“Whatever,” I say. “Is everything all set?”
“Everything aside from the fact that you’re missing half a dress,” grumbles James as he heads to the table.
He takes charge of the seating, placing Ginny at the head of the table, flanked by Kristy and Max. Somehow I end up seated next to him, which makes tonight feel like the first stroke of luck I’ve had in weeks. Even if he’s going to spend the whole time bitching about my dress.
“I have a jacket in my car,” he suggests.
“Enough about the damn dress,” I tell him sternly. “Seriously.”
“Fine,” he sighs, grabbing the wine list. “Then I’ll gripe about something else. I know nothing about Italian wines.”
I slide it toward me. “If you want red I’d go with the super-Tuscan — Vitticio is good. If you want white, go with the Alto Adige pinot.”
“How do you know that?” he asks. “You’re not even old enough to drink.”
“Not old enough to drink here,” I amend.
“You order,” he says. “I can’t even pronounce it.”
I would question the wisdom of allowing a 19-year-old to order, but the last thing he needs is another reminder of my age.
“Where are you from?” the waiter asks me. He asks in Italian, I suppose because I have a passable accent when I order the wine. I assure him that I’m not from Italy, but the mere fact that I’ve answered in his native tongue is enough to get him talking. When he finally leaves the table, everyone is staring at me.
“What the fuck was that?” asks Max. “You speak Italian?”
I shrug. “Some, I guess.”
“That wasn’t some,” he says. “You’re fluent. How the hell did you end up fluent in Italian?”
“I spent a lot of time there as a kid,” I say. “My father used to cover the Vatican.”
“You’re conveniently forgetting how you summered on that dude’s yacht every year too,” says Ginny.
I shrug. “And my mom has a friend we used to visit.”
“You’ve spent your entire life around adults, haven’t you?” James asks, though it sounds more like a statement.
“I guess?” I say. “More than most people have, I suppose.”
“You seem so old for your age sometimes,” he says quietly. “I guess that explains it.” He frowns, as if this bothers him.
The wine is decanted and I expect him to make some snide crack about my age when the waiter pours it into my glass, but he does not. I sip and it rests in my stomach, heavy and warm, not unlike the way it feels to sit next to James during this dinner. Every time I hear his low laugh, every time he murmurs a comment just for me, there’s a trill of delight that rockets through my stomach.
By the time we’ve ordered, James seems to have almost forgotten there is anyone at the table with us. He leans over, telling me a story about college that makes me laugh even while his breath against my ear makes me shiver. The illusion is shattered when the owner comes over, introducing himself as Domenico and sliding a chair directly between me and James. He seems extraordinarily young to have his own restaurant.
Domenico addresses me in Italian, angling his chair my way so that James is cut out entirely. “My waiter is in back telling us all of your flawless accent,” he says to me, “so I had to hear it for myself.”
“I think he was being kind,” I smile. “I just spent a little time there as a kid.”
“We don’t get a lot of Italian speakers here,” he says. “And certainly not beautiful ones.” The smile he flashes makes me want to edge my chair further away.
We speak for a few minutes about the coast and my mother’s friend Flavio, who he’s heard of, and then he asks if I want to see their garden after the meal. I agree with some trepidation, sensing he has something else he wants to show me there besides organically grown herbs.
“What was that about?” asks James when he leaves.
I shrug. “I guess they don’t get a lot of people in Rehoboth who speak Italian.”
“Yeah,” he says derisively. “I’m sure it’s your language skills that interest him.”
I ignore that. “You did a nice job with this,” I smile. “Ginny looks like she’s having fun.” Down at the other end of the table, Ginny is in her element, talking to Max more than anyone else.
His face softens. “I guess she’s had enough alcohol to subdue her argumentative side,” he laughs.
“I didn’t know there was enough alcohol to subdue her argumentative side,” I reply.
Domenico sends over several bottles of wine we didn’t order. I’m slightly less grateful than everyone else at the table, given that I’m guessing he’ll be asking me to pay in other ways later in his rooftop garden.
But the wine is enough to subdue everyone’s argumentative side, I guess. Even mine and James’s. As the meal progresses it’s just the two of us again, ignoring everything around us. It seems as if he is leaning closer to me as the night goes on. His thigh pressing more heavily against mine, his hand brushing my fingers … or perhaps I’ve just had enough wine that I can think of nothing anymore but his proximity.
We sing “Happy Birthday” and then Ginny opens her gifts. James has had enough to drink that he barely reacts when Ginny opens the 10-inch vibrator and anal beads from Max.
“Seriously dude?” he laughs. “In front of me?”
“Ginny is on the cusp of blooming, sexually,” Max argues. “It’s a cause for celebration, not shame.”
Domenico returns as we are paying the bill, a bill that is significantly less than it should be, and asks if I’m ready for my tour.
“Where are you going?” asks James suspiciously as I stand.
“He wants to show me their garden,” I reply.
His eyes narrow. “Good,” he says, rising. “I love gardens.”
Domenico’s grimace makes it clear that this was not what he had in mind. In the end all of us go up to the rooftop and he gives a reluctant tour.
“You seem young to own a restaurant,” I suggest.
He flashes that smile again. “Ah, you’ve caught me. It’s really my father’s. But he returns to Italy next year and then it’s mine.” He looks over at James. “He’s your boyfriend?” he asks in Italian. When we switch languages James comes to my side, his hand resting lightly at the small of my back.
“Yes,” I lie.
“He’s very possessive,” he smirks. “Perhaps he senses you’re ready to move on to a real man?”
I smile. “I don’t think that’s it.”
We head back down the stairs, but James stops me at the bottom as the others walk on ahead. He turns me toward him, and to my surprise, he’s angry.
“Are you going to keep flirting with him all night?” he hisses.
“I’m not flirting,” I retort.
“I know flirting when I see it, whether it’s in English or Italian.” All his earlier softness is gone, and his eyes are dangerous in the moonlight. It excites me and angers me in the same moment. “He’s way too old for you.”