Taste of Italy

C H A P T E R f i f t e e n

                                                                                   . . .

     She told her sisters everything. At least, everything she knew. About almost sleeping with Dante to the angry Italian woman, and whatever just happened that night.

The girls sat at a normal table, not a booth. Each slouched and leaned in to hear the cries of Iris who whispered quietly, mainly because she didn't want to make a scene. Even the waitress noticed.

Iris took the glass of wine off the table, holding it to her lips. "I just . . . don't know what happened. One day, we're fine, and the next? It's a complete disaster." After a few sips, she put the glass down but kept hold of the bottom pole. She thought her hands were in an awkward position, not holding anything, not doing anything. Twiddling her thumbs was something she could've done, but decided against it as it annoyed her sometimes.

"So wait, what did this woman look like?" asked Kelly, clearing her throat.

Iris shrugged. The more she thought about the appearance of the woman, the more it became a blur. "Don't remember. All I know is that she couldn't have been old enough to be his mom. That's for sure."

"What about sister?" Jane furrowed her eyebrows, probably thinking of any possibility.

With a shook of her head, Iris answered, "Maybe. But then I suppose it'll only bring up more questions as to why they'd sound as if they were having some rivalry like they had some beef goin' on for years."

Kelly cocked her head to the side for a moment, then tilted her head back up to its original position. "Got a point there. That's a bit rough to figure out. Maybe one of them did something they didn't like? Ha, maybe she wanted to be in his books but he decided against the thought?" She laughed, wondering if her theory could be true.

"Or," said Jane in a low, firm voice, "she was in his books and didn't like how he portrayed her?"

The theories were a nice addition to help calm Iris's anxiety down, but somehow, she still felt like they were all wrong. "It could be, but I don't know . . . could she be an ex-lover?"

Jane looked down, then to Iris. "Maybe?"

"But what would she want with Dante? Or vice-versa?" added Kelly, taking a sip of her drink. Iris completely forgot what the two had ordered.

"Well, he did say that she was there for his book, I guess for research?"

"What would she give for research?" Iris could tell that Kelly wanted to rant on and on about anyone, not caring about what the person had to give.

"You do realize that she could've been in some profession that would've helped her case? Like, I don't know, maybe she was a historian or scientist?" Jane looked at her youngest sister.

"Whatever." Kelly leaned back into her chair, putting her hands up in defense. "I'm just saying: the evidence doesn't add up."

"The issue is that there is no evidence. All we're thinking about are just theories and stories. Nothing that's fact related." Iris cleared her throat, but it took her longer than usual as the saliva had to break through the walls of her esophagus as it tightened and became sore. Once it finally went down without her choking, she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and relaxed. "Maybe I shouldn't look too far into it. Maybe he was just having a bad day and it was the wrong time to hang out."

"Maybe," Jane said, chuckling, and shook her head. "We've said that word too many times."

The other two girls smiled, knowing that they had said too many "maybe's" within the last ten minutes.

After a moment, the laughing vanished and Iris's smile faded. "Or our ages have become a problem? He could be realizing that we come from two totally different worlds and I'm just too young for him."

"But isn't age just a number?" Kelly turned her head to lock eyes with Iris. "Isn't that what everyone tells you these days? That people should only love you for you, and not be paranoid about how old you are?"

"I honestly don't know the 'rules' on dating, so I'm the worst person to answer that." Iris's eyebrows lifted on her forehead, then fell. She looked to Jane, wondering if she had anything to add to Kelly's question.

But all Jane did in response was hold her hands up in defense. "Hey, don't look at me. Everyone has their own different opinion on the matter."

"True," said Iris, taking another sip of her wine. As her sisters began talking, probably more conspiracy theories about Dante or the woman, she lost her place in the conversation. Her mind wandered off, into the abyss, wondering what else might've gone wrong.

But she couldn't think of anything. Not a single problem.

Okay . . . so what if she was younger than him?

So what if she was only in Italy for a week longer?

So what if she wasn't famous? . . . Wait . . . wait . . . could he hate me for not being as great of a writer as he is? Could he hate me for not being equal to his social status? Is he embarrassed of me?

Now that the question came up, her brain went into the "automatic panic and torture" episode. Making her think about the worst that could happen.

But the more she dove into the issues and what might have been, she questioned something, maybe even realizing another thing at the same time: was this a good thing or a bad thing? True, she didn't go to Italy to find a man. To find love. To find anything that related to romance. She came for a vacation with her sisters. She came to spend time with them. If he truly hated her and didn't want to continue their relationship, maybe it wasn't so bad?

She'd be able to get back on track with her sisters and continue their journey in Rome.

But on the other hand, she found someone that had a lot in common with her. Things most men weren't into or didn't support enough. Things they didn't understand, didn't care about. Whenever she mentioned about being a writer, they'd just scoff and tell her to look for something else to do. Which was why she was single most of the time, as she didn't want to spend her relationships with men who didn't care for her career paths, choices, or hobbies. That looked the other way.

When she met Dante, things changed. He was a writer, he understood her; they were both on the same level. Unless you count not being as great as he was, being less experienced, being unknown, not being published, and being older and more mature than her—then they weren't on the same level. But despite all that, she found someone who didn't care about what genre she wrote in or criticized her for what she wrote or how she wrote or even the idea of writing.

There was a bond between them.

She knew that.

She felt it.

And if their relationship—or whatever it was called within the week of them seeing each other—was off, then it had to have been a bad thing. Right?

In the end, Iris decided that it was just half-and-half. Both good and bad. But she still felt like she missed a piece of her identity. It was somewhere, floating out into space, saying goodbye to her with a malevolent laugh.

For the first time as an adult, she was incredibly hurt. Broken to pieces that could not be fixed by band-aids, duct tape, or glue. It couldn't be mended together at all. For the first time, Iris experienced the pain of what love could've been, of what a relationship might have started, of how a romance ended.

This was by far the worst experience she ever had.

It was worse than getting humiliated in middle school, or how every boy looked at her as if she was this empty void that no one wanted to fill.

Iris used to wonder about what was worse than that, and now she knew.