Page 7 of All is Not Lost
I shake my head before the idea even settles. "No." The word is a reflex now, a shield I'm too tired to lower.
"There will be wine," he says, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
I pause, the prospect tickling my curiosity, but then firmness sets in again.
"No, thank you. I have wine here, and I'm planning on getting drunk all day."
The solitude of my villa seems far less daunting than the vulnerability of his company.
I close the door gently, more out of respect for him than for my own resolve. But there it is again, a knock, soft yet insistent. He doesn't let up. With each tap, my resistance chips away, bit by bit.
"Come on, Sophia," he pleads through the wood that separates us, "it'll be good for you."
"Good for me? Giovanni, I don't need?—"
"Please," he interrupts. And I open the door again. There's something in his gaze, a silent understanding that seems to reach into the chaos of my past and soothe it. I can't resist that look, not entirely.
“I don’t want any promises, just your company. We’re both heartbroken; maybe we can drink it away together?”
"Okay," I finally relent, feeling the weight of a thousand doubts on my shoulders. "But there better be lots of wine."
His smile grows, and I can't help but notice how it brightens his whole face. "Fantastic! I already packed the basket."
"Really sure of yourself, huh?" I can't keep the sarcastic edge from creeping into my tone. "You knew I would end up saying yes."
"I have that effect on women," Giovanni says with a charming smile that could disarm even the most guarded heart.
I roll my eyes, finding solace in the pretense of annoyance. "I'm only coming because you have wine. That's it."
"Of course," he agrees, nodding as if it's the most natural thing in the world. His persistence isn't just about getting me out for a day; it's about pulling me back from the brink of myself. And despite the walls I've built, it feels surprisingly nice to let someone care—even if just a little.
The sun gently caresses my skin as I follow Giovanni down the undulating path toward our picnic spot. I can't help but notice how his shoulders move with easy confidence, leading the way through the Italian countryside that he knows like the back of his hand.
"Did you know these hills have been here for centuries?" he says, gesturing at the landscape stretching before us. "Vineyards, olive groves, families handing land down from generation to generation."
I nod, keeping my expression neutral, even though there's something about this place that tugs at something deep within me. The rolling green hills dotted with wildflowers and ancient trees whisper secrets of timeless beauty, and for a moment, I let myself be enchanted by it despite the stubborn resistance in my heart.
"Sounds lovely," I manage, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. I'm not used to allowing myself these small admissions of joy, but there's a part of me that's starting to appreciate the view—the endless sky, the scent of blooming jasmine, the tranquil hum of nature—all without telling him just how it's slowly unraveling the tight knot of stress within me.
We reach a clearing that seems to have been made just for us. Giovanni spreads a checkered blanket with a flourish, his movements filled with an endearing eagerness I find both amusing and unsettling. I can’t stop staring at his arms and the flexed muscles caressing them.
"Here we are, Signorina Sophia," he announces, patting the spot next to him. I hesitate, then lower myself onto the blanket, folding my legs beneath me as I take in our surroundings.
"Thank you, Giovanni," I say, my voice cooler than intended. The words hang between us, stiff and formal, reflecting the awkwardness that settles over us like a mist. He busies himself with unpacking the basket, and I can't help but steal glances at the neat arrangement of cheeses, fruits, and, of course, a bottle of wine.
"Looks like you didn't forget the wine," I comment, trying to sound casual, but the underlying tension in my voice betrays me.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he replies with a chuckle, popping the cork with practiced ease. He pours two glasses, offering one to me. Our fingers brush as I take it, sending an unexpected jolt through me. I quickly look away, focusing on the vineyards in the distance.
"Cheers," he says, raising his glass.
We clink, and I take a sip, letting the rich flavor wash over me. I hope the wine will smooth the edges of this encounter and make my hangover go away.
"Cheers," I echo, my eyes meeting his for a fleeting second before I avert them, taking in the serene beauty around us once more. The initial awkwardness lingers like the delicate taste of the wine on my lips, but there's something about the way the sunlight filters through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on Giovanni's face, that makes me want to linger in this moment just a little longer.
I trace the rim of my glass with a hesitant finger, watching Giovanni as he settles back on the checkered blanket, his gaze taking in the vast expanse of the countryside. He seems so at ease here in this open, sunlit space, and I envy that freedom just a little.
"Tell me, Sophia," he begins, breaking the silence that had started to stretch between us, "what brought you to Italy? I've been wondering."