Chapter13
Gigi
Bugiarda.Liar.
I had lied to get Harrison to leave with me. I had told him the girl and my cousin were going to attend a party at my place in Sardegna.
My cousin and his wife were not going anywhere near Sardegna that I knew of. For the time being, they were staying in Modica, on the family property, and I was not sure where they were going after that.
I did not feel bad about telling Harrison something different. Even though I knew it was not right, he needed someone to sever the ties he had created in his head.
Some said my eyes were so sharp, they could cut through flesh and hit bone. He was tough, and getting him to see the truth was going to be a challenge.
If I were being honest, after I’d woken up and found him gone, I had panicked a little. I knew he’d gone to find her, and even though that stung, my cousin would kill him if he found him looking for his wife the morning after their wedding. Amadeo would only tolerate so much. I had a feeling he had tolerated Harrison this long because of his wife.
From what I understood, Harrison’s sister, Keely, was as close to Mari as a sister. Maybe my cousin had taken that into consideration. He did not want his new wife to resent him for killing the only friends, or people she considered family, that she had. Which told me everything I needed to know.
Amadeo was in love with the girl. There was no doubt that she was in love with him, too.
Where did that leave Harrison?
With me, standing at the edge of a sunflower field. His sunglasses reflected the hectares of flowers, bright faces turned up toward the sun.
“How do you say ‘sunflower’ in Italian?”
“Girasole,” I said.
“Gir-ah-sole.”
“So-lai,” I corrected him. “Like the sun.” I turned my face up to it, letting the warmth sink into my skin. I could already feel myself relaxing as the almost seedy scent from the sunflowers, along with the salt from the Mediterranean Sea, softened my armor.
“I didn’t expect this,” he said. “Sunflowers on an island.”
I shrugged. “Sunflowers have not been grown here for over twenty years. This is a fairly new cultivation.”
“Someone decided to plant all of these?”
“Sì,” I said. “Entrepreneurs. A business deal was made for the oil, but now this place has become a backdrop to pictures. There are over five hundred thousandgirasoliin this field.”
“Ah,” he said. “Social media.”
I laughed and he looked at me.
“It is all about the pictures. Or the aesthetic?”
“I don’t have a fucking clue,” he said. “I subscribe to none of it.”
“Not big on sharing?”
“Not big on sharing my life through social media. Feels like the human element has been lost. You have a birthday party? It has to be shared or it wasn’t a party to remember. You get married? Selfies in the limo before the driver can pull off or it didn’t happen. Someone die? That has to be documented, too. No calls are made. No cards sent. No flowers delivered. Everything is stamped on a post that doesn’t even belong to you. Today or tomorrow, whoever owns that company decides to sell, your memories are gone, too.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “You can decide what to share and what not to share. It is easier to keep up with a page sometimes, especially when people are far apart.”
He shrugged. “It cuts out the effort. It killed part of the human connection, in my opinion. My brothers have it, and they’re like bots sometimes.” He made a face at his phone, like he was glued to it.
“Are you against taking pictures with this?” I took his phone from him and wiggled it.
“I’ve only taken two pictures with it.”