“That is true,” he says, practically slamming the shed door shut. “Because she’s not a very nice person. She was asking me for weeks to go out with her so I finally did. I used to know her brother.”
“She thinks you’re gay and that’s why you don’t like her.”
He stops in his tracks and his eyes nearly fall out of his head. “She thinks I’m gay?”
I nod. “Yeah, she seemed quite adamant about that. I guess she was throwing herself at you and you weren’t interested.” I don’t add the part about him being too drunk because that does hit too close to home. “She’s really pretty and probably has lots of guys into her, so . . .”
“She was throwing herself at me,” he says, shaking his head and staring at the ground. “But being beautiful has nothing to do with sex. You have to be beautiful in here, too,” he says, pressing his fist against his heart and then his head.
That was actually really sweet, though I did use the term pretty, not beautiful.
“So she’s feeling rejected,” I tell him. “And rejected people do crazy things. I should know. I once turned down this guy at my old job, citing the whole office-romance thing, and he started hiding my lunch every single day. No matter what I put in the fridge, it would be gone before lunchtime. Then my stapler started going missing. It was like watching Office Space, except it wasn’t funny at all.”
He stares at me for a beat. “Do you think I’m gay?”
I blink. “Uh.”
He steps toward me until he’s just a few inches away. I can feel his body heat radiating off of him, intensified by the sun. That citrus smell teases me again.
“If I kissed you, you wouldn’t think that.”
Whoa.
Hold up.
“I don’t think you’re gay,” I manage to say, my voice more like a squeak. “You were married.”
He nodded. “I was. We divorced because I changed and she could not accept that. She fell in love with someone else but I was still in love with her.”
Oh, here come all the things.
“Are you still in love with her?” I ask, even though it’s totally none of my business and shouldn’t matter.
He rubs his lips together and shakes his head. “No. I am not. She wasn’t right for me in the end. And I knew Lenora wasn’t right for me from the beginning.”
So, who are you right for?
“I am not gay,” he continues, “but she can think that if she wants. I’m just very . . . selective. Especially over who I allow into my life.”
“It takes time to get over the end of a marriage,” I say softly.
“Yes, you are right. But how much time is too much? When do you know when the time is right?”
I shrug, looking away at the lemon trees. “I guess you just know. You go on gut feeling.”
“And what if you can’t feel anything at all?”
I look at him curiously. “You can’t stay numb forever.”
But you can sure as hell try.
He exhales and fishes out a cigarette. He nods at the front door. “You go inside. Maybe see what we can have for lunch. I’m not sure what you have planned for dinner either but let me know if you need money for the grocery store. I’m going to go for a walk to end of the road, clear my head a little.”
And just like that, fun time between Derio and Amber is over and we’re back to the employer-and-employee relationship, master of the house and the help.
I sigh but agree and go inside. I glance over my shoulder at him as I shut the door and see him staring forlornly up at the sky, as if asking for guidance.
* * *
Obviously I never end up going to the bar to see the band that Shay was talking about. Instead, I stay at home, looking after Annabella and Alfonso while Derio locks himself away in his office again, doing whatever it is that he won’t tell me about. At this point I hope it’s something really weird and twisted, like five-hour masturbation marathons to some weird goldfish fetish or a bizarre obsession with bidding on flowery tea sets on eBay. I would take anything aside from what he’s really doing: brooding and drinking.
So I make dinner—a nice eggplant parmigiana that turns out better than I expected—and then I read to the twins a bit from one of the Harry Potter books, even though they know the Italian versions by heart. Derio never comes to the door when I knock, though he did once yell at me to go away, so at least I know he’s alive.
After I put the kids to bed, I gather some of the leftovers from dinner onto a plate, pour a glass of water, and put it on a tray. I carry it over to the office and knock loudly.
“Derio, I have dinner here for you,” I say quickly before he can tell me to get lost. “You should really eat something. The kids actually liked it so I think you should witness the fact that I finally made something appetizing. It might never happen again.”
I wait a few seconds and then put the tray on the ground outside the door. I’m about to walk away when—lo and behold—it actually opens and he peers at me with a cocked brow.
“Buonasera,” he says, his voice sounding extra throaty tonight, which equals extra sexy—and he’s speaking in Italian to boot.
“Buonasera,” I tell him, trying to peek inside. “You’re not in your underwear again, are you?”
He gives me a lopsided smile. “I can be. Would you like to come in?”
“Are we going to drink scotch again? Because something tells me you’ve probably had enough.”