Page 82 of The Best Worst Mistake
“Oh, do we love Boston?” I repeat slowly, stealing a glance at Silas, unsure of how to answer. She’s been telling us tales all evening about how much she has never wanted to live anywhereelse in the world, even since she was a little girl living here with her own nonna.
“I do love it,” Silas begins, slowly. “But, I can see why you love your home here though, and have never wanted to leave. You have the type of place that begs to be adored. I can see myself missing this place for the rest of my life after only spending an evening here,” he tells her, and I’m touched. Because even if I couldn’t put my own thoughts and feelings about tonight into words as eloquent as that, Silas just nailed it. That’s exactly how I’d describe our evening here too.
“Then stay here,” she says, pushing a pocket of dough with his hands.
He doesn’t look up. “I wish it were that easy,” he says.
“You have to get your hands dirty, like this,” she tells him. She sprinkles a bit of warm water over the top, making the mass grow stickier between his fingers. “You need to get messy. Sticky things aren’t bad, you know. People are scared of all the messes nowadays. Want every little thing to make sense. Things I have loved the most? They don’t make any sense.” She smiles, as if remembering. “Perfection? No, no one can love perfection. You find the best things in the most messy parts of your life.”
She pulls the mound of dough off the wooden counter, then slaps it back down again with athwak.
“This is love.” She waves her flour-covered hands around the kitchen, the worn, ancient walls and weathered clay pots. “True love is worn and messy.” She draws out the word messy, like she’s driving home a point, and part of me wonders how she knows our lives — our relationship — is as messy as it gets. “Why are you here if you’re not in love? Is there someone else?”
Silas laughs, the sound of it echoing off the walls while she pulls his hands from the dough. She takes a quick turn with it, working her magic with the mixture until it looks just like it’s supposed to look.
“Keep going,” she tells him, pushing his hands back down again. “We make sure you fall in love—” We both narrow our eyes at each other over her shorter head, wondering how this funny little woman can be so outspoken — “with pasta!” she finishes, bursting into laughter at her own joke. Then she rises on her toes to tap a spot of flour onto the tip of Silas’ nose, even though his own face towers high above her.
“You’re too handsome,uomo bello,” she grumbles. “But she’s toobellissimafor you.”
Silas nods, breaking into a grin.
“Trust me, I know,” he says, and we all laugh.
The remainder of the night unfolds like that. Nonna Lisi, charming as can be, teaching us every traditional way to roll pasta, gnocchi, and drink wine, while we all take small breaks to stare out at the shimmering sea below the home she’s lived in her entire life. Until at last, the length of the horizon finally swallows up the remainder of the sunlight, and it’s sadly time for us to go.
She ushers us toward the door. I’ve been given two giant yellow lemons picked from her tree out front for the long walk back to our hotel together. We’ve opted to walk since it’s such a nice night and the little town against the coastline is stunning.
“Live in a city that doesn’t beg to be adored, and travel with a woman who hasn’t been loved by you? You’re making mistakes,uomo bello. Life won’t wait,” she tells him, patting his flour-covered cheek. Then she winks at me happily and reaches up on her toes to give me a tight hug goodbye.
Tears spring to my eyes when I remember that she isn’t a long-standing part of my life, and I might never see her again.
“I’ve loved everything about this,” I tell her, squeezing her back one last time. “I will never forget you, and I will do my very best to be messy.” I smile warmly at her, holding up the giant lemons between us.
“And then I will come to the wedding,” she says, patting our backs as we go.
I shake my head and laugh, but don’t say another word, because something deep inside me twists her words around a memory I’ll take with me forever. Forcing every last detail into my memory bank for safekeeping. And then we walk out into the night.
Chapter 38
Silas
As soon as the thick wooden door swings shut behind us, the light from Nonna Lisi’s house fades too. Jules and I are left with a symphony of crickets and crashing waves under a full moon as we begin the slow walk to our hotel together under the dusky twilight sky.
I’ve already texted our driver to let him know that we prefer to walk instead of getting a ride. It’s balmy, and the hotel is only a mile or so away. Plus, it means more time alone with Jules.
She walks beside me for a few paces, her giant lemons cradled against her chest, before speaking. “I liked the skydiving, and I absolutely loved the sailing, but I want to live in that house with her forever,” Jules says dreamily as our steps fall into a slower pace beside one another.
“I agree,” I tell her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders, praying she doesn’t resist. Instead, she leans into me and we continue down the cobblestone path lit by street lamps.
“She’s right, you know,” she adds, not looking up at me.
My insides clench at her words.
The little elderly woman made so many comments about Jules and I belonging together that she was even calling me Romeo by the end of the evening.
“She was right about which part?” I ask.
“Why don’t we live in a place like this?” She looks up at a lemon hanging heavily from a branch near the path. “Don’t get me wrong, I love Boston, you know that, but this place? Spain? Switzerland? Why aren’t we living in places like this? Especially you. You have all the money in the world, Si. What keeps you in Boston? Especially with that boat in Spain?”
