The Pairing(102)

“I cannot help that I am so full of love,” Fabrizio says earnestly, “and also so very good-looking. It is my cross to bear.”

“You wouldn’t believe how many people finish this tour thinking they could have slept with Fabrizio if they’d had the opportunity,” Orla goes on. “I reckon we could sell T-shirts. Nearly Fucked Fabs: The European Tour.”

“I am providing memorable customer experiences!”

Orla snorts and says, “Love, it’s alright to like the attention. You’d wear a ring if you didn’t.”

“Yeah, to be fair, I had no idea you were married,” Theo chimes in. “Sorry, again, Valentina.”

“That is my idea, actually,” Valentina says, releasing her husband. “Once, not long after we were married, he forgot his ring at home and came home from the tour with twice as much in tips, so now I tell him to leave it with me. People tip more when they think he is available.”

“Especially the Americans,” Orla adds.

“Oh my God.” I bury my face in my hands. “I’m Americans.”

“Professore, no!” Fabrizio says. “With you, it is not just for tips.”

When I lift my head, Fabrizio is looking at Theo and me with pure, bare sincerity.

“Every tour I enjoy the people, but on some tours, I meet people I think could be my friends,” Fabrizio says. “And I want to bring you to my home and introduce you to my wife because I hope that after this trip is over, we can stay in touch, if you like. I hope we do not become strangers when we leave Palermo.”

There’s something so admirable about his directness. I like you. Stay in my life. It’s perfectly simple, when he says it like that.

I turn to Theo and find them smiling.

“We’d love that,” Theo says.

“Che bella!” Fabrizio says, raising his glass. “Then, let us drink to that! To friendship!”

Valentina adds, “And to love!”


“I have a question for you,” Fabrizio says to me after we’ve finished the wine.

We’re alone in the kitchen. Theo’s out on the balcony with Orla and Valentina, their laughter occasionally drifting like sea breeze through the half-open door. All the olive brine made us crave something sweet, so I volunteered to make dessert from whatever’s on hand, and now Fabrizio is playing sous while I improvise a gateau au yaourt—French yogurt cake, the first thing I ever learned how to bake.

I’m wrist-deep in a big mixing bowl, white and sky-blue porcelain passed down from Fabrizio’s parents’ honeymoon in Siena. A delightfully weird sea monster is glazed into its bottom. Fabrizio says it’s supposed to be a dolphin, the symbol of one of Siena’s seventeen contrade, but it has scales, and eyebrows. God bless medieval zoology.

As I massage lemon zest into sugar with my fingertips, I realize I haven’t once stopped to think of the next step. I’m going by heart, making best guesses and dreaming of finishing it with Valentina’s homemade apricot marmalade instead of the traditional lemon glaze. This might be the most fun I’ve had baking since my first week on the job.

“What’s your question?” I ask Fabrizio.

“You are in love with Theo, no?”

I nearly tip the bowl.

“Fabrizio.”

“Oh, they cannot hear,” Fabrizio reassures me with a wave of his whisk. I’ve put him in charge of the dry ingredients. “Too much noise from the street.”

I sigh.

“Is it that obvious?”

“If I am honest, yes. But I hear from Orla.”

“Orla.” This is what I get for assuming all women in safari hats can be trusted.

“You must know we talk about everything. The tour is the same every time, but the people are different. The guests are our entertainment.”

Satisfied with the sugar, I reach for the little glass pot of yogurt Valentina took from the refrigerator and add it in.

“Well, I hope we’ve given you a good show,” I say, genuinely meaning it.

“I think right now it is a tragedy. Tell me, why are you not together? You do not tell Theo how you feel?” He reads my face, then puts down his whisk in despair. “Why, Professore?”

“Because I don’t know if I deserve to.”

I crack the eggs and add vanilla and, as I whisk it together, tell Fabrizio the most simplified version of our story. Our lives together, the Paris mistake, the breakup, my father, how I never let Theo go, what I almost did last night in Rome before I caught myself. When I’m done, I have Fabrizio sprinkle the flour and baking powder and salt into my bowl while I go on mixing.

“I understand,” Fabrizio says. “You love Theo. You do not want for Theo a selfish lover who takes away choices.”

“Yes.”

“And so, you take away the choice to be with you.”

“I—” My hand falters on the whisk. “No, that’s not—”

“This is what it sounds like to me.”

“I—I just want to do the right thing for Theo.”

“Sì, and only you know what this is?” He’s at the pantry, searching for the last ingredient, a neutral-flavored oil. His tone is casual, as if he delivers axis-shifting insights to all his houseguests. “Ah, it is as I fear. Only olive oil. Okay?”