Halfway to You(14)
“From what I’ve observed,” I said, matching his tone. “I find it a little easier, anyway, when the crust is soft and thin like this.”
He wielded his utensils. “Then you’ve saved me from looking stupid yet again, Ann Fawkes.”
“It isn’t an easy job, but someone has to do it.” His face went blank, and I worried the joke was too harsh, but then he was laughing, and it was the nicest sound—lilting and melodic—and especially wonderful knowing that I had caused it.
“You’re clever,” he said.
I sipped my wine to conceal the gigantic grin on my face, but Todd was already preoccupied with his pizza. A lock of thick hair fell across his face, and his glasses slid down his nose ever so slightly as he sawed the dough.
Silence settled as we ate and drank and soaked up the warmth of the day. Summer was holding on for dear life, heat and light reflecting off the water.
If I didn’t think too hard, it felt natural to sit across from Todd. His company was steady and amiable. We talked on and off, and though we were both clearly self-conscious about having lunch together when we didn’t really know each other, the conversation and quiet fit together with no real forcing.
When we finished, Todd insisted on paying for the whole table, a point we argued for a good five minutes before I finally relented. After the waiter pointed Todd in the direction of his hotel—just one block from where we sat, a fact that gave us both a hearty laugh—I waited at the table for him to check in and leave his bags.
As I stared at the alleyway down which he’d turned, a sad panic rose inside me. What if he didn’t come back? People, I had learned, were mostly ephemeral.
I lit a cigarette and sucked through it almost continuously; I was about to light another when Todd arrived with a camera bag slung over his shoulder.
“All set?” he asked.
I pocketed the unlit smoke, concealing my relief as we wandered over to the little terminal, bought tickets, and waited in line for the vaporetto.
On board, the plastic seats were hard and narrow. Todd wanted me to take the window so I could watch the water during our crossing. He sat with his hands on his knees and glanced over my shoulder at the view. The heat of his arm, hip, and leg made my skin tingle; when the boat shifted, our bodies would bump ever so briefly, igniting my senses.
Away from the shelter of land, the breeze grew wild, sea spray lifting into the air. Todd’s hair ruffled and danced, and when he caught me looking, he ran a hand through it. My fingers curled as I imagined tracing the same path.
As we docked at Murano Colonna, he asked, “Do I look like Einstein now?”
“Not quite as manic,” I answered.
“I’ll take it.”
We disembarked in a cluster of passengers, the crowd dispersing as we transferred from dock to solid ground. Todd veered right, using his long legs to get ahead of the more sluggish tourists. I jogged to keep up, delighting in how the day was unfolding.
Around a corner, we were greeted by a narrow walkway with restaurants and venetian glass galleries. Todd’s pace slowed, and we walked shoulder to shoulder, soaking it in. Peach-and lemon-colored buildings with teal shutters and overflowing planter boxes rose above us. The street was bisected by a narrow canal, where moored boats tested their tethers. Occasionally, one of us would point out a particularly shiny water taxi or pause on an arching bridge to admire the street in the sum of all its parts.
After ten minutes of companionable quiet, I glanced up at Todd, wanting to hear his voice again. “So, what do you do back in Colorado?”
His whole body seemed to frown. “Oh, accounting, mostly,” he said, too absently for the way his chest caved at the question. He didn’t give me a chance to pry: “What about you?”
“I’m a waitress—was a waitress. At a gentleman’s club. I quit before I came to Europe.”
His nose wrinkled, and maybe he was judging me, but then he said, “Sounds harsh.”
“It wasn’t so bad. The money was good.”
We passed under the humid awning of an outdoor café. A waiter invited us to sit, but we kept walking, squeezing past the clustered chairs.
“The job wasn’t why I left the US,” I continued. “My mom’s an alcoholic. A mean one. And even when I moved out, it’s not like I lived in the best part of town. I was just . . . stuck.”
I dared a glance at his face, worried that I had said too much. Yet something compelled me to keep talking. “Then . . . well, I came into money. Unexpectedly. My father—I never met him—he died and left me a large sum. I found out that he’d been sending my mom money for years, money she pissed away.” I thought of all the lean Christmases, the dreams of college I’d given up, the water shutoff notices taped to our door. “I didn’t hesitate—just bought a one-way ticket to France and didn’t look back. Probably not the wisest decision, but I figured I’d work on a novel.” There was something safe about Todd. Comforting. I’d never confided in someone that way before; the words just tumbled out.
“Wow,” Todd said after a moment. “I’m in awe.”
I cringed inwardly, embarrassed by the lift his words gave me. My heart felt like a hot-air balloon, his kindness the fueling flame.
I changed the subject. “So . . . accounting?”
“For my parents’ business,” Todd said, that subtle grimace returning to his lips. “I’m sorry—it’s not the most interesting thing. Can we talk about something else?”