Almost two weeks have gone by since I met Fiore behind the Fair—that night—and since that Saturday when I brushed aside the Veil.
In the days after, I tried talking to Uncle Bruno. So… he knew I had living relatives? Why didn't he ever tell me? How much does he know about the Intuitives? These questions buzz like angry wasps in my head, but every time I try to spit them out, my tongue ties itself in knots. I'm pretty sure he's realized I've got something to say, but, like always, he gives me space.
Here's the worst thing about me: my ability to snap back at an insult is inversely proportional to my ability to speak from the heart.
Total nightmare.
So now I'm stuck with a million questions swarming in my skull… and a paralyzing terror of letting them out.
I've only hinted at something with Romina. And that was just because I couldn't resist that nauseatingly (in a good way) compassionate look she gives me whenever she senses I'm about to say something but can't.
The whole supernatural part, though? I've kept that completely to myself. I'm scared of how she'd take it—and of how I'd take her reaction to it.
I'm at work, buried in yet another terrible food catalog 'due asap, hurry up, it should've gone to print yesterday, chop-chop.'
Today, the agency feels like a noisy aquarium full of nervous clicks, half-empty coffee mugs, and the smell of dust. The monitor in front of me is a blinding rectangle burning my eyes, and the pen squeaks on the pen tablet like it's just as sick of this life as I am.
Meanwhile, Fiore has vanished.
He shadowed me for weeks, going on and on about "the Fairy Code" this, "the Fairy Code" that… and now? Radio silence.
Not that I expected to see him every day after that "see you," but at least keep me in the loop, right? Even one of his telegraphic messages would do.
What's going on with Zuan and the Council? And with the Veil? And Diamante… my grandmother (it still feels so weird to call her that)—did she manage to figure out anything about my laser beam?
I sigh again, louder than necessary, and press the pen down on the tablet. The cursor slides across the screen for a beat: click, click, drag, ctrl-Z undo. The idea of waiting around, stuck depending on other people's timing and decisions, irritates me. If I'm going to be ghosted, let it be over a flopped date on a dating app—not over stuff that could potentially involve life and… well, death is maybe a bit dramatic. But almost.
On the third sigh, a light tap on the back of my head makes me jump.
"Quit wallowing in your own self-pity stew," Romina snaps.
She's hunched over her screen, desperately trying to make sense of the hellish catalog layout. She looks like she's one step away from filing criminal charges against yet another client for crimes against design—this one chose a font worthy of a '90s pizza flyer.
"What now?"
"Nothing… just stewing over the latest events again."
"No one reached out yet?"
I'd told Romina about my grandmother, about how we'd be catching up to make up for twenty years of silence, and a few extra details about Fiore—always framed as "old childhood friend." Truth is, I still don't remember those days at all. Selective memory, or maybe just that gaping void of missing memories I can't seem to fill.
"Nada."
"Mmm. Maybe they're busy."
"Well, I hope so. Otherwise… that's just low. Not that it's impossible, considering my grandmother never so much as checked in for twenty years."
Romina tilts her head, giving me that "motivational coach trying out at a neighborhood gym" look. "It's okay to be angry. But you have Fiore's number, right? Why don't you set up a meeting? Be proactive!"
"Miss Romina Kapoor… are you seriously suggesting I be proactive? You, who know me inside out, daring to offer such initiative?" I tease, sarcastically.
"Excuse me, Mr. Milo Gentile—only in name, not in deed*—but for once, you could actually try! You know what they say: if you keep doing the same things…"
"…you can't expect different results, yeah, yeah, life guru." I roll my eyes.
"C'mon! I want to actually meet him, too. Let's organize an aperitivo!" she insists, shaking my arm like I'm a fruit tree and she's trying to knock down the ripest ones, making it impossible for me to finish cleaning up the edges of the roasted chicken.
"Okay, okay, geez! I'll text him tonight, alright? But for now, can we please get this trash catalog out of the way before five… I won't survive another 'needs to be ready asap'."
-
I should have a cola somewhere in the fridge.
I open the door with a sigh, but the fridge offers me only a tube of mayonnaise left open since last year and a half-used lemon sitting on a plate, now a full-blown ecosystem.
I huff as a wet tuft of hair drips onto my cheek.
After the crunch at work delivering that nightmarish catalog, I went climbing to vent some built-up rage (and, okay, to feast my eyes on Enrico). Back home, I took a refreshing shower, threw on a pink t-shirt Romina gifted me—with flying pandas, kitsch as hell, just how we like it—and now I'm warming up last night's baked pasta. A cold cola would've been perfect.
While my pasta spins slowly in the microwave, I grab my phone and start scrolling the feed.
DING – a message from Romina.
'Text hiiiiiimmmmm'
I raise an eyebrow, smiling. She's annoyingly persistent, but I know she means well. She just wants me to stop being a solid block of granite.
'K mom' I reply, amused.
I open the chat with Fiore and flop onto the leather sofa, fully aware I'm about to make a mistake. In summer, once you sink into it, peeling yourself off is like ripping a giant bandage off your whole body.
I glance at the microwave: twenty seconds left.
I drum my fingers on the back of the phone, thinking about what to write.
All I manage is: 'Yo. You alive?'
Hmm.
'Or did Zuan confiscate your phone and put you in timeout?' I add immediately.
There.A little more in character.
Not even half a second later, he's online. And then he video-calls me.
I leap off the couch with a loud STRAAAP and freeze: I can't be seen in my underwear and a pink panda t-shirt. I dart into my room and, at the speed of light, throw on another t-shirt and some shorts.
I check myself quickly in the mirror, okay, presentable, and answer.
Fiore's perfect face fills the screen.
Those pink-reflecting eyes, dazzling white teeth, and pointed ears. Today, he's wearing a small feather dangling from a gold earring. I swallow.
"You took your sweet time replying. Were you in pajamas?" he teases.
"No, I was naked," I answer, deadpan.
"Even better. Then it would have been the two of us," he winks, biting his tongue. Then he widens the camera frame, mischievous.
My stomach leaps to my throat, and my face heats up.
Bare torso, glistening, every ab sculpted, chest muscles full and defined. One nipple even sports a piercing. Gold, too, like the earring.
For a second, my brain shoots off into the hyperuranion, and many, many impure ideas flood my mind. Then it crashes back down onto planet Earth.
"D-Where are you?" I stammer, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.
"At my place."
He flips the phone camera. The view opens onto a forest so green it looks painted. Branches hang like curtains, metal lanterns cast a warm glow, and fireflies dot the air as if someone scattered them by hand.
The grass looks soft, almost glowing. On top, intricately patterned rugs are layered, a low table, two beaten-up armchairs, and a crooked bookshelf packed with books and lit candles.
It literally looks like someone set up a tiny living room in the middle of the woods.
"Wow. If this isn't cottagecore, I don't know what is. This is your home?"
"Of course. Where do you think Fairies live, in a downtown penthouse?" he says, flipping the camera back onto himself.
"Well…" I drop my gaze for a moment, trying to pull myself together. "I definitely wasn't expecting an indie erotic movie set in the chestnut woods."
Fiore laughs. That clear, cheeky laugh slides down my spine like a finger.
"This is how I live. Why settle for four walls when you can have trees as columns and the wind as background music?"
"Yeah…" I mumble, staring at his mouth. Milo, focus.
"Do you want to come visit? My… set?" he asks, teasing.
"Yeah, as if," I blurt out quickly, though my face betrays me. "I just wanted to ask if you wanted to grab a drink sometime; Romina wants to meet you," I rush to add.
A slow smirk curls his lips. "Really? Mmm." He runs a hand through his hair, and I can almost smell that floral scent filling my nose. "Alright. When?"
"I'll check with Romina and text you."
"Oooookay."
"Well, bye." I start to hang up.
"Milo." He stops me. "Shyness suits you." He gives a small smile, leaving a pocket of air in the room that feels like it could swallow me. Then hangs up.
I stay there, sitting, heart—and more than just my heart—pumping hard.
*Mr. Milo Gentile—only in name, not in deed: wordplay :) Gentile is a surname, but also means "kind" in Italian.