Page 45 of Broken Trust

“You hate him,” I say. “Soul mates don’t hurt you the way he hurt me.”

“I can't stand what he did to you. That's not the same thing.” She sighs and tucks a wet strand of hair behind my ear. “I also saw him give away everything he owned to protect that little girl, and wreck himself trying to be a father. I know he's been driving nights for a year and paying back his brother, and living with his parents. This Dante is not the one you married.” She shakes her head. “I hate to admit it, because I think people can’t change but maybe he has. Maybe now he’s the Dante you really fell in love with.”

I shrug, why isn’t he chasing me? Not the other way around.

“And I think he comes to the restaurant at times, and just sits there watching you.”

“What? How do you know?”

She takes a deep breath. “One time after opening night, I stepped outside, and I saw him. I never told you, because I thought it would only hurt.” She squeezes my hands. “Maybe I was wrong.”

I sit there with my mouth open, and I think about the night I kept glancing at the door. He was right there the whole time. It was never my imagination, about wanting him to be there.

“So what do I do?” My voice is very small.

“I have no idea.” Nella offers a watery smile. “That's the part I can't decide for you. Maybe you give Matteo a chance, or call Dante, or tell them both to go jump in the lake and adopt six cats and become a mad old woman who makes the best pasta in the valley.” She nods at Garibaldi, who is now snoring like a drunk. “I'll lend you one to get you started.”

I laugh, properly this time, and it cracks something loose in my chest.

“But whatever you choose,” Nella says, her voice turning serious, “I'm with you. I mean that. If it's Dante, I'll bite my tongue until it bleeds and be civil to him at Christmas. If it's Matteo and a candlelit dinner by the water, I'll do your makeup and lend you my good earrings. And if you'd rather be on your own forever, I'll bring the wine and the cats.” She cups my cheeks. “You don't have to have the answer tonight. You just have to stop pretending you don't know the question.”

I lean my forehead against hers and let my eyes drift shut.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Save it. Just stop spending your whole salary on Ubers.” She kisses the tip of my nose. “If you're dying to see him, go find him. Rosa will be in the park on Sunday mornings with him. Everyone in the city knows that.”

I sit up straight and stare at her.

“How do you know about Sundays?”

Nella picks up her wine glass, takes a long, innocent sip, and suddenly finds the jigsaw puzzle very interesting.

“Nella.”

“I'm her aunt too,” she says to the puzzle. “Somebody in this family has to keep in touch with her.”

25

GIA

Matteo asks me again on Monday, while we're breaking down the walk-in.

He doesn't make a big production of it. He just hands me a crate of lemons, holds on to his end a second longer than he needs to, and says, “Friday. The place by the lake. I called ahead, and they're keeping a table by the window.” Then he winks and carries the empty crates out to the alley, whistling, like the answer's been decided.

I'm left clutching the lemons. Nella's voice is still in my head from the other night, whatever you choose, I'm with you, and so is the picture she painted of Dante standing alone by the fountain on opening night, watching my windows. I remember the eleven Ubers, and how pathetic I felt sobbing into my sister's pajamas over a man who hasn't called me in a year.

When Matteo comes back in, I tell him yes.

His whole face lights up. He sweeps me off my feet, lemons and all, and spins me around the cold room until I'm laughing and shrieking at him to put me down before the dairy delivery arrives. It's lovely and easy, precisely the sort of uncomplicated happiness I told myself I deserved.

The rest of the week feels like being sixteen again, in all the good ways. He leaves a sprig of rosemary tucked into my knife roll on Tuesday. But then he does other things I don’t like. For instance he moves the basil from my station to his because he says my side runs too hot from the salamander. He's right, probably, but he never mentions it; I just walk in and find it gone. At lunch service he sends a plate of my ravioli back from the pass with the words “too much butter” and adjusts the sauce himself before it goes out. I decide it's a kitchen thing. Every head cook I've ever known has an ego the size of a cathedral.

That night, after service, I mention I'm heading over to Nella's on Saturday to help her paint her bathroom.

He frowns. “Saturday? I thought we'd have dinner.”

“We're having dinner on Friday.”