Page 31 of I'll Look for You, Everywhere
Both elbows rest on his knees as he hunches forward, the movement closing the gap between us so that his knee briefly grazes mine. My leg goes rigid as the expensive fabric of his trousers touches my skin. God, here is a man in so much distress he’s physically recoiling into himself, and I find a way to feel anxious. That’s my issue. I never know what other people are trying to say without words.
Feeling childish and brave, rebelling against no one but the painful throb of my heart, I place my hand on his shoulder and gently rub my palm back and forth. It’s how my father comforted me when I found the crab-apple pudding Anika and I made for faeries in the trash. ‘Life has a funny way of surprising us,’ and it was such a him thing to say that I closed the garbage lid and gave a throaty laugh.
When I touch Dexter’s shoulder, the warmth and stability that I know my papa to have is absent from the cool fabric of his suit. I remove my hand, lowering it onto my lap.
‘Theo has always fought me at every turn. I say black, he says white. I want him to go to university in Sweden, he manages to go to Yale. I don’t know where I went wrong. When the moment he started hating me was, I just can’t figure it out.’ He grips the roots of his hair as if trying to physically pull the memory from his brain. ‘Every football game, every birthday, every award ceremony. I was there, front row, waiting and watching. I got him his first watch.’ He laughs, but it’s forced and awkward. ‘It was the only thing he didn’t take to college, left in the middle of his bed. Always ready to pick a fight.’ I could see the energy draining from him. His skin looking more translucent. The silver in his hair now a sad, dull grey.
This was new information to me. I had always assumed that the Sinclairs were a close-knit family judging by the smiles shared behind the cigarettes and caffè after dinner.
‘Have you tried talking to him about it?’ I say this because, what else do you say?
‘Theo prefers actions rather than words.’
I frown. What on earth does that mean?
Before I can even begin to try to muster something to say, Dexter places a hand on top of mine. The edges of his palm graze against my thigh and I stiffen involuntarily. ‘I’m sure he’ll come around eventually. Don’t worry yourself.’
My mind whirls. What an odd thing for him to say. Here I was believing I was comforting him, when in reality he was reassuring me?
‘Yeah, me too.’ I crack a smile that I hope is enough to end whatever heart to heart this is turning out to be. He briefly squeezes my hand before letting go.
‘Well, I guess I should try to get some work done. Busy days before the wedding. Your mother is calling our house non-stop in preparation.’ He nods to me one last time and then he’s gone.
My wrist twitches. What on earth just happened? One moment I was fighting with Theo, the next his father was confessing family secrets to me at eight in the morning. This entire interaction played out like I was a priest behind the confessional that Dexter offloaded his burdens to and then walked away. The spot on my hand where he touched me feels dirty. Dexter used me to forgive his own sins! My head swarms to find sympathy, replaying how his brows furrowed in pain at the mention of his son. Clearly the man is upset, and I should be concerned for him. But there’s a stronger, more potent feeling of aggravation for his blame on Theo alone. It’s pathetic, I realize. He’s a pussy.
18
THEO
After a few days of sunbathing and driving around Chivasso, soaking up everything I had missed, I decide it’s finally time to go see Giuseppe. The neon light flickers sporadically on the cafe’s window, tiredly screaming L’ESSENZA when it has the energy. Once, this place used to be where we came to feel like adults. I shift my glance to the table underneath the faded landscape of the Ligurian coastline. This was where the boys from school sat every Thursday afternoon. We’d hide our uniform ties in our backpacks. Enduring the bitter taste of espresso burning our throats, silently masking our grimaces after each sip. I would lick my gums to get rid of the aftertaste while eyeing the sugar, then look away because no one else would make the first move. The tired doorbell jingles as I enter and I stifle a smile. The cafe is small, with torn leather booths and scratched plastic tables, and the smell of freshly pressed coffee is strong enough to make me pause at the front door.
A patch of light warms the table in the back right; the laminated corner is chipped, revealing a cheap plastic interior. I slide into the booth of the table when I hear the familiar throaty voice of the owner, Giuseppe, yelling at one of the waitresses.
‘Questi biscotti sono grandi come me! Nessuno vuole una bocca piena di impasto. Cazzo, cazzo, cazzo!’ These cookies are as big as me! Nobody wants a mouth full of dough. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
I dip my head, silent laughter causing my shoulders to shake. Giuseppe comes barrelling through the cafe, a yellowed apron tied around his stomach. He’s bigger than I remember. Grey stubble covers his thick neck and face, and his cheeks are bright red, shiny from being in the hot kitchen. He coughs and the sound is painful, coming out more as a wheeze. I frown; that’s stronger than I remember, too.
Hearing the bell ring, he searches the place, which is empty besides the seat I occupy, hands on his hips, and I can see the anger resurfacing as he starts to think someone is playing a prank on him.
‘Lo sai che fai il peggior caffè di Torino?’ You know you make the worst coffee in Torino?
His head jerks towards the sound of my voice and his big belly ripples with the sudden movement. A dirty rag appears from his back pocket and he wipes his face with it.
‘Mio dio, Theo? Il re è tornato?’ My god, Theo? Has the king returned?
I feel a blush creep up my neck at that word again. King. What the fuck about me is royal?
‘Alright, alright. How are you, Giuseppe?’ I go to stand up and greet him but he immediately shoves me back into the booth with surprising force.
‘Enough of this bullshit. You sit while I make you our new caffè. You’re going to love it. Imported. From fucking Egypt. And the tourists love that shit, like it’s part of the museum. Cost me half my dick but you’ve never tasted anything like it. It’s like drinking from a woman’s tit.’ He laughs and claps his hands together, his body wiggling with delight as he squeezes himself behind the counter. His back is turned, fingers grinding coffee beans while steaming milk with the other hand and the back of his shirt is covered in sweat.
‘So cut the bullshit, little man. Right now, on the spot, how are the women? I’ve been fucking stuck here in this bullshit cafe my whole life and it looks like I’m never going to fucking leave. People want coffee on fucking Christmas Eve. Jesus Christ was born and you can’t make your own cup of goddamn coffee with your family? Losers. This town is absolute trash, I’ll tell you. Jesus, fuck. But from the movies I imagine the woman, you know... blonde wig, blue spandex bathing suit, long fucking legs. Did you meet anyone who looks like her?’
‘You’re asking if I fucked Julia Roberts?’
‘Yeah, or anyone who looks like her. Giuseppe doesn’t exclude.’
‘I was pleasantly surprised with the extra-curricular activities.’ A smirk pulls the corner of my mouth, recalling the long nights at Yale’s resident campus bar. Well, I’m not going to lie.
