Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Have you met his mother yet?” she asked.
“No,” I said, shaking my head.
“She must be the only one in his family not to have visited the restaurant then,” she said, rocking away again.
“Wait. You think she’s been in?”
“I’m almost sure of it,” she said. “If someone had saved you from bullets, darling, I would absolutely go and see them.”
“But… but why wouldn’t she say something if she had?”
“I’m assuming perhaps Nino didn’t want his family to be strange about things, to make you feel uncomfortable. Did you see the meal they must have left for you?” she asked.
My mind flashed back to Nino stooping down to grab the tin off the step as we made our way inside, but I’d practically forgotten all about it until then. Which made guilt promptly spread through my body. They were using money and taking time out of their days to cook for me. The least I could do was see what it was.
“They’ve done it every day since I got home,” I reminded her. Since I’d been bringing them into work for us to eat for lunch. Though I already had a freezer full of leftovers. His family, when they cooked, they went big about it. At this rate, I was going to have an entire year’s worth of food stocked away.
“They seem like nice people,” she said. “They bring you food. They come to the restaurant to show us support.”
“Yeah. The whole family sounds amazing,” I agreed.
“And I have never met a man who comes over in the middle of the night to weed a woman’s garden,” she added.
“Mom, don’t.” I meant for it to come out demanding, so she would let it drop. There was no mistaking the desperate edge to my tone as I spoke, though.
“Stop what? Gently prodding my very stubborn daughter into following her heart?” she asked, sounding innocent, but that was a mischievous glint in her eye.
“I’m not in love with him,” I insisted.
“You don’t have to be in love with him for your heart to be reaching out to him. Besides, since when has it ever been a horrible thing to love someone?”
“Says the woman who has never been in a serious relationship,” I said, immediately regretting it.
But my mother, as usual, was not offended.
“Oh, my darling girl, don’t mistake lack of commitment for lack of love. I have loved. I have loved big and deep. I have dived in and submerged myself in it. Done backstrokes and breaststrokes in it. But love, for me, has always been deep and overwhelming, but short-lived. And that’s okay. I have been happy with that. But I have loved. And it worries me, Savannah, that I haven’t seen you even showing signs of it. Until now.”
“I’ve…” I started to object, then stopped.
Because if I gave it more than a moment’s thought, I would have to admit the truth. I had liked. I had lusted. I had even been mildly infatuated. But I hadn’t loved. Not even close.
I couldn’t even claim to relate to the idea of my heart “calling to someone.”
But maybe that was what this was with Nino.
Why I couldn’t stop thinking of him, dreaming of him, obsessing over him.
“I just haven’t found someone to love yet,” I decided. “Not in that way.” Because I did love. Often and deeply. Just… platonically.
I was still in contact with this girl I had an intense friendship with during a summer beach vacation when I was ten. I’d gone to her wedding. I’d bought her babies Christmas presents.
I loved the homeless man who had told me stories about his family that he loved but was afraid to be home with because of his violent PTSD.
Then there was the elderly lady whose hair I’d brushed and braided at the temporary shelter where my mom had been volunteering after a horrible hurricane.
And the dozens or hundreds of others I’d met during my lifetime.
But not a man who I was involved with intimately.
“I guess I haven’t. Not in that way,” I said, feeling a little sad that I hadn’t noticed that before.
“Maybe that is because you are meant to only love once and deeply,” my mom suggested, giving my thigh a pat.
“But not Nino,” I insisted.
“Why not?”
“It’s just not like that.”
“You said it is.”
“Was,” I corrected.
“Oh, I see,” she said, taking a sip of her tea. “Perhaps that is because of your condition?” she suggested. “He is clearly still interested. Taking you to dinner, weeding your garden, telling you all about his family.”
“I don’t know. We’ll see, I guess,” I said, not sure if he was going to show up again.
But secretly praying he would.
“So, how about some rosemary bread today?” she asked, sensing I didn’t want to talk about Nino anymore. I mean, I did. Endlessly. But not to analyze what was going on with us.