I rush forward. “How can we help?”
Giuseppe shoos away my offer and ushers us to the table where there are already glasses filled with red wine and a basket filled with warm, steaming bread. We’re given the spots right on the end, side by side.
The smell in the house is simply…mouth-watering. My appetite hasn’t been the first thing on my mind this evening, but now I realize how starving I am.
Plates start getting carried to the table and Noah shoots to his feet to help. Once everyone has a heaping amount of food in front of them, we bow our heads as Giuseppe says an Italian prayer, and then we dig in.
“Pasta alla puttanesca,” Eva tells us, pointing her fork at the main dish she’s prepared. The pappardelle pasta has obviously been homemade. It’s covered in a thick tomato-based sauce laced with bold flavors I can’t get enough of: red wine, garlic, anchovies, olives, and capers. It’s so distinctly Italian and so delicious. Alongside it, she’s prepared crispy-tender green beans, roasted with garlic and lemon and sprinkled with pine nuts. On top of everything, there’s freshly grated parmesan. I barely come up for air after I take my first bite. It’s hands down the best meal I’ve had in Italy, and I make sure to let Eva know.
She eats up our praise, smiling wide as we voraciously clean our plates. She won’t hear of us turning down seconds either. More food gets piled on, and I sop up the tomato sauce with chunky pieces of flaky bread. The red wine pairs nicely, and I finish a glass and a half before I cut myself off.
After we’ve finished literally scraping every last morsel from our plates, I help Eva and her daughter clear the table. They try to wave me away with their dish towels, but they don’t succeed. There’s no way I’m going to let them wait on me hand and foot. I’m happy to help.
Noah ends up in the living room with Giuseppe and the kids. When I walk over to clear a few more dishes from the table, I peer in and see Noah on the floor, on his hands and knees, pretending to be a great big bear. He rears up onto his hind legs （his knees）， turns his hands into claws, and growls ferociously. The toddlers squeal with delight, running around the room like they’re about to be eaten alive.
Giuseppe watches them, amused, from his perch on an overstuffed armchair, bouncing the baby on his knee.
After the kitchen is clean, Eva and her daughter disappear to give the children their bath and put them to bed. Giuseppe helps Noah charge his phone so he can call Lorenzo. I feel bad we didn’t think to do it earlier, but there was a lot going on. Apparently, Lorenzo and the kids only made it back to Rome a little while ago. There was bad traffic the whole way. Lorenzo offers to drive one of the vans and come get us, but now that it’s so late, Noah tells him to just stay put, help Gabriella and Ashley with the kids. Once the tire is fixed on the Fiat in the morning, we’ll drive back.
After he hangs up, Giuseppe pulls out a worn domino set and I watch them play, sitting on the couch by a big oscillating fan, luxuriating in the breeze before my eyes grow tired.
They play one more game and then Eva hands Noah and me still-packaged toothbrushes and shows us where we can use the bathroom.
After waving good night to everyone, we climb the stairs to the small attic room one behind the other. The fatigue I felt while sitting on the couch a little while ago burns off the moment we’re alone again together.
Once the doors shut behind us, the only light comes from a small lamp near the bed.
I have no idea what to do with myself. No idea what to say. Apparently, Noah doesn’t either because we’re both quiet.
Without the fans from downstairs, it’s much warmer in here than the rest of the house. Now that the rain has finally stopped, Noah cracks the window, but it’s just as muggy and hot outside, so he pulls it closed again.
Though I’d love to strip down to nothing, I stubbornly keep my sweater on. We still haven’t worked out the kinks with the sleeping arrangement, so I busy myself with tasks. I check my cover-up and bathing suit—both are still wet. Then, because I feel anxious and weird, I do what I always do.
I’m aware of Noah watching me from his seat on the edge of the bed, but for a little while, he lets me work in peace.
Then, finally, he can’t help himself.
“You have a real problem, you know that?”
“Hardly. You know who has real problems? Meth addicts. Murderers. People who like to collect stamps.”
“What exactly is your goal here?”
“What does it look like my goal is?”
I’m tidying up their attic. Though it’s hard to manage in the low light, I’m arranging their pile of books into alphabetical order. I’m making it so they can easily access the boxes of old pictures and albums if they so choose. If I have enough time, I plan to rearrange the various pieces of furniture so it’s all neat and orderly, either in ascending order by size or, possibly, by function.