Page 13 of Connectio

“What?”

“That’s uncalled for.”

“She dresses like a prostitute, Libby.”

I shuffle in my seat, uncomfortable with his comments.

“Take you for instance,” he continues.

“Me?” I turn and glare at him.

“Let me finish.” He raises his hands in the air and chuckles. “Take what you’re wearing for instance. It’s classy, appropriate, and doesn’t scream prostitute.”

“I should hope not, but…” I pause then decide to bite my tongue. I don’t want to get into an argument on our first date.

“But what?” he probes. “Go on… what were you going to say?”

Ah, fuck it!

“Clothing shouldn’t ‘scream prostitute,’ Oliver. A person has the right to wear what they want without being judged or labelled. What’s on the outside doesn’t define what’s on the inside.”

“All I’m saying is you look respectable. You’re covered up and decent.”

“Just because I’m ‘covered up’ doesn’t mean I deserve more respect than if I weren’t.”

He claps his hands together, reaches for his laptop, and drags it onto his lap. “Let’s agree to disagree.”

“Yes, let’s.”

I welcome that notion and focus on the worksheets, and before I know it, they’re all corrected, my stomach is grumbling, and sunlight no longer fills the room.

Stretching my arms above my head, I’m about to ask when we’re leaving for dinner, when the backdoor opens and slams shut, followed by a ruffling sound in the adjacent room.

“Halloo. Olivaaa.”

“Be right back.” He shoots to his feet and disappears into the next room, Italian conversation soon filling my ears. My mother’s mother was born in Bologna, so I’m somewhat familiar with the native tongue.

Making out words and sentences such as not now, Nonna, and I do it, I do it, I stand up and make my way into the same room as them to find Oliver wrestling a washing basket full of neatly folded clothes from the arms of a short, silver-haired woman, a gold crucifix dangling from a chain around her neck. She stumbles backward, and I instantly reach out to steady her.

“Gran, be careful!” He pries the basket from her hands, his laugh uneasy. “She’s very stubborn.”

“I am no stubborn. I wash and bring to you.”

“Yes, Gran. You washed and brought me my clothes. You shouldn’t have.” He kisses the top of her head and sets the basket down on the table.

I smile, waiting for my introduction, but Oliver doesn’t deliver it, instead wrapping his arm around Gran’s shoulders and guiding her back out the door. “Come on, let’s get you back to your flat, Nonna.”

“But I bring washing and say hello.”

Standing there, a little dumbfounded as they leave the room, I murmur, “Well, that was weird.”

And there’s that word again. Weird!

Oliver returns moments later, eyes rolling as he sweeps his hand through his hair. “Sorry. She just takes it upon herself to do my washing even though I’ve told her not to.”

Something tells me that’s not entirely true, but it’s none of my business, so I smile and fiddle with the collar of my jacket. “Are you hungry yet? Perhaps we should go.”

“Go?” Oliver rests his knuckle on his chiselled jaw, smiles, and opens a drawer in the kitchen, riffling through it before frisbeeing me a takeaway menu from Pizza Palace. “You pick. I’m not fussy. Just no pineapple, okay?”