Page 126 of Casanova LLC

I grabbed my phone and headed for the kitchen, texting my uncle: Dinner in an hour.

* * *

Exactly an hour later, the door to the kitchen opened, and Jacopo came in with the forced joviality of someone visiting a terminally ill friend. “Buonasera!” He set a bottle of wine on the counter. “Smells delicious!” He came behind me and looked down at the stovetop, clapping me tentatively on the shoulders. “Bistecca!”

Just to let him know we were fine, I reached up, patted his hand. “Roasted potatoes in the oven. The bowl on the table with foil on it, mushrooms and broccoli.” Man food. A no-frills meal made for sustenance, not romancing.

He slapped my shoulders once more and turned back to the counter. “Bene! Look at the bottle I bring for us.” He held it up like a newborn. “Brunello di Montalcino Tenuta Nuova 2001 Casanova di Neri.”

I shook my head. “I’m not drinking tonight.” I’d drunk more in the last three days than I had this entire year. I felt bloated and puffy, an oily pile of shit.

“I always say, when we find ourselves in the weeds, look for a vine…?”

I shook my head again.

He changed gears. “But tonight, is okay, we no drink.” I could feel him looking at my back as I flipped the steaks one last time. “So. Are you ready for your next?—”

“Yes.”

I plated the steaks, handed them to Jacopo. I turned off the fan, took the potatoes out of the oven, and we walked silently into the dining room. He took the seat he’d taken the night we dined with Claire, and I chose the seat across from him, the one she’d sat in. In case we talked. About anything. Which I wasn’t sure we would.

We dished up in silence.

“Protein is good,” Jacopo observed.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Restorative.”

“Mm.”

“The potatoes. Is that the new oil?” I nodded, shoveling broccoli into my mouth. “Grassy, isn’t it?”

“Mm-hmm.” I cut into the steak.

He followed my lead. “I can clean the guest apartment for?—”

“It’s done.”

“Have you heard from?—”

“No.” I made it sound as definitive as possible, the vocal version of closing a door. He seemed to get the message, because we ate in silence for a minute, my body greedy for the nutrients I was replenishing. I couldn’t keep wallowing; I wasn’t a kid anymore.

“Do you want Viagra?”

I stopped chewing, glanced up. “What?”

“For your next guest.”

“No!” But did I? Would I? “No,” I repeated, with a bit less certainty. I forked more steak into my mouth. “Why? Do you have some?”

He reached for a wineglass only to realize it was filled with water. “Maybe some expired ones.”

We ate, again, in silence.

“Where is your phone?”

I inclined my head in the direction of the sala, the bedroom. “Next to the guitar.” At that, he looked at me with knowing pity, no doubt imagining me strumming our song sadly to myself. He wasn’t wrong. I hadn’t gotten a chance to sing it to her before she left. Just one more thing to hate. “Why?”

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