Page 36 of Skin Deep

I expected him to say no, to make some wisecrack about women being put here to make men use their brains, or something poetic about them being enigmas. Instead, he pointed toward a bunch of wildflowers growing in the empty field in front of the groves.

“We have discussed age, and with age comes seeing ourselves through the years through many mirrors. I still see myself, but I see that young man who used to stare back at me, because he exists in the youth of my heart. A mirror is no reflection of what rests beyond the surface, ah? It cannot see my desires, my heart, my triumphs, even my loss and sadness. Some wear their feelings like clothes, but others do not. We must go deeper than skin to find the truth. Take these flowers, ah? On the outside, they are all what?”

“Wildflowers,” I said.

“Wildflowers.” He nodded. “They belong to the same family, but they are all unique. They need to be treated accordingly—their needs are different. We must go down to the root to find the heart of who they are. What keeps them growing and thriving, ah? Perhaps the outside is beautiful to us because of a certain shape of petal, but when we go deeper and find out what its needs are, perhaps we do not think much of that one anymore, because it needs too much water, and we are attracted to another for its resilience in a draught-ridden land.”

“That’s the answer to the riddle of all time?”

“That is the answer to how to choose the right flowers for your garden.”

A beat passed between us, and we both started to laugh.

He sighed and we both became quiet, staring into the distance. Then I felt his eyes on me. I turned to meet them. He said something in his language, and I narrowed my eyes, wondering what it meant. It sounded profound. He dug in his poncho and handed me a slip of paper. It seemed like the words he’d just said to me were written on it.

I tried to read it, to pronounce every word correctly, but I knew I wasn’t. I looked up, about to ask him what it meant, but my voice died in my throat when a woman showed up and snapped, “Gotyou!”

The man called Nonno leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Wine time is over.”

We both started to laugh again. She planted her hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes at the both of us. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her. Except I’d seen her talking to Gigi briefly the night before.

“I believe you have my bicycle.” She raised her eyebrows at me.

I stepped off the bike, gesturing toward it with my hands, as if to say,go right ahead.

She took her seat, shaking her head at Nonno, who was grinning from ear to ear. She went to take off, but I ran behind them, stopping her.

“Where can I get food in the resort? I’m not sure where the main building is.”

“Resort?” she repeated.

“This place.” I motioned around. “Isn’t it a resort?”

She snorted, then started laughing. So did Nonno.

“You should have a basket in your casa,” she said, acting proper suddenly, though I knew it was meant to be mocking. “But I suggest if you want something to eat after that, you cook it yourself.”

“This isn’t a resort, is it?”

She made ading,ding,dingnoise, like I’d won something.

“Okay,” I said. I really had no fucking clue where I was then. “Can you show me the way back? And on the way show me where the bride is staying? If it’s close? I want to say goodbye.”

Her eyes narrowed even further. “Get on.” She nodded behind her. “I will take you.”

I sat on the very back seat while she peddled, even though I offered to do it, and Nonno sang on the way to Gigi’s casa.

She stopped peddling and I hopped off. They watched me as I walked toward the door. I wasn’t sure why, or why they were hanging around, but I had a feeling it was because words were being shouted in Italian (Sicilian?) from the other side of the door.

It sounded like an argument, but with only one person doing the shouting.

My phone rang in my pocket as I lifted my hand to knock, and I decided to take it.

“Harrison?”

“Yeah.”

“Owen.”

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