“Yeah. People sometimes thought we were sisters.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. You even have her hands.” My elbows were resting on the table, one arm crossed over the other, and Howard suddenly jerked forward a couple of inches, like he’d gotten snagged on a fishing hook.
He was staring at my ring.
I shifted uncomfortably. “Um, are you okay?”
“Her ring.” He reached out and almost touched it, his hand hovering an inch above mine. It was an antique, a slim gold band engraved with an intricate scrolling pattern. My mom had worn it until she’d gotten too thin to keep it on. I’d been wearing it ever since.
“Did she tell you I gave her that?”
“No.” I pulled my hand to my lap, my face heating up. Had she told me anything? “Was it like an engagement ring or something?”
“No. Just a present.”
There was another long silence, which I filled with unprecedented interest in the restaurant’s décor. There were signed photographs of what were probably very famous Italian celebrities hanging all around the restaurant, and several aprons had been tacked to the wall. “We All Live in a Yellow Submarine” was playing overhead. My cheeks were boiling like a pot of marinara sauce.
Howard shook his head. “So do you have a boyfriend at home who is missing you?”
“No.”
“Good for you. Plenty of time to break hearts when you’re older.” He hesitated. “This morning I was thinking I should make a call to the international school to see if anyone in your grade is around for the summer. It might be a good way to see if you’re interested in going to the school.”
I made a noncommittal sound, then took a special interest in a nearby photograph of a woman wearing a tiara and a thick sash. Miss Ravioli 2015?
“I wanted to tell you, if you ever need someone to talk to here—someone other than me or Sonia, of course—I have a friend who lives in town. She’s a social worker and she speaks English really well. She told me she’d be happy to meet with you if you ever need, you know . . .”
Great. Another counselor. The one I’d seen at home had pretty much just said mm-hmm, mm-hmm, over and over and asked me, How did that make you feel? until I thought my ears were going to melt. The answer was always “terrible.” I felt terrible without my mom. The counselor had told me that things would slowly start to feel better, but so far she was wrong.
I started tearing up the edges of the paper tablecloth, keeping my eyes off the ring.
“Are you feeling . . . comfortable here?”
I hesitated. “Yeah.”
“You know, if you need anything, you can always just ask.”
“I’m fine.” My voice was gravelly, but Howard just nodded.
After what felt like ten hours, our server finally walked out and set two steaming pizzas in front of us. Each of them was the size of a large dinner plate, and they smelled unbelievable. I cut a piece and took a bite.
All weirdness evaporated immediately. The power of pizza.
“I think my mouth just exploded,” I said. Or at least that’s what I tried to say. It came out more like “mymogjesesieplod.”
“What?” Howard looked up.
I shoveled in another bite. “This. Is. The. Best.” He was right. This pizza belonged in a completely different universe from the stuff I was used to.
“Told you, Lina. Italy is the perfect place for a hungry runner.” He smiled at me and we both ate ravenously, “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” filling in for conversation.
I had just taken an enormous bite when he said, “You’re probably wondering where I’ve been all this time.”
I froze, a piece of crust in my hand. Is he asking what I think he is? This couldn’t be the big unveiling moment—you don’t go around telling your children why you weren’t around while stuffing your face with pizza.
I snuck a glance up. He’d set his fork and knife down and was leaning forward, his mouth set in a serious line. Oh, no.
I swallowed. “Um, no. I haven’t really wondered.” Lie with a capital L. I stuffed the piece of crust into my mouth but couldn’t taste it.
“Did your mother tell you much about our relationship?”
I shook my head. “No. Just, uh, funny stories.”
“I see. Well, the truth is, I didn’t know about you.”
Suddenly it seemed like the whole restaurant got quiet. Except for the Beatles. “The girl that’s driving me mad, is going awaaaayyyy . . . ,” they sang.
I swallowed hard. I had never even considered that possibility. “Why?”
“Things were . . . complicated between us.”