Page 5 of Mine to Love
“Not Mommy, Daddy,” Delilah says then. “Mommy just cooks them. But they taste weird. I like macaroni and cheese.”
Gio smiles as his eyes move to Delilah and then back to me. He’s quiet for a moment. I suppose processing or analyzing all the nuggets of information he’s just discovered.
To save him the energy, I offer him a simple explanation that in no way encompasses the complexities of my marriageorDelilah and mine’s situation. Nor does it give him any traceable information should he choose to dig deeper into my past. I’m not sure why he would, but getting a random bartender fired with one text makes me think him capable.
“My husband,ex-husband, and I lived in the Northwest.”
Placing his elbows on the table, Gio intertwines his fingers and nods. I wonder what he’s thinking. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told him that Clive is no longer in my life. If his intentions with me are as unholy as the Southern heat, then knowing I’m alone in a new city only makes me—us—easier targets. Though he probably already assumed as much with the way I walked into that bar. But now he knows I’m truly vulnerable.Damn it!I messed up. Why did I accept his help again? Why did I put myself in this position?
I feel myself growing antsy and eager to leave, just as a waiter appears with a basket of fresh French bread. He places it in the center of the table and then fills each of our glasses with water. Perhaps this is good. Delilah and I can eat the bread and drink the water and leave before this man learns anything else about us. Besides, the setting sun illuminating the courtyard lets me know it’s almost dark. The women’s shelter, which I located first upon our arrival, will fill up soon. If they reach occupancy, we’ll be on the street, and Gio Moretti will be just one of my worries.
“Can I start you off with anything else to drink? Perhaps a glass of wine paired with one of our appetizers?” The waiter asks, addressing Gio and I.
“Oh, no, um—” I start, but Gio interrupts me.
“Allow me to order for us. I’ve had an embarrassing number of dinners here over the past several months. There are a few standout dishes I’d love for you to try.”
“Like macaroni and cheese,” Delilah pipes up before I can protest.
“Like macaroni and cheese,” Gio replies. The smile on Delilah’s face warms my heart. I can’t remember the last time I saw her so excited. I suppose because we have had nothing to be excited about. I reach out to her then and rub her back. She turns to me, her lips still drawn into a radiant smile. I smile too and turn to Gio, finding him waiting for my response.
“Oh, um, yes, please. You can order for us,” I say. He nods and then rambles off so many items I lose track of how many. I hear the wordscrab cakes,pork belly,gumbo,barbequed shrimp,pork chop, andfiletall mentioned. But what really has my attention is how he waited for my response.
On the surface, Gio seems like a very domineering, authoritative man. And yet, he insists, he asks, but he doesn’t force. At least, he hasn’t forced anything yet. Finally noting that shade of gray in his unique mannerisms, I find a bit of my anxiety eases. I can leave at any moment. I can stand up and walk out with Delilah in my arms and he won’t stop me. At least, that’s the sense I now have. And it makes me just comfortable enough to sit through the rest of this sure-to-be delicious meal. Though thoughts of the women’s shelter are still ever-present. What will we do if they turn us away?
“And, finally, macaroni and cheese—a full size helping, not a child’s size.” Gio says, handing the waiter all our menus.
“Yay!” Delilah says, slapping her hands against her legs.
The smartly dressed waiter looks between her and Gio and then whispers, “Actually, sir, we don’t serve macaroni and cheese.” Suddenly, I fear for the waiter. And I’m not sure which is more to blame—Gio’s mannerisms or Clive’s?
Clive is,wasvery particular. And his displeasure was met with loud, violent outbursts. Or, if he was feeling frisky, he’d issue quiet threats of what he would do to me once we made it to the bedroom. As the memories come to me, I flinch and do my best to ignore them.
“You do tonight, kid,” Gio says, pulling my attention from my thoughts. It’s then that he pulls a red business card from his wallet, though I don’t see any writing on it, and hands it to the young man. “Pass this along to the chef with our special request. I’m positive he’ll be happy to oblige.”
“Yes sir.” With that, the waiter leaves us, just as confused as I am. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Gio turns to me then and notices my inquisitive expression. “The chef is a friend of mine.”
“Of course.” Though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious how the red card factors into his friendship. I suppose it’s just one more notable detail of the mysterious Gio Moretti, an intriguing man to say the least and yet, one whose company I pray is brief.
The food Gioordered came in two waves. First, a trio of appetizers. Second, enough entrees to cover the entire table. Each dish was better than the last. And somewhere along the way, I made small talk with the mysterious man in the suit. I suppose Delilah led the charge on that front. I’ve never known her to be so bold and inquisitive.
I developed certain routines for her that kept her away from Clive as much as I could. And since she’s homeschooled, or will be once we get settled, she’s never really interacted with anyone but me. It’s nice seeing her so lively. It lets me know that despite witnessing certain things between me and her dad, she isn’t irreparably damaged and distrusting of men the way that I am. Though, as much as that thought pleases me, it also worries me and has me putting up the guard I just lowered—this time, high enough for us both.
She thinks Gio is a safe person because she knows I wouldn’t allow her near an unsafe person. But the truth is, I don’t know Gio Moretti other than he’s originally from Miami and moved here shortly after college for work—the nature of which he did not disclose. He asked me about my hobbies—reading, baking,walks outdoors. And he shared his own—exercising, eating, dancing. Although he can’t remember the last time he did.
He said he also enjoys quiet mornings and writing the occasional poem. It all sounds good and well, intriguing even. A man who writes poetry? Who’s ever heard of that? Until I remember it’s all surface level. No, I don’t know him. I can’t trust him. And, since Delilah and I are now full, I think it’s time we take our leave, especially since it’s pitch-black outside and any remaining hope of finding a place in the shelter is almost gone.
Just as I remove the white cloth napkin from my lap and find a sliver of a spot on the table to place it, Gio asks, “So, Darcy, what are you hoping to find in New Orleans?”
“Excuse me?” His question catches me off guard. New Orleans was never the plan. If it was, I would’ve arrived in December when the temperature is bearable.
“Perhaps I should rephrase.” Gio glances at Delilah, who’s asleep in her chair, and then returns his attention to me. He leans forward in his seat, and I shift in mine to regain my composure as he inches closer. My eyes flit between him and the table, a habit still ingrained in me from my time with Clive. The last thing I wanted was his attention. But as I lift my eyes to Gio’s once more, I find his gaze’s hold on me is so strong that looking away feels impossible.
He then asks, “What are you looking for with your newfound freedom? How do you wish to spend it?” His voice is so soft. I have to watch his lips to understand his words. As my eyes move between his mouth and his amber gaze, my heart feels warm, and my shoulders feel lighter. It’s an unexplainable sensation.
“Freedom,” I whisper. “I hope to survive long enough to truly feel what it is to be free. I want a safe place to raise my daughter and enough money to support us.” It’s then that I bite my lip and shake my head. “Beyond that, I just want my head to not feel so heavy.” At that, I suck in a breath as fresh tears blur my vision.Gio nods and leans back in his chair. With the distance between us and my blurry vision, the spell he cast upon me breaks and I suddenly regret my honesty. “I should go,” I say, standing.
