cheekbones, and the way her dark blue blouse compliments her rich coloring. Her lipstick is shiny and perfect in a way that makes me want to kiss it off her. She’s wearing a name tag readingChiara, and I wonder if that’s a common name in America, or not.
She sets the menu down and says something quickly that I miss. But context is everything, and by the gesture she makes toward the kitchen, and toward the smart watch on her wrist, I’m positive she told me to hurry up and choose something.
I squint at the menu, quickly locating the pizza section. Then I pull out my phone and begin translating the toppings. “Prosciutto” is some kind of ham. The thought of it just makes me hungrier. “Basil” is easy because the Finnish word isbasilikaa. But “mushroom” requires me to tap in the word, because we call thoseherkkusieniäin Finnish.
And the waitress is already back, smiling at me and asking the only sentence I’ve understood so far. “Would you like pizza?”
“Yes, please,” I say.
“What do you like on top?” Her smile is so pretty that it wrecks me a little. Everything I’ve just translated dives right out of my head. “Uh, you…” I say.
She blinks.
“Sorry. I…” I bury my face in my hands. “Have little English. I mean—please you tell me what is like on pizza.”
Ugh. Even I know that’s a horrible sentence. I want to die of embarrassment.
But she doesn’t laugh. She reaches out and puts a hand on my shoulder, and the warmth of it calms me down a notch. “I have an idea, okay?” She reaches down and plucks my phone off the table. I see her tap something into my translation app. Then she hands it back.
She’s translated:Is there anything you DON’T like on pizza?
I like a woman who cuts to the chase. I typeananasinto the Finnish side of the app, and press translate. Then I hand her the phone.
When she reads it, she gives a warm chuckle that I feel in my belly. “Okay then. Can I just bring you my favorite pizza?”
I nod, more confident in the appealing gleam of her gaze than I am in my ability to understand what she just said.
“Great.” She grabs my phone again and taps something quickly. Then she sets it down, trots off toward the kitchen and calls out— “One more, Uncle Rico! A medium pie, the Chiara Special!”
A grumble sounds from the kitchen, and I pick up my phone to read what she wrote.Maybe we should form a club, because I agree with you. Pineapple has no business on pizza.
When I catch her eye, she winks at me. And I fall a little further in love. Although I wish we could have a real conversation.
I watch her cash out the couple at the far table, smiling and speaking easily with them. And the week’s exhaustion settles into my chest like a heavy weight. It’s so much effort to communicate the smallest things.
Maybe food will help. It’s the only idea I’ve got.
* * *
Chiara bringsme a tall glass of cold water, plus bread in a basket, with olive oil for dipping. And then she brings me a small green salad which I demolish instantly.
When the pizza finally arrives, it’s gorgeous. A crisp crust blackened in spots by the wood-fired oven. The cheese bubbles. The scent of garlic washes up to my nose. But it’s a funny pizza—one half green, one red. I’ve never seen that before.
“Here you have the pesto, feta and vegetables,” she says, pointing at one half. “That’s the healthy side. I like artichokes and peppers and onions. But over here are all the meats—you’ve got your prosciutto, pepperoni, and olives on a margherita base.” She pats me on the shoulder. “Enjoy!”
And I do. In fact, I eat the whole pie. Every slice. It’s delicious, and I haven’t felt so well cared-for in months. “Could I have coffee?” I ask, because I know how to pronounce it, and I’m not quite ready to leave this perfect moment.
She brings me dark espresso in a dainty white cup. And then she brings out a tray with three things on it—a slice of cheesecake, a tiny plate of little cookies, and an ice cream scoop, which I understand to be a clue as to what their other dessert would be.
I point at the small cookies, and she places them on the table with a smile. “Take your time, hon,” she says. Then she gives me a patient smile.
That smile could break a man.
Specifically this man.
It’s been a long week, and maybe I didn’t handle it all that well. But I know one thing with absolute certainty: I need to learn English.
Or else this perfect woman won’t want to date me.
