Page 20 of The First Time

“You gonna stop rolling and get out the pasta machine?”

I realize Layla is talking to me.

“Wait, what?” I ask, embarrassed that I was just so lost in watching her. “What pasta machine?”

She smiles at me. “That one, right there. Did you not hear anything she just said?”

“I was busy kneading this dough,” I defend, hoping she doesn’t call me out.

With the help of Layla, we manage to get our pasta run through the machine. It’s actually really cool to see the final product and know it all started from eggs and flour.

“Damn, this is kinda fun,” I admit as I add the pasta to the boiling water.

Layla looks at me skeptically. “Says the guy who’s been whining almost the entire time.”

“Hey, I don’t want to screw this up. This is our lunch. I don’t want you blaming me for a bad lunch because you brought the man who eats out all the time.”

“Aw, you’re worried about making me happy?” She puts her hand to her heart jokingly.

I drop the rest of the pasta in and turn to face her. “I always worry about your happiness, Layla. Maybe you don’t see it, but I do.”

Her smile falls from her face. I’m good at making that happen. She opens her mouth to say something but then shuts it. Looking around the room, she clears her throat.

“The pasta should only take about two minutes to cook. We need to keep an eye on it.”

Right. Message received. Move on.

We both turn awkwardly to the pot as the moment passes us by. I let Layla take the lead and plate our food. She grates fresh pecorino cheese on top of our lemon sauce along with fresh chopped basil. Watching her work is like watching a painter making a masterpiece or a dancer in their element during their favorite number.

Every movement she makes is fluid. I can feel the love behind her work. She isn’t just making food, she’s creating something with her heart.

We are instructed to carry our plates outside, where a bottle of wine awaits our private table.

Our table is perched under a lemon tree with an impeccable view of the lake. It’s wild how everything you see looks like a painting. There’s so much beauty that your brain doesn’t know how to process and take it all in.

Layla takes a seat across from me, and I realize nothing can compete with her. She’s always stolen my focus wherever we go.

“What are you doing?” I ask after we get into our room after dinner. She’s rummaging through her suitcase like she’s looking desperately for something.

“I’m trying to find my sparkly top.”

She pulls out some black glittery scrap of material.

“Why do you need that top?”

“Because…I thought I might go to a bar tonight. I kind of wanted to check out the nightlife here. Don’t worry, you don’t have to come.”

I pop off the bed. “Like hell I’m letting you go out at night in that top in a foreign country.”

“You can come. I just didn’t want to pressure you. I’m gonna go put this top on.”

She goes into the bathroom, and I open my bag to find a black shirt that fits my biceps a bit tighter than my other shirts. It has nothing to do with wanting to impress Layla. It’s just a nice shirt, and I like to wear it. And while we’re at it, the extra spray of cologne has nothing to do with her either.

She comes out in white shorts and her little top. Her hair seems fuller, and her eyes look darker. If she thinks she’s picking up a random Italian man at this bar, she’s delusional. I can’t let her risk her life. For one thing, her brothers would kill me if I let that happen.

Plus, fuck that.

“You have a place in mind?” I ask as I open the door.

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