Chapter 203: All the Poetry
- LUCIANO -
As soon as Rory walks into the restaurant, the anxiety that has felt like a live wire running straight down my spine disappears. I can relax again. I can fucking breathe.
And that’s exactly what I do, releasing a heavy sigh and allowing the calm to take over. Dex glances at me as the girls walk toward the table. I’m not sure if he’s evaluating the quick change in my mood or preparing to deliver another ’I told you so’ since they both made it to us okay, but I ignore him. It’s not important. What’s important is that Rory is here. Every other concern falls away.
I’ve got it so fucking bad for this girl.
Rory may be in denial, but I can see that she relaxes around me, too. It’s just like Dex said about the dreams and sleeping together, but apparently it works when we’re awake, too. I’m what she needs, and the realization makes my chest swell.
It’s not just physical pleasure I can offer her like other women—although that certainly won’t be a problem. But this is something so much deeper. It reaches all the way into that same space where family resides. And honor. And everything I’ve devoted my life to nurturing and protecting. That’s the space I want to share with her. That’s where she can take shelter and heal.
Once the waitress arrives with the dishes we ordered, Rory’s eyes sparkle with delight. I’ll chase every delicious meal down on the planet if it means keeping her as happy as she appears right now.
"We may not have found the dress yet, but Raya met a very friendly monkey," Rory informs us with a mischievous flash of her smile.
"I did," Raya nods enthusiastically. "She climbed right up on my shoulders. She was so cute with the sweetest little white and black face. I would have carried her around all day if Rory didn’t scare her away."
"Don’t those things carry diseases?" I ask.
"That’s what I said!" Rory laughs. Her whole face lights up. It’s like she’s a different person when she’s eating, I swear. And fuck me, I love it.
When we’ve all finished eating, Dex stretches back in his chair. "So where to after this?"
"I’d still like to keep looking," Raya says. "I’m sure there’s a dress here. I don’t want to have to travel anywhere else in Costa Rica to find one."
Our waitress, an older lady named Ana, is refilling waters when she stops. "May I ask what occasion you are shopping for?"
"We’re getting married Saturday," Dex tells her.
"And you don’t have a dress?" Her eyes grow wide and shift toward Raya in concern.
"It was a surprise." Raya shrugs. "I’m sure there is one around here that will do."
"I think... I think I may know someone who can help you," Ana says, appearing surprised by her own revelation.
"Really?" Raya asks.
"Yes, pura vida! Let me see if she is still here."
Once she is gone, Raya leans forward. "What does pura vida mean?" She asks quietly. "They say it a lot here."
"That’s a cool one. It really encapsulates the essence of the culture," Dex explains, casually taking hold of her hand on the table and weaving their fingers together. "It’s used as hello, goodbye, as a way of saying ’no worries’. Or an exclamation to something..."
"It translates as ’pure life,’" I add.
"But that doesn’t really capture the spirit of it," he replies with a wry smile.
"True," I admit. "That’s common in Italian, too. English translations take all the poetry out."
"Like what?" Rory asks. "What are some examples of Italian phrases?"
"Well..." I stare at the table, searching for some before glancing up at Dex who is waiting with keen, amused interest to see what I’ll come up with.
There are a lot of offensive and vulgar phrases to choose from—those are easy to think of—and I imagine he has some of those in mind. He may not speak Italian, but I definitely made sure to teach him some things when we were kids.
"A lot of them actually use food," I tell Rory, opting to leave the offensive things out.
"Really?" I can see this draws even more interest from her.
"Yes, Italians are very passionate about food. One is ’Mangi la minestra o salti dalla finestra.’ Eat the soup or jump out the window." My hands act out the dismissive phrase like I’m encouraging someone to do just that, and it causes chuckles all around the table.
"And what poetic part is lost in translation?" Rory laughs, setting down the wine she’s been sipping on. Her cheeks are slightly flushed, and a needle of worry pricks me when I recall what Raya said about her heart last night.
"Okay, I guess it’s not really poetry," I admit, nudging the glass of water her way. "That one means ’it’s either my way or no way.’ There is also ’Non tutte le ciambelle escono col buco,’ which is: ’Not all doughnuts come out with a hole.’"
This creates more laughter, the most important of which is coming from Rory, of course. Food and laughter and my presence. I decide that’s all she needs.
"What is that one supposed to mean?" she asks.
"Not everything works out like you expect," I shrug.
"Mmm. But the product is just as delicious." She says it with a smirk, referring to the doughnut, of course.
"Just as delicious, yes," I agree. That’s adding more to the phrase than what’s implied in Italian, but I like the interpretation—especially with the way her gaze lingers on my face with whatever thoughts are playing in that beautiful mind of hers.
"Maybe it’s even more delicious," Raya adds. "Because then you have more doughnut. Who needs a hole in their doughnut anyway?"
There’s an opportunity to make a very Italian joke here about the necessity of a hole and all its connotations, but I don’t. I only share in the silent laughter coming from Dex when I realize he’s likely thinking the same. Maybe it’s actually less an Italian thing and more a guy thing.
"What?" Raya asks, but Dex just shakes his head.
"What’s another one?" Rory asks. "These are fun."
I notice our waitress, Ana, weaving through tables on her way back to us with another older woman at her side. They are talking to each other and looking at our table.
"Hmmm... okay, this one has to do with something else sweet, dolcezza. And it definitely loses all of its poetry in English."
Her brows pinch briefly, maybe because I’ve been too obvious that the meaning is specifically for her. It doesn’t matter, though. Ana will arrive at the table just in time to save me from having to translate its meaning—a meaning which absolutely loses ALL its poetry in English.
"Cascato come una pera cotta," I tell her, lips twitching with the hidden message that no one else at the table is aware of. This is a secret I get to confess openly without actually being understood.
In Italian, the phrase is ’dropped like a baked pear.’ It doesn’t sound sweet or romantic or sexy in English. It sounds stupid and messy. It sounds like a mistake. And maybe falling madly in love with someone is. Maybe I will splat on the ground just like a baked pear. But I don’t think so, and at this point I can’t exactly bring myself to care. Rory is too sweet, too delicious, too enticing to avoid.
She stares at me, waiting for the translation, and I lift my hand to brush back a wild strand of hair that has fallen over her eyes. She doesn’t flinch or frown. Instead, her eyes only follow me expectantly.
"Did you enjoy your lunch, dolcezza?" I ask softly rather than offering her the meaning.
She gives one slow nod, looking like someone who has become enchanted by a spell. If only we were alone... if only I could touch her more. I know she would turn into my hand. I know she would fall with me and we would be two hopeless baked pears giving in to gravity.
The two women arrive at our table. "This is my friend Luciana," Ana smiles. "You can call her Luci."
Rory giggles softly. Just like that, the spell is broken.
"Hi, Luci," Raya says with a grin, glancing my way. "I’m Auraya. It’s a pleasure to meet you."
"Pura vida, Auraya," the new Luci says in a quiet voice like someone who is very shy. "The pleasure is mine."
Ana stares at her friend for a moment before she decides to speak for her. "Auraya, I think Luci may have a dress for you."
