The Photographer (Ignazio Boschetto Fanfiction)

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

          I listened quietly to Ignazio speaking in the distance, unaware of anything except the cadence of his richly accented voice. I heard another voice that sounded like Barbara’s, and after a few moments I heard a door open and close loudly, bringing me to my senses. I stirred and opened my eyes, looking around at the unfamiliar room in sudden alarm. It looked like my hotel suite, except for the arrangement of the furniture and the belongings placed haphazardly about the room. I was in the bed, curled under the comforter in my T-shirt and jeans. I moved slightly and felt that my feet were bare, and I saw my red high-tops beside the closed bedroom door a few feet away. Someone had taken them off for me. The room was wonderfully quiet, and I relaxed and rolled over to peer out the window at the darkening evening light. I curled up again and closed my eyes, resting quietly for a few minutes before a clinking outside the bedroom reminded me that I was unsure of where I was. I opened my eyes and looked at a photo beside the bed, finding it to contain Ignazio, presumably his parents, and a girl several years older than him, probably his sister.

          The smiling face of Ignazio embarrassed me, and I held up the covers and slid out of the bed, prancing over the cold hardwood floor to my red high-tops as I wondered about slipping out of the suite unnoticed.

          After I tugged on my shoes and ran a hand through my hair, I raised my hand to the cold doorknob and took a breath before opening it.

          Ignazio was sitting on the couch, his back to me as he watched a soccer game in Spanish on the television. He turned, his arm slung over the back of the couch, and smiled at me.

“Good, you’re up. I was beginning to think you’d miss dinner, and I didn’t want to eat without you.”

I stood frozen in the doorway as he turned off the T.V. and stood, coming around the sofa to lean against the back of it and wait for me to speak, a gentle smile lighting his face. His dark eyes shone with careful concern as I stood motionless, embarrassed and unnerved at the mental image of being held in his arms only hours earlier.

“Dinner?” I asked finally, and he nodded and smiled brightly.

He stepped away from the couch and went over to the table in the corner, straightening and gesturing dramatically over it. “Dinner.”

There were two plates on the table arrayed fancifully with pancakes, eggs, bacon, and sausage. I gawked at the table, and then at him.

“You made dinner?”

“I made dinner.”

“I love breakfast for dinner,” I said softly, thinking about the clinking sounds of him moving around in the kitchen that I had heard from the bedroom.

“Then you’ll stay?” he asked, pleadingly, clasping his hands together and casting silly puppy-dog eyes at me.

Actually, I wanted nothing more than to slip out and run away from my embarrassment and the awkwardness of having to eventually thank him for taking care of me, but I felt it would be too rude to leave the dinner uneaten, so I crossed cautiously to the table and sat. He smiled and sat in front of me, and I uneasily waited to eat until he started first.

I took a bite of the eggs and couldn’t help but smile.

“Good?” he asked.

“Good!”

He nodded in approval and resumed eating, and the quiet made me squirm nervously, waiting for him to bring up the earlier occurrence.

To my surprise, he looked up at me and asked nonchalantly, “So…I doubt you’ve seen much of it because of how busy we’ve been, but what do you think of Costa Rica?”