Page 16 of All is Not Lost
"I don't know," he admits, his voice laced with frustration. "But I do know that I love you and won't let anyone come between us."
I feel a surge of conflicting emotions as Giovanni's words wash over me. His declaration of love is both comforting and overwhelming, and I can't help but feel a glimmer of hope amidst the chaos of his family's disapproval. But deep down, I know that this isn't just about Rosaria; it's about the divide between our worlds and backgrounds that seems impossible to bridge.
Giovanni's grip on my hand is tight and almost accusatory as he leads me to the dining table where his parents sit, their expressions guarded. The spread before us seems to mock me, a lavish display meant to impress but only serving as a painful reminder of my own deficiency.
It’s a mosaic of colors and aromas that beckon with the promise of culinary delight. My gaze sweeps over the dishes—plump olives, sun-kissed tomatoes, and glistening strands of pasta—but I can't enjoy them, not with the tension in the air.
"Everything looks… elaborate," I force myself to say, trying not to let resentment taint my words. My gaze lingers over the dishes—exotic ingredients and expensive cuts of meat, all beyond my reach. My stomach churns with hunger and bitterness.
"You’re probably not used to good food, just burgers and hotdogs, huh?" Giovanni's mother, Rosaria, says with a thinly veiled sneer. I can feel her judgment piercing through her polite smile. “And ketchup. You Americans put ketchup on everything.”
The last part makes her laugh, and her husband chimes in with her.
I try to push back the rising anger and insecurity, reminding myself that this is just another test of my worthiness in Giovanni's eyes. But as we sit down and the first course is served—a dish I've never even heard of—my hesitation turns into fear. I have no idea how to navigate this world, and I realize I don’t feel at home anymore. Yet I try… to be polite at least.
"Rosaria, I must say, your cooking is exquisite," I say with false enthusiasm, knowing that my skills would never meet her standards, even if I did learn to cook. "I'm sure you have some secret recipe for these… gnocchi?" It comes out more as a question than a compliment.
Rosaria gives me a condescending smile before turning to Giovanni. "Yes, it’s an old recipe. I’m glad you like it, but I don’t think it takes much to impress an American, huh?"
My cheeks burn with embarrassment and anger as Giovanni laughs along with his family at my expense. With each bite of food, I am reminded of my place in this unfamiliar world—an outsider who will never truly belong. I don’t know what I was thinking coming here. And as the meal goes on, I can't help but feel like an impostor in their midst.
I sink back into my chair, trying to hide the disappointment in my eyes as I listen to Marco's enthusiastic retelling of their trip to the Amalfi Coast. Every detail he describes feels like a punch to the gut, reminding me of all the places I've never been and may never go. As the laughter and conversation flow around me, I can feel Rosaria's disapproving stare burning into my skin. She does not approve of me, an American woman who may steal her son's heart and take him away from this place forever.
"Have you always dreamed of traveling, Sophia?" she asks with a hint of disdain.
"I have," I reply, keeping my voice steady. "But, unfortunately, it seems like just a dream."
Rosaria scoffs and turns her attention back to the men at the table. But I can see the worry in her eyes, the fear that I will convince Giovanni to leave his homeland and return to mine.
"Perhaps you should visit Florence next," Marco suggests, unaware of the tension between his wife and me. His words are like daggers, twisting in my heart.
Giovanni's hand reaches for mine under the table, but this time, it feels more like a lifeline than a comforting gesture. Can he read my mind? Does he know what his mother is thinking? Is he having second thoughts about wanting a future with me already?
As we discuss our favorite books, I can feel Rosaria's eyes boring into me like knives. Her love for literature is genuine, but it's clear she doesn't want an outsider infiltrating their family dynamic.
"Ah, Dante's Inferno," she says with a tight smile. "Such a tragic tale with no hope or redemption."
I can sense her disapproval toward me seeping through her words.
"Giovanni has always been surrounded by books, by stories," Marco interjects with a nod in my direction. "You two are a perfect match."
But Rosaria does not agree. Her eyes flicker between her son and me, and I can see the fear in them. She doesn't want him to be happy if it means he may leave her.
"Si," she says coldly, "he hasn't stopped talking about you since the day he met you. You bring such joy to his life, cara. But will you take him away from us?"
Her words hang heavy in the air, crushing the promise of a future with Giovanni that I had begun to believe in moments ago.
But most of all, I fear that perhaps they are right—that I will never truly belong here and that my presence will ultimately lead to heartbreak for everyone involved.
I reach across the table, my fingers brushing against the linen napkin as I pass the homemade focaccia to Marco. He accepts it with a grateful nod, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that reminds me so much of Giovanni when he's pleased. The scent of rosemary and olive oil lingers in the air, mingling with the rich aroma of tomato sauce simmering on the stove. Rosaria's kitchen is a symphony of scents and warmth, a stark contrast to the sterile environment of my own childhood home.
"Your cooking is divine, Rosaria," I say, meaning every word. The flavors she coaxes from simple ingredients are nothing short of miraculous. She beams at the compliment, her brown eyes twinkling with pride.
"Ah, you are too kind, Sophia. But you must learn to make these dishes for Giovanni. A man should be fed well," she teases, and there's laughter in her voice. “Between you and me, I think that’s why he got rid of the last American woman he dated. What was her name again? Marco, do you remember? Well, she wasn’t very memorable, I guess.”
I glance at Giovanni, who is watching me with a tightness in his jaw and a hardness in his eyes that makes my chest tighten.
“You dated another American?” I ask. “Recently?”