14. Marco

CHAPTER 14

MARCO

E ve's jangling nerves made me strangely calmer: as long as I focused on keeping her cool, I didn't have time to worry about me.

"Parents love me," I said.

"Yeah? You met many?" Eve was digging in her suitcase, searching for something. I slid my arms around her and pulled her close.

"In high school, I did. My girlfriends' parents."

"Well, we're not in high school. Where did it go? "

"Where did what go?"

"My emerald necklace." She went back to her vanity, her jewelry box. Dug through it, fruitless, and threw up her hands. "I had it right here, and it's disappeared."

I held it up. "You gave it to me. You said to put it on you, then you ran off."

She turned her back on me. "Fine. Put it on."

I swept her hair to one side and out of the way. She tilted her chin up, and I slid it on her. The clasp was small, fiddly, and crusted with diamonds, but I figured it out and brushed her hair into place.

"You look great," I said. "Is that necklace new?"

"No, it was my mother's. She loves when I wear it." She touched it and frowned at herself in the mirror. "What am I forgetting?"

"That they're your parents." I kissed the top of her head. "They love you. They're here. They're excited to see you. You don't need to impress them, just go eat dinner."

Eve leaned back against me and closed her eyes. She hadn't slept much last night, tossing through the wee hours. From what I'd seen of her parents, they weren't that scary, but everything Eve did, she did to impress them. The chances she didn't take were so she wouldn't fail them. I kissed her again, on the back of her neck.

"You know if they hate me, they'll still love you, right?"

She shivered. "Don't say that."

"But it's true." I needed her to know she had nothing to fear. She couldn't fail here. They'd come to judge me . Which— shit. Was I ready? Was I good enough? What if they were expecting somebody polished, someone more princely, with fancy-ass manners? I was, at heart, just a kid from Siena.

"We shouldn't keep them waiting," said Eve, standing up.

We slipped out the side this time, in case reporters were lurking. Tonight was private, a hurdle just for us. I took Eve's hand and squeezed it on our way to my car, as much to boost my confidence as bolster Eve's own. In trying to soothe her, I'd got in my own head. Should I try to talk like them? Bow when I met them? Were they Mr. and Mrs., or did they hold titles?

"What should I call them?"

Eve frowned. "Who?"

"Your parents."

"Their names are Sean and Camille."

"Not Lord and Lady?—"

"Are you going to get weird?" Her eyes had gone sharp, and I shook my head no.

"Sorry. I just wasn't sure what to call them."

I played some music on the drive, partly to soothe Eve, partly to keep my foot out of my mouth. I'd met rich people before, people with titles. People with more money than even Eve's parents. I hadn't been nervous then, just curious — did they eat off gold plates? Did they have servants? Did they have their own pilots for their private jets, crews always on standby, ready to fly them? I'd met a guy once with three of the same dog, three identical clones of his childhood best friend. They'd cost eighty thousand euros, and that was per dog.

I smiled at the memory of the goofy cloned dogs, but my throat still felt tight, my palms damp with sweat. It shouldn't have mattered what Eve's parents thought, but somehow it did. I needed them to like me, and more than that. I needed them to weigh me and judge me worthy. Eve cared what they thought and I cared what she thought. If I didn't fit in their world, would she like me less?

"That's it," said Eve, pointing ahead.

I pulled in and found the parking lot near-deserted, just one other car nosed up near the entrance. Either this restaurant was wildly unpopular, or Eve's parents had bought out the whole place.

"It'll be fine," I said, only half for her benefit.

"If they ask how we met, you can't tell them, you know…"

I laughed. "That we're dating to piss off Rafael?"

"Don't even say it." She smacked my arm. "If they ask, you didn't know me. You asked me to dance."

I took her arm and led her inside. Her parents rose to greet us and I blanked on their names. Panic swept through me, then her father stepped forward.

"Sean Hansley," he said. "And my wife, Camille."

"Marco Barone." I stuck out my hand, unsure if they'd shake it. But they both did, first Sean, then Camille. I congratulated myself on remembering they lived part-time in the States, and Americans loved a good, firm handshake. They had an air of money about them, but in a casual way, like they were so rich they didn't care if you knew it. So rich they didn't have to care. They were above it.

"Let's sit," said Sean. "Eve, are you cold?" He rubbed her upper arms like she was a kid. She squirmed away.

"I'm fine. I'm just standing in the draft from the door."

"Then, come on. Sit down. I hope you don't mind — we've ordered some nibbles."

Sean watched, eagle-eyed, as I pulled out Eve's chair for her. I wondered if there was more I was supposed to do — fill her plate with hors d'oeuvres? Pour her a drink? But her water glass was already full. And she'd taken the serving tongs to grab food for herself. I watched her, concerned, feeling out of place.

"Try these," she said, and plunked a stuffed mushroom on my plate. I reached for it, paused, and took a small fork instead. I speared the mushroom. Bit into it. Grease ran down my chin. I wiped it off without thinking on the back of my hand, then swore, grabbed a napkin, and blotted my hand. My neck burned hot. I wasn't this awkward.

"Eve should've warned you, they love butter here." Sean ate a mushroom in one quick, neat bite. Camille was smiling, gently amused.

"I can taste it," I said. "You're right, though. It's good."

A waiter glided over and took our drink orders. I stuck with water. Eve got white wine.

"I read you're like athletes." Sean nodded at my glass. "Drivers, I mean. We should've asked you, are you on some special diet?"

Camille nudged him. "Don't ask about his diet."

"No, no, it's fine." I smiled, wide and anxious. I couldn't let Eve's parents bicker over me. "My diet's just, you know, the Mediterranean diet. Like mamma makes, so this is all great."

"Eve said you liked picnics." Camille's tone was soothing. "We thought you'd like tapas. Do you, do you cook?"

I nodded. "I do. Family tradition."

Sean laughed. "That's good, because Eve's got, uh… what do you call a brown thumb, but for cooking?"

Eve scowled. "I do not ."

"She used to make us breakfast," said Camille. "We have a house in the Hamptons, you know, and we'd go there in summer, and she'd get up early. She'd make us what she would call breakfast in bed, but she couldn't work the oven, so it was all microwaved."

"This sort of brown egg froth, burned to the plate."

"Limp strips of bacon, swimming in grease."

"Hot, soggy cereal. It tasted like glue." Sean pulled a face. Eve waved him off.

"The part they're not mentioning is, I was like five. I can boil an egg now, and scramble one too."

"She's no Julia Child." Camille shook her head. "So, how did you two meet? Was it at that club?"

"The club, yeah." I frowned. I didn't want to talk about how I'd met Eve. What I wanted to do right now was defend her. I wished she had cooked for me even just once, so I could tell Sean and Camille it had been delicious. They were teasing, I knew, ribbing like any family, but couldn't they see what had been happening? Little Eve had been trying, even back then, doing her damnedest to be their perfect daughter. "She's a great dancer," I said. "Incredibly graceful. I didn't know who she was, but I couldn't take my eyes off her."

Camille looked surprised at that. I swallowed back anger. The only thing worse than parents with high expectations was parents with no expectations at all. Did they not see how awesome Eve was?

"She made me laugh, too," I said. "When we started talking. She's got this quick wit. I love that about her."

Eve dropped her fork. She shot me a quick, startled glance. Had I come too close to saying I loved her?

"She's always been funny, that's true," said Camille. "I thought she might be a writer, or something. That sort of dry, witty type, like Sinclair Lewis."

I smiled. "I loved Main Street . And Arrowsmith ."

Sean lit up at that. "You've read Sinclair Lewis?"

"He loves American writers." Eve sat forward. "He reads Cormac McCarthy before every race."

Sean's brows shot up. "Really? Have you read his last books yet?"

Camille rolled her eyes. "Oh, now you've done it."

I wasn't sure what was happening, but Eve pinched my leg. "Father minored in American lit when he was at Princeton. He loves Cormac, too, so you have something in common."

I remembered I was supposed to be sucking up. Sean was eyeing me narrowly over his plate, like he wasn't sure if I really liked Cormac McCarthy, or if Eve had just fed me his Wikipedia page. He speared a stalk of asparagus, still watching me.

"What do you enjoy most about his writing?"

I glanced at Eve, but she was no help. She was sipping her wine, her glass half-drained already. I'd just have to be honest and hope I didn't sound stupid.

"His writing, uh… it has this sensual quality." I did a vague gesture with my hands in the air. "I mean, the places he talks about, I've never been there. I've never seen Tennessee, or the Appalachian Mountains, or down south in Texas or Mexico. But the way he describes things, the, ah— the pictures he paints?—"

"The imagery." Sean cut in, rude with excitement. "That's what I like, as well. No other writer does setting like he does. It sometimes feels like the story comes second to the backdrop. Like he's really writing about places and times, and the characters are tourists. Exploring the settings so we can see with them."

I'd never thought about it that way, but what he was saying felt about right.

Camille nodded to Eve. "Powder room, darling?"

The women both stood, and they strode off. Sean sighed, rueful. "I think we've bored them."

I watched Eve disappear. "Maybe a little."

"But, now I've got you all to myself…" He set his fork down and leaned on his elbows. "Eve seems at ease with you. I feel like she trusts you."

I wasn't sure what to say to that, so I said nothing. Sean peered down the hall where the women had vanished.

"She was always standoffish with Rafael. I thought she was nervous, like I was with Camille. We were always on eggshells in the beginning." He steepled his fingers, as though deep in thought. "Did you know our parents set up our marriage? They'd been close for some time, and they thought we'd be a match. And I fell for Camille. I did, from the start. But I couldn't relax with her, our first year of marriage. What we had still felt fragile, like one fight might break it. So she'd do something annoying and I wouldn't tell her, and I knew that went both ways. I was bugging her too."

I tried to think of a response to that and came up empty. "Eve tells me," I tried. "When I'm being stupid."

"That's good," said Sean. His gaze had gone distant. "When I see you together, you both seem relaxed. More like Camille and me after our first fight. After it sank in that we could be honest."

I flinched at that. I'd thought almost the same thing only last week, how Eve was different because she was honest. How our relationship was honest, no hidden agendas. But I hadn't meant it the way Sean did, where he'd used that honesty to build something real. I'd been thinking of our end date, how easy that made us.

"We thought we'd done well with Rafael. We wanted Eve to have what we have. But she was right not to trust him. Look what he did."

I swallowed. My throat had gone painfully tight. I could see Sean loved Eve and wanted the best for her, even if he'd gone for it in all the wrong ways.

"I know it's early days," he said. "But I have to ask: if all goes well for the two of you, what will that look like?"

"What will that—" My voice caught.

"I suppose I'm asking about your intentions."

"My intentions. Right." I felt like he'd just snapped me out of a dream, woken me roughly to what I'd been doing. Here he was, wanting the best for his daughter, and here I was, dating her out of spite. I didn't want to lie to him, but what could I say?

His mouth drew down. "You must have a feeling."

I almost laughed. A feeling? I had plenty. I was bubbling with feelings, about to boil over. I felt joy at the sight of her, loss when she left. Elation when she smiled and it was for me. I felt excited and reckless and brave, stupid, unworthy, the whole gamut.

"Eve is wonderful," I said, not wanting to lie. "I'd love, more than anything, to be worthy of her. I've been having the best time getting to know her, so I suppose I'd say… I'd say… I hope I can be what she needs me to be. Whatever that is. However long she needs me."

Sean seemed confused by my jumbled answer, but he thought it over, then nodded his head. "Dating has changed a lot since I met Camille. But as long as she's happy, that's enough for me."

I followed his gaze out to the terrace. Eve had stepped out there along with her mother, and they were looking at something on her phone. Camille tapped the screen, and both of them laughed.

"She seems happy," said Sean.

My chest hurt. She did. Could it be she was feeling the same things I was, that same unexpected rush of emotion? Or was that happy flush just the thrill of success? And what was I feeling? What did it mean? It felt like the rush I got when I raced, that last-lap charge — but that didn't last. It burned hot, burned out, and then it was gone, and I knew it was time to move on to the next race. Was this that brief burn before we blinked out?

Eve caught my eye, smiled at me, and I smiled back. Somewhere behind that smile, she had all the answers. Or maybe she didn't. Maybe nobody did.