Page 27 of This Vicious Hunger

Chapter Seventeen

L eo is already in the dining hall when I arrive on Monday night.

Our first dinner after my illness was awkward, full of staccato pauses as our frosty conversation thawed, but within an hour we were talking like old friends.

It’s amazing how quick he is to forgive my moods, and I’m amazed at my own ability to forgive his secrecy about Olea.

Still, I planned to avoid him tonight to save him a night of my anxious clock-watching.

I ate a large dinner intentionally early, two plates of string pasta with rich, creamy sauce and a doorstop wedge of white bread and butter on the side; by the time I left the hall I was hardly able to walk, but the fullness was worth it knowing I’d need the energy to be alert when seeing the garden for the first time.

Alas, by seven o’clock I’m absolutely famished again.

It feels like there’s a vortex in my gut, just waiting to suck up everything I put in my mouth.

I can only assume it’s keeping such strange hours, how when you don’t sleep enough your body flits between extremes of hunger and thirst simply trying to regulate itself.

And when I sneak in, hoping for another meal—just a snack—there is Leo, already at our usual table.

Leo looks happy to see me and I pretend I’m happy to see him.

No, that’s not fair, I am happy to see him.

We didn’t have our originally scheduled lecture with Professor Almerto today—I found out he’s attending the same conference as Petaccia—so I’ve not seen him since last night, which seems like an awfully long time given how long I’ve been awake today.

I’m just not in the mood for any conversation where I have to be present.

My brain is far too fixated on later, on the garden and Olea.

We fall into our usual routine, ordering our meals and chatting about our day’s lectures and reading in the short time it takes for the food to arrive.

Normally now is the time Leo changes the subject, to something less messy than science, but tonight he doesn’t do that.

Instead he watches me as I wolf down yet another portion of the ridiculously creamy pasta, buttering yet another thick slice of bread.

There is a war happening behind his eyes. I can see it, but I can’t stop it. He rubs at the day-old stubble on his chin, clears his throat, and refolds his napkin into what looks a little like a swan. I chew my food carefully and swallow, waiting for him to speak.

“I saw you in here earlier,” he says finally. “Through the window.”

Ah , I think. I knew I should have avoided him.

“You were eating then, too, weren’t you?”

“Honestly, Leo, you’re not much better than those mother hens in the family rooms you told me about. Is it really any of your business how, or when, I eat?”

“I’m just looking out for you. I know you weren’t well last week and I…” He leans in. “I wanted you to know that I can be very discreet.”

“Discreet?” I raise an eyebrow. “And why, exactly, would you need to be discreet? Just because I’m hungrier than usual? I’ve been working hard over the weekend and today felt endless.”

“Well… I’m no prude.” He hems. “You know. And maybe I’m wrong because I thought… Well. Anyway. I’ve noticed things. You have that strange sort of… bitter smell. And your moods. I can help if you… In case you’re…”

“In case I’m what , Leonardo?” I spit. “Wearing too much perfume? Getting fat? Apostles forgive me, but if you think it’s your duty to tell me that I’m gaining too much weight, then I’m more than happy to tell you what I think of you.

” Of all the ridiculous, rude, absolutely banal things he could choose to have a problem with, this is the one he’s decided to tackle me over?

For the first time in weeks I find myself missing Aurelio’s sarcasm; at least I knew where I stood with all that.

That’s the trouble with Leonardo—he’s too kind-hearted, and damn nosy, for his own good.

Petaccia was right about men and their agendas, but I didn’t expect this kind of mothering .

“No!” Leo exclaims, his eyes going wide. “Goodness no , that’s not what I mean at all.” He wipes his forehead with his napkin and it comes away wet.

“Well, what, then?” I demand, anger flaring in me like a lit wick. “I was hungry . So I decided to eat. What’s your problem?”

People are looking at us now, but I won’t back down.

I don’t care what the LeVands would have said about this kind of drama at the dinner table; at least they never called me fat to my face.

And anyway, if anything I’ve lost weight since starting at St. Elianto.

Whether it’s all the walking or the lack of sleep, I don’t know.

Leo rests his palms on the table and lets out a breath as he tries to calm me—and himself—down.

“Lord,” he groans. “I’m sorry. I was trying to say… if you were in the—in the…” He rolls his shoulders back as if he’s trying to pull courage out of the ground. A quick glance to make sure nobody is still listening to us. “ In the family way ,” he says, barely above a whisper.

I stop dead, my fork halfway to my mouth. The laugh that breaks from me is raucous, absolutely inappropriate for the size of the dining hall, and now people are staring again, but I can’t help it.

“Oh, Leo, no,” I heave. “Absolutely not on this earth, no. You have no idea how far up the wrong tree you’re barking.”

Colour comes back into Leo’s cheeks in a flush so pink he looks unwell. He sips at his ice water and makes a few shapes with his mouth before another apology comes out.

“What would make you think that?” I ask.

“Well, I… I don’t know. You didn’t talk about your husband much anyway, but you never speak of him now. You’ve been so—unlike your normal self. You hardly say anything over dinner, and you’re eating more and you snap at me when I try to make sure you’re all right. And…”

“And what?” I prompt, amusement draped over my annoyance. He’s such a busybody. A haunted look shivers over his face, his lips thinning. It’s as if he thinks I’m lying—and he’s afraid .

“I remember when Clara… She and I were trying for a baby—when she—did I tell you that? I feel like that’s why it all started.

She was so frustrated by it all. We were doing this thing together to try to grow our lives, our family, but it wasn’t working.

And that’s when she started getting distant and angry, sick all the time on and off, just locked in her thoughts in this whole other world sometimes when I’d try to talk to her.

And you… it’s so similar. It frightens me. ”

“Oh, Leo.” I reach across the table and grab his hand despite myself. “I’m not Clara. You’ve got to stop with this. It’s—” I want to say strange , but I hold it back. Leo’s already been hurt enough by Clara leaving him like she did. “It’s not appropriate.”

“It’s just…” He sighs. His expression flickers from troubled to a softer display; it might be remorse, or perhaps… guilt?

“You really loved her, didn’t you?” I say. “You’re grieving her, and you’re grieving the life you had together—or the possibility of it, you know, with a baby.”

“I never really wanted that.” Leo doesn’t look at me as he says this. As if he’s embarrassed. “I only wanted what Clara wanted. I wanted her to be happy.”

I pause at the echoing pang in my chest as another realisation slams into me with such force it leaves me breathless.

Is it possible Leo wanted Clara to be happy like I wanted Aurelio to be happy?

Because it was easier and simpler and less painful that way?

If he was happy, then I didn’t have to address the rest of it, the way I wasn’t happy, and could never be in his arms. I lower my voice.

“It’s normal to want your spouse to be happy, Leo.

But… you don’t talk about her like other husbands talk about their wives.

And—forgive me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think I am, because it’s the same way I’ve always felt—I don’t think you loved her like other men love their wives either.

” I lean in, lowering my voice further. “That’s why you feel guilty about what happened to her.

Isn’t it? Like you believe if you’d been a better husband, if you’d given her what she wanted, she wouldn’t have left…

? And I’m not just talking about a baby. ”

Leo is stunned for a moment. There, in his conflicted expression, is the real divide between Leo and his wife; his stare, devoid of any hint of anger, or disgust even, that I might dare to suggest he didn’t desire his wife, is instead filled with panic .

He doesn’t even acknowledge the confession of my own feelings.

Leo is the same as me, like calling to like, and maybe he doesn’t truly know it but I can see it. Leo loved Clara—but was he in love with her?

“Clara was my best friend,” Leo says shakily.

Sharply. “And this isn’t about me.” He glances around awkwardly, refusing to meet my gaze.

I give his hand another squeeze, daring him to look at me and see that I know how it feels, that I understand more than he knows.

But he keeps his eyes trained on the window instead before adding, “I’m not making this up, Thora.

You can tell me I’m blinded by Clara all you want—but… you smell different.”

I freeze. “What do you mean I smell different?”

“It’s getting stronger. I thought, with Clara—maybe it was a baby. I’ve read that it happens—”

“Leo, what do you mean that I smell different?” I yank my hand back from his.

“You smell exactly like Clara did before she left. She used to visit the garden when she couldn’t sleep. She came back— perfumed .” Leo finally meets my gaze, and it scares me. This mention of Clara’s perfume… I can’t explain it, except that it feels like she’s here right now, between us. A ghost.