Matteo's Rapture

Neuf

Emma Chassériaux

Laglio, Lake Como, Italy
The Lucchese Manor
The twenty-ninth of June, 11:55 a.m.

I wince as I thread my hand through my t-shirt. My wrist is so stiff—the brace barely helpful. Any little movement hurts tremendously.

"Everything okay?" I jump, twisting around to lock eyes with Bianca who's just walked in the room. "Mi dispiace," she says warmly, that smile of hers faintly present. "I didn't mean to scare you, I figured I'd come check on—"

"You didn't." I don't mean to be so inhospitable, instantly regretting my flat tone and for cutting her off. Bianca so far has been nothing but nice to me, and I haven't known her long enough to decipher whether or not her kind nature is a false representation of who she really is.

If she's offended, it's not obvious. Actually, her smile stretches—honey eyes beaming. "I have some tachipirina." She waves a little while plastic bottle in her hand, unscrewing the top before shaking some pills into her palm.

I regard her carefully while zippering my jean shorts, something she must notice because her features flash knowingly. "It's for your wrist," her eyes drop pointedly to the brace. "Gabriele said you might need it this morning."

Warily eyeing her palm, I don't move an inch. Is she lying?

"It isn't harmful," she walks towards me, shoes clicking against the hardwood floor. "it's just to help, lo giuro."

I decided, for the sake of my wrist, not to be stubborn. Holding my hand out, hers tilt. Two white pills bounce in my palm and I inspect them closely while she veers off towards the nightstand, grabbing Matteo's glass. "Did you have a good sleep?" She passes me the glass.

I pop the pills in, quickly washing them down with the water. "I did." I mumble, handing the glass back to her. "Grazie."

Bianca grins, sympathetically squeezing my shoulder. Everything about this girl is kind, gentle. Why is she being so nice to me?

"Come," she steps back, "lunch starts at twelve."

~

12:00 p.m.

It's hot outside but definitely not as unbearable as Corsica. It's a reasonably breezy afternoon, providing just enough relief to not cook in the sun.

Bianca leads me through the courtyard, throwing out some facts about the property here and there. "—that's the sun room," she points to the impressive all glass fixture. "Perfect when you want some peace and quiet." She laughs lightly, eyes squinting when she turns around to look at me. "I love reading in there too."

I notice it now that I'm not practically half asleep. Bianca has a peculiar accent, thickly Italian when speaking in her native tongue but there's a hint of something more...western. And her English? "Your accent, it's—"

Chuckling, she winks at me. "Strange is it?"

My shoes scuff on some gravel. "Not exactly..." I shield my eyes when we cross an open patch of the scorching sun. "It's just different."

Bianca hums smoothly, "I studied at a boarding school in America up until two years ago, what about you?" She curiously inquires, "You're French right?"