believe it is this charm that has him three times married, and his ambition, three times divorced.
“Caio, Antony!” Francis turns to me, and we continue on through the crowded market, but he steals a glance Sophia’s way and I peek, too, curiosity getting the better of me. Her back is to us, her legs slightly visible thanks to the sun shining through her dress. It traces outlines on the long waves of her hair, too, and Francis and I almost run into a cart of zucchinis from distraction. He laughs. “No woman I know in London has the sex appeal of that woman. I’ll have to visit her. Is she still single?”
A sting of jealousy takes me by surprise, and I falter. “Sí.”
His round cheek pinches in with a solitary dimple. “Look at that face! Did something happen between you?”
Looking away to cover the truth, I scoff, “No! Of course not.”
His eyes narrow, but I stop to pick up an heirloom tomato, squeezing it and bringing it to my nose for inspection. From behind me, he asks, in English, “And what of your American girl?”
Handing the tomato to the young girl behind the fruit baskets, I’m reluctant to answer. “She is back home. America – not my home. For now.” To the girl, I say, “Cinque del tuo meglio. Grazie.” She smiles, her fresh face flawless around sweet brown eyes. Her little hands get to work selecting five tomatoes she thinks are superior.
Francis leans in toward me, switching back to Italian. “Are you telling me your American is gone, Sophia is single, and you are here with me? Are you insane? When are you going to wake up?”
I snort, looking to the sun, letting it blur my vision and squint my eyes. “You just asked about Sophia for yourself. Make up your mind.”
He hits me in the ribs and takes the wind out of me, just like he used to do when we were nine. I grunt and smack him and he laughs and jumps back, crying out, “I was asking to make you jealous. You never learn!”
“Learn what?” But he doesn’t answer as he walks off, almost waddling with his size. I frown and pay the girl. “Grazie.”
“Prego!” she says, a shy smile peeking up at me. To the right her mamma sits on a short wooden stool, watching with a proud eye. I nod to her and she to me, before I turn and follow my friend.
“Francis! Wait! How you can move so fast with those extra pounds, I’ll never know!”
He guffaws and calls over his shoulder, “My years of running from lawyers!”
A few feet before I catch up to him, my phone rings, vibrating in my pocket. If it weren’t for that, I wouldn’t have heard the sound over to the afternoon market chatter. I step left to avoid a collision with an old woman wearing a shawl over her head to protect her from the sun.
Annie’s name and photo shine up at me, and I quickly slide to answer. “Bella.”
“Christiano, I’m so sorry I haven’t called earlier.” Her voice is quiet.
She’s speaking in English and for a moment I consider answering her in Italian, but decide against it. “You are calling now. How are you? What has happened with…”
She cuts me off, urgently whispering, “I’m fine. The bar is getting remodeled. We open on Sunday. We’ll be open during construction.”
I look at the dirt rifled with small patches of green weeds beneath my shoes. “That is good. I am glad to hear… No, I am glad to hear your voice. That is what I am glad for. I need to see you, Bella. I want to go there.”
She doesn’t answer at first, then, “Christiano, don’t. I need to tell you something. I’m staying here. For good.”
My blood slows as I wait for more. Francis walks to me, his eyes meeting mine. I shake my head to tell him this is important, not to interrupt. “What has happened that has made you so sure?” She doesn’t answer me. Scowling, I wait, with Francis standing close by. I can feel his support. “Annie! No more silences! I deserve more!”
She starts to cry, and instantly my feelings layer. I want to apologize, and I want to yell. The two are at war, and both are justified.
She chokes out on a sob, “I met someone.”
The market spins around me like a tornado. My fingers whiten around the phone and I pull it away from my ear, staring at it like