In a New York Minute(52)

His gaze was unreadable, set in that steady, motionless poker face, but then it shifted into a full-on smile, doing that lusty thing again to my body. His mouth was so lovely, and every time he smiled at me I imagined what his lips would feel like against my own.

“I’m so hungry I would literally eat some of this dirt right now,” I said, clutching my stomach.

“Well, you definitely don’t need to do that. I can pull the menu up on my phone.”

I shook my head at him. “I’ll just have whatever you’re getting.”

“You don’t want to look?” he said, but again, I shook my head.

“Surprise me,” I said. “I want to get back to work. I’m serious—I’ll eat anything.” I offered him a smile, and shockingly, he didn’t argue.

We’d just finished pressing the radish and carrot seeds into the soil when his phone dinged on the newly installed table. “Thank god,” he moaned, and then bolted for the door. Minutes later, he returned with a white plastic bag stacked with containers.

“Surprise,” he said, his voice playful.

I wiped my hands on my overalls and walked over to where he was placing everything out neatly in a row on the new table. Two giant paper containers, ketchup packets, napkins. Sliding onto the bench next to him, I cracked open the corner of a container. “No way,” I said as the scent of steaming hot, greasy French fries wafted up into my face. They were piled next to the biggest, crispiest-looking grilled cheese I’d ever seen. Perfection. “I thought you didn’t eat, like, anything bad for you.”

He shrugged. “I was having a craving.”

“I’m always craving a grilled cheese, so thank you,” I said, digging in. We ate in silence for a bit, and as it hit seven, the solar lights I’d hung sparked on, and suddenly our little rooftop was bathed in an otherworldly glow. I lifted my face to look up, and as I did, Hayes did the same, smiling.

“This really is the perfect meal for this view,” I said, squeezing two packets of ketchup all over my fries.

His brow furrowed. “Would you have preferred something else?” he asked, clearly concerned.

“No,” I assured him. “I’m being serious. A diner grilled-cheese sandwich and fries doesn’t get nearly as much NYC cred as a bagel or pizza, but it’s New York to the core.”

“Pizza is the best, though, right? We both agree?”

When I nodded, he said, “Good, ’cause I was gonna make you leave if you said no. Especially since I’m assuming you’re Italian.”

I squinted at him. “How did you know that?”

“Your name’s Francesca,” he said, like that alone made it obvious. “And your obsession with Italian ice.”

“Ah, well, yeah. My dad’s side is Italian.” I nibbled on a fry and tried not to show how pleased I was that he had been trying to figure me out.

“Interessante,” he mused.

“Show-off.” I grinned at him. I liked how his voice sounded speaking Italian, melodic and low.

“I studied abroad in Bologna and Milan,” he said. “I’ve lost most of my Italian, except when I need to order food.”

Milan. The word struck me in the chest. That was where my sister lived. Worked. Hayes had been there too. I considered telling him, unloading this new part of myself. But anytime I thought about telling anyone about what I’d discovered, it felt too real.

“Well, that’s the most important time,” I replied. “You probably speak more of it than I do.”

“Your dad never taught you any?”

“I didn’t know my dad. So.” And now my dad is dead, I thought, and I’ll never get the chance. I swallowed, trying to release the lump that had just taken up residence in my throat.

Hayes nodded, and I could tell he expected me to continue.

“I actually never met him, or his side of the family. I went to college for art and design, so I didn’t take any language classes. And my high school only offered Spanish and French.” I took another bite of my sandwich, chewing for a moment. “I can understand it some, though, now. I play around with it on language apps.”

I grabbed a napkin off the table and began shredding it slowly. “Anyway…”

“Well, Italian’s way overrated.” He gave me a warm smile. “So overrated I don’t even know how to say that in Italian.”

I laughed and went back to eating. And then it occurred to me—he was following my lead, giving me space to open up if I wanted. This was new. I was used to meeting people’s expectations, going along with things out of obligation. But I didn’t have to do that with him. He wasn’t pushing to go anywhere with the conversation, other than where I wanted. And this alone made me want to keep talking.

“So get this,” I said, the words almost falling out of my mouth. “My mom and my birth dad basically had a one-night stand, and she never saw him again but she got pregnant. So cliché, I know. But I’ve never really known much about him.”

There was no gasp, or shock, or awkward joke. Instead, he just leaned closer to me. “That must have been hard,” he said. “For you.”

“Yeah, I guess it has been. I mean, that’s where I’ve landed after a couple years in therapy.”