Beautiful Things Never Last (10 page)

             
“Okay. Um, wow.
Do you hate my teacher?” I smirk.

             
“I do not hate. Hate is a wasted emotion.”

             
“Right. Well, I hate enough people for the both of us then. What’s the deal? Do you want to talk about it? Were you lovers gone wrong?” Amalea looks up at me, her eyes wide with embarrassment. “Wait! Is he going to fail me because I’m staying with you? I guess he wouldn’t, I don’t even think we get graded—”

             
“Stop it! No, Davide will not fail you. He’s a good man—”

             
“
Davide, huh?
How good
is he
?” I ask with a wink.

             
“Don’t be stupid.
Anyway, you drop it, I’ll maybe teach you to make my famous sfogliatelle. You don’t, I won’t even let you taste a bite.”

             
“Consider it dropped,” I say smartly.

             
Amalea isn’t ready to make good on her offer to teach me how to make the pastry, but she does let me sit in the kitchen and watch her make the labor intensive masterpiece.

             
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I say. “How is your English so good?” I’m reaching for topics, but I really have been wondering.
I assumed
when I got here, I’d spend the entire month with everything lost in translation. Having Amalea as my host has really been a gift. “Do you have family in America or something?”

             
“No, no family. After…” Amalea tightens her apron and pauses, before rewording and
starting again. “Several years ago, a couple from America moved to town. Carol was American, her husband
, Benito was Italian. They came here to take care of his elderly parents, and Carol came to work in the store with me. She taught me to speak English.” I feel like there’s more to that story, but Amalea doesn’t seem keen on sharing today, so I let it go.

             
“Is that a family recipe?” I ask, spreading a thick layer of creamy lardo onto a slice of fresh, rustic bread. If it weren’t for Ben back home, I’m not sure I’d ever leave Spello. Or Amalea’s kitchen. I take a bite and it’s creamy in a way butter never could be and laced with rosemary and
if I could marry a food this would be it.

             
“The sfogliatelle?
S
i
. Passed down from my father’s side. The lardo, no. Luca from next door brought that back from Modena this morning.”

             
“It’s delicious,” I say, licking a glob off of my index finger.

             
“We
will
go one day.
You and me.
I know a man who makes
il
pesto modenese
each morning. He will show you how.”

             
“That sounds incredible. Maybe someday.”

             
“You show more interest in the food than any of the other students I’ve had stay before.”

             
“Really?”

             
Amalea nods and I can’t help but feel a spark of pride ignite in myself for doing something right for a change.

             
“Did your mother cook with you a lot as a child? Is that why you have the appreciation of food?”

             
The flame has been blown out at the mention of my mom.

             
“
Not really.”
I leave it vague, but Amalea looks up from the dough and stares at me, as if she’s waiting for me to elaborate. “My mom and I were never really close. She has…
problems
.”

             
“Ah,” Amalea says. “Are things better now, that you are grown?”

             
“Not exactly. I don’t live near her and my dad. And they are really involved with my youngest brother, so we don’t connect a lot. But she’s my mom…and I love her…and why am I talking about this when you threatened my life if I brought up Chef?”

             
Amalea cracks a small smile. “Fair enough.”

             
She rounds the counter where she’s been tirelessly rolling and stretching and layering the gorgeous dough, and reaches around me to open the freezer and place the plastic wrapped dough to chill. I have so much to learn from this woman.

             
“I wish I would’ve had a mom like you,” I let the words slip out before I have a chance to consider them. How they must sound rude and creepy and strange from someone Amalea barely knows. “I mean, I wish I would have grown up with her teaching me to cook and stuff.” I shrug, hoping I’ve managed to save things.

             
“
S
ciocchezza
,
” Amalea says. “I’m sure your mother taught you many things.”

             
I am not about to delve into the fact that my mom spent the majority of my childhood in rehab, running out on my dad and my brothers and I—leaving me to cook and get my brothers  up for school. I’m not going to explain how my mom turned a blind eye to my dad’s affair with our neighbor because she was too weak to do anything but look away. I won’t admit that I hid so much of my life from my friends and from Ben back then because I was so embarrassed of how things really were, and could barely admit the realities to myself, much less tell anyone else. I don’t say any of those things, but Amalea gives me a small nod, like she’s transported herself into my brain and knows all the things.

             
“
You should be thankful for your mother’s faults.”

             
“Excuse me?”

             
“A mother’s job is to teach her children. You learned a valuable lesson from her. You learned exactly who you don’
t want to be.”

             
I take another bite of the savory bread and consider this for a moment. I spent the better part of last year trying so hard to be nothing like my
mother that
I ended up spiraling out of control in signature Patricia MacPherson style.

             
“You remind me of my brother’s pseudo-girlfriend,” I say. Amalea raises her eyebrows at me. “In a good way! She always has these great little pieces of advice that, in her case, she probably read in a fortune cookie or under a
bottle
cap, but it’s nice to, you know, talk to someone who can see things in a way that you can’t. Shayna does that for me a lot.”

             
“I’m glad I could help,” Amalea says.

             
“Me too.”

             
“And your boyfriend? Have you talked to him?” Amalea asks.

             
“Not
as much as I’d like,
”
I say.
I’ve definitely called him more than he has called me, and our conversations are clipped and short, and not a whole lot is said. I don’t want to brag about the amazing time I’m having when he’s sitting at home alone. But our talks always end with an ‘I love you,’ so I guess I can’t complain too much.“
I
don’t know if it’s him or me, or just the distance, but whenever we do talk, he seems short with me.”

             
“Maybe he’s just busy.”

             
“Maybe.” I lace my fingers together and try to choose my words in a way that won’t leave me sounding like a jealous freak. “But he’s off of school, and his boss is out of town so he’s not working…” I think about all of the times he comes home late because he’s out taking photos, and I just know that’s how he’s spending his time with me away. Hopefully he’ll take enough that he won’t sneak out the first night I’m home.

             
“Sometimes, it’s easier to just accept the distance and anticipate the reunion,” Amalea says.
I don’t know if that’s right or wrong, but right now, it makes a lot of sense to me.

Eight

BEN

I’m pulling a delicious single serving of
Salisbury
steak
and som
ething that the frozen food company is trying to pass off as macaroni and cheese out of the microwave when my phone vibrates on the counter. It’s not like I can’t eat a proper meal without Quinn around, but why bother? It’s just me, no point in
messing up
the entire kitchen.

             
“Hey, baby,” I answer the phone and shut the microwave with my other hand.

             
“Hey, yourself. Long time no talk.” Quinn’s voice sounds the same, but it
feels
different. Like the distance and time change has crept its way into her words,
softening the edges, making each word
more meaningful, no matter what
it is.

             
“I’m sorry. The time change is killer, you know?” I say it, but it’s not the entire truth. Quinn is doi
ng this amazing thing, and I’m
happy for her. But part of me feels like she’s figuring out just how much she’s capable of—without me—and that
maybe
I
just
need to let her do that.
She deserves it. She needs to realize just how freaking amazing she is for once without someone telling her.
I know all of that, but the thought of it still terrifies the hell out of me. I want it for her, but selfishly, I don’t want her to stop needing me.
It’s why I keep our conversations short. I don’t want her worrying about me, or what’s going on here, and it’s just weird knowing that she’s all the way over there, doing life changing things and I’m just…here.
“What time is it there?”

             
Quinn yawns, “Just after three. I set an alarm so I could try to catch you when you got home.
I’ve been getting pretty intimate with your voicemail, lately, so I figured
I had to do something different
.
”

             
“I’m glad you did,” I say.
Sometimes, the changes in Quinn catch me off guard. The Quinn I met in high school wouldn’t have planned ahead like this.
And she did it for me. Maybe my stupid-ass insecurities over her finding her own way are bullshit after-all.