Risk the Fall

by Steph Campbell

  “Sure thing, Ma.”

  Surely Quinn wouldn’t fault me for taking off with Caroline if it meant getting away from my mom.

  I need help lugging the old cookbooks that Chef agreed to give me rather than throwing them out back to Amalea’s place. They’re heavy and will probably cost every cent I have to my name to get back to the States, but I need them. So, Chef Baldassare helps carry them up the hill and into the house. I push the heavy door open and he and I both drop the books onto the solid wood table with a huff when Amalea walks in.

  “Mi scusi,” Amalea says. Her hand goes to her chest at the sight of Davide, and her face contorts into an expression that I haven’t yet seen on her. Her full, red mouth is usually grinning about something, whether it’s a good glass of wine, licking the spoon after mixing a bowl of cannoli cream, or chatting with a customer in her shop. But right now, her lips purse and eyes squint and it’s either anger or confusion or surprise, or hell, maybe all of those things in one. But there’s definitely something in her almond eyes that screams there’s something more between she and Davide.

  I stare up at the raw, exposed beams in the ceiling rather than look directly at Amalea. I wonder if I screwed up royally by bringing Chef here with me.

  “Lea,” he says, dipping his head politely. His voice is different than it is in class. It’s transformed from the authoritative, masculine bark, to something smooth and warm like a glass of amaretto. So much so that I cut my eyes away from ceiling-gazing to double check that Davide is still the man standing in the room. It is him, greeting Amalea with that nickname in that low, sexy voice.

  Amalea wipes her hands on the yellow kitchen towel and tosses it absently onto the counter top, which, from what I’ve observed of Amalea in my short stay, is highly unusual. She isn’t freakishly organized like Ben’s mom, but she keeps things neat, especially in the kitchen. Amalea extends her graceful hand in an even more unusual gesture—since from the day that I met her, I’ve only seen her do the whole double-kiss-on-the-cheeks bit with people that Europeans are so found of.

  Chef ignores her outstretched hand, puts his hands on each of her upper arms and pulls her in, lightly kissing each of her cheeks. Like a boss.

  “Davide,” she replies breathlessly. “It’s been a long time. A very long time.”

  He gives her a simple, quick nod, but his eyes convey something much more meaningful and intimate.

  Holy shit, this is like something out of a romance novel and I feel like a total creeptastic voyeur standing right smack in the middle of their moment.

  “I should go…call Ben…” I say. I begin backing out of the room, but Amalea holds a palm up to stop me.

  “Don’t rush off, Davide was just leaving.” Her eyes don’t leave his as she says the words. The spark in his dark eyes fades and his brow furrows in disappointment.

  But Chef doesn’t wait to be told twice. He grabs his coat off of the back of the wooden chair with the peeling blue paint and walks out the door.

  “Thanks for helping with the books!” I call after him, but he’s already too far to hear me.

  “Did you ask him to come here?” Amalea turns to me and asks. Her cheeks are that rare shade of scarlet, reserved only for the most embarrassing or infuriating times. I hate that I caused either. Or, possibly, both.

  “He was just helping me bring those cookbooks in.” I motion to the normally clear table, now littered with books. “I couldn’t carry them all by myself. I’m sorry?”

  Amalea waves me off. “Figurati!”

  “Sorry,” I repeat, not knowing if she’s told me to fuck off or not to worry about it.

  “I need a drink.” She opens the small white cabinet above the tiny stove and pulls down a clear bottle with a purple flower on it. She pours two small glasses of the liquid from the pretty bottle and sets one down in front of me before throwing the other back in one quick gulp. It isn’t the dainty, ladylike sips she normally takes of her liquor.

  “Cheers?” I mutter.

  I wrap my lips around the small glass and pour the liquid down into my throat. I try to fight the outward cringe, not knowing if this small glass of alcohol cost as much as my rent or not. But it’s hard. How can something that was in such nice packaging taste like such complete ass? I struggle not to gag or shake like my body is desperate to do as the liquid singes my throat and burns all the way down into my stomach.

  “You want another?” Amalea asks.

  “No,” I croak out, like a fifteen-year-old who has just taken her first swig of skunk beer. “What is that?”

  “Grappa,” she says. Amalea cuts several large chunks off of a massive wheel of Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese and pops a piece into her mouth. I follow suit and am so relieved to have the salty deliciousness get to work dissolving the jet fuel aftertaste of the Grappa in my mouth.

  She frantically starts pulling food out of the refrigerator, the pantry, and cupboards. She slices cheeses, shaves different salamis, and prosciutto and spreads black and white truffle butter onto fresh bread.

  “What are we celebrating?” I ask, admiring the incredible spread.

  Amalea pours herself another shot and downs it quickly. It must be an acquired taste.

  “I survived seeing Davide,” she says. She’s normally the picture of poise and calm. But right now, Amalea looks a little wild.

  “What do you mean, survived? Did I screw up royally by bringing him here? I’m so sorry.”

  She shakes her head. “It’s a good thing. It needed to happen, and better with you here than me all alone.”

  I don’t press her any further, but she continues on her own.

  “Davide and I used to be lovers,” she says, rolling the small, empty glass back and forth in her palm. I could have guessed that, I want to say. Still, I’m a little stunned by the candid admission.

  “He seems like a pretty good catch.” I swipe a piece of cheese and dry salami while the conversation is still light—before I look like a complete jerk for eating while she spills her guts. I envy the children that Davide and Amalea could have produced together. The amazing family-style meals that would be an everyday staple in that home make my mouth water just imagining them.

  “He was. Is. He should be happy.” She tosses her long, dark hair back over her shoulder.

  “Amalea, what happened? I mean, you’re a total fox. He had to be a complete moron to let you get away. And here I had him pegged for a good guy.” I shake my head and cram the last bite of cheese into my mouth. Okay, the second to last one. I reach over and grab another chunk of the soft, sweet cheese. The flavors are so much more complex than I expected from a piece of cheese. It’s absolutely delicious.

  “It’s Caciotta. Sheep’s cheese. Good, no?” Amalea stops to say.

  “It’s incredible.”

  Amalea sighs. “Davide is a good man. I was the one who ruined things.”

  A girl after my own heart.

  “Come on, you’re adorable, and you can cook better than anyone I’ve ever met. Even Chef.” I say with a wink.

  “I was having an affair,” Amalea deadpans.

  “Oh, shizz, you were cheating on Davide?” Classy, Quinn, I mentally scold myself.

  Amalea shakes her head and looks so much more than ashamed.

  “I was married. I was having an affair with Davide. My husband was also a good man. He gave me this home. He worked hard. But I loved Davide from the first day I saw him.” She re-ties the belt on her floral print dress, cinching the waist tightly. “My friend, the American, Carol? After I started seeing Davide, Carol began teaching me English so that she and I could communicate about it without Enzo understanding. It was callous and cruel. But I was stupid. And selfish. And so in love with Davide. I couldn’t see anything outside of him.”

  “But your husband, Enzo, he found out?”

  Amalea shakes her head and stares down at her hands. “He never found out. I was supposed to be home when he came home from work. I was, every other night. We ate dinner
at the same hour every single night. But I wasn’t. I had left the shop early to take siesta at Davide’s.”

  I’m not entirely certain where this is going, but I know it’s not going to go well based on the low, sullen tone of Amalea’s voice. I reach over for the bottle of grappa and refill both of our glasses. Amalea grasps hers, but doesn’t drink it.

  “My husband, Enzo, he was worried because I wasn’t here. He went to check the shop, and I wasn’t there either. I’d fallen asleep at Davide’s, after we…”

  I take the opportunity to gulp my glass of jet fuel, this time, knowing well enough to have the bite of parmesan ready to dull the flame.

  I clear my throat. “I get the point.”

  “I woke up at Davide’s house and it was dark, I knew Enzo would be out looking for me. By the time I got home, the Polizia were already here.”

  “Fuck,” I say. The word slips out, while imaging Amalea running in the front door after her tryst with another man to find the cops in her home. “Mi scusi.” I apologize.

  Amalea nods. “Enzo was hit by a car and passed on.”

  “So, you broke it off with Davide…because of what happened with Enzo.”

  “The guilt, how could I ever look at Davide again, knowing that it was my fault?”

  “But it wasn’t,” I say. “It wasn’t either one of your faults. I mean, you didn’t set out to hurt anyone.”

  “No, but unintentional hurt doesn’t make it any less wrong.”

  “So, what, you’re going to spend the rest of your life holed up in here, eating all of this food and working at your little store…actually that doesn’t sound half bad.” I laugh and it makes Amalea laugh and it almost disguises the tiny tears in the corners of her eyes.

  She reaches over and covers my hand with hers. “You’re a good girl, Quinn. I’m glad you came.”

  “I am, too.” She may be the first person to ever tell me that. “When was the last time you saw Davide?”

  Amalea looks up at the ceiling, like she’s calculating. “I’ve seen him around town, at the market, the train station…but I haven’t seen him this close in…five years.”

  “Five years?” I think about how I’m missing Ben and I’ve only been away from him for a few weeks. I can’t imagine how my heart would ache being away from him for years. Or worse, as close as Amalea and Davide are, but not being able to communicate. “Amalea, you need to fix this! Five years?”

  “There’s nothing left to fix. What was between Davide and I is broken. Gone.”

  “It’s not. Trust me. I’ve been there—”

  “Quinn, you’re lovely, but you’re just a girl, this is beyond your ability to relate.”

  “I don’t think so.” And so I tell her. I tell her how I met Ben that summer, how I fell so insanely, ridiculously hard for him, but it scared the shit out of me. I tell her all the ways I tried to push him away because the words I love you scared me more than any monster ever could. I avoided looking her in the eye when I told her I got angry with Ben for not sticking up to his parents when they invited Caroline to stay with them while she looked at colleges. And how I took that anger, and went over to Mark’s house and let him strip me down and slept with him on his sofa, intent on getting back at Ben—or just feeling anything other than the searing hurt.

  And I told her how Ben tried so hard to forgive me, but I wouldn’t let him. Because hanging on to my guilt was the punishment I’d given myself. And back then, I would have rather be miserable than happy. But Ben eventually proved to me that love could withstand the fuck-ups, if you tried hard enough.

  “I know it’s not the same situation, but trust me, nothing is ever too broken if you love him. And by the way he looked at you, I’m positive he still has those feelings for you, Amalea.”

  She pulls me in tightly, smothering me with her own sobs and tears and for once, I’m the one comforting someone else, rather than the one needing to be consoled.

  It feels strange to be back in Atlanta, especially with Caroline in the passenger seat of the car—Dad’s sensible sedan.

  Caroline fidgets in the seat, twisting her hair, tapping her foot. I don’t know if I’m making her uncomfortable, or if it’s whatever is going on in her life that forced her to move to a different state that’s working her nerves.

  “You alright over there?” I ask.

  “Yep,” is all that Caroline replies.

  I haven’t pressed for any more information about what’s going on with her. Yet. I keep trying to say something to her, to ask why she’s suddenly living in my parents’ basement, but I feel like I’d be overstepping. She is the one who tracked me down, calling in the middle of the night, though, so she must want to talk about it, right?

  “Good. So, where to?”

  She lets out a small sigh, “I don’t really know. I don’t know where anything is around here. But I need to get my mom and dad a Christmas gift. It’ll be late, but I need to send them something, you know? And maybe we could get some lunch? Your mom keeps trying to cook for me, but I don’t want her to have to do that. And honestly, I’m kind of scared to touch anything in the kitchen. It’s all so…perfect.”

  “Sure,” I say. “And trust me, I know what you mean.” I visualize the drawer dividers in my mom’s kitchen. Perfectly spaced. Color coordinated. And don’t you dare put a plastic spatula in with the wooden ones. Poor Caroline is in for a treat living with my parents. They’ve always liked her, and she gets along with them, but living with them? That’s a different story entirely. “How about we hit the mall, then we’ll grab something to eat on that end of town?” I ask.

  I start to steer the car toward the mall, but instead, at the last second, decide to go the opposite direction.

  It finally dawns on me that Carter and Shayna are here, in Atlanta, too. They left only a few hours before me. It’s not a crime for me to be here, but I sure as shit don’t want them to see me here with Caroline before I have the chance to tell Quinn what’s going on. “Hey, tell you what. The mall is going to be madness today, but there’s this really cool strip of shops on the other end of the city, you game?”

  Caroline shrugs, very non-committal. “Whatever is fine.” And I’m sort of wondering why I hopped my ass on the first plane out town when she’s acting the way that she is. But there’s got to be more to it than she’s letting on. I just have to give her a chance to tell me.

  She tangles her fingers together, pulls them apart, and pats her knees—anything but just remaining still. I reach over and cover her hands with mine to calm her movements. It instantly does the trick, I feel her hands stop and her body relaxes. As if a switch has been flipped. And I’d be lying if I said that knowing that I did that for her didn’t feel damn good.

  “It’s good to see you, Linney,” I say.

  I really look at her for the first time since I got here. She looks the same as always. She’s going to be one of those women that age really well, just like her mom. But her eyes look different. Worried. Uneasy. Maybe a little broken.

  “So, are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I finally ask. “I mean, you moved in with my parents of all people, it had to be pretty serious.” It’s my lame attempt at a joke that neither one of us bothers to laugh at.

  “Your parents aren’t bad, Ben.”

  “Yeah, well, neither are yours,” I say. “So why leave them?”

  “Your mom was so happy to see you,” she says.

  “Stellar job changing the subject, Linney.” I wink at her. I don’t press, though, because Linney has never had a problem talking to me so I know she will when she’s ready. And I’ll be here when she is.

  I pull into a parking spot in the Little Five Points district and rush around the car to open Linney’s door for her.

  “Some things never change, Ben,” she says, smiling at the gesture.

  “Like what?”

  “Like the fact that you are, and have always been, the biggest gentlemen I know.”

  “Guess Ma raised m
e right,” I say with a goofy smile, remembering Mom’s comment back at the house. “No big deal.”

  Linney stops in the middle of the crosswalk and looks up at me. “You have no idea what a big deal it is, Ben.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that, so I just put my hand on her back and lead the rest of the way across the street. I feel like she’s trying to tell me something that I’m just too freaking dense to get.

  “Tell you what, I’ve been up all night and I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday, well, unless you count two bites of Salisbury steak. Anyway, what do you think about getting lunch first?”

  “Fine by me.”

  We decide on Fellini’s because the pizza is good, and Quinn and I have never eaten there together, and I feel like if I can avoid places that I’ve been with Quinn, maybe I won’t feel like such an asshole about being here without telling.

  “You want to find us a table and I’ll order the pizza?” I ask.

  “Table or booth?” Caroline says, grabbing plastic forks and napkins from the edge of the counter. “Wait,” she says, tapping a fork on my forearm. “You always prefer a table so you have more leg—”

  “Well, hey there.” The voice rings in my ears and I can’t help the instantaneous hope that I’ve imagined it.

  I turn away from the counter, toward the voice. But it’s not in my head. It’s real.

  Shayna and Carter are standing three feet away from Caroline and I.

  “Hey,” I reply.

  Carter has his arms crossed over his chest, and the normally laid-back vibe he exudes has evaporated. He always shakes my hand when he sees me. I mock him about it, because I imagine that he does it all day long in the office when he greets clients. But he doesn’t uncross his arms to reach for my hand this time. And I know it’s because of me. I guess I should expect that: he’s close and protective of Quinn. He and I have always had that in common.

  “I thought you said you weren’t going to make it home? Change of plans?” Carter asks.