in my life will never be bored. I brush Emma’s hair while I console myself with these painful lies.
“Is Luca your boyfriend?” she suddenly asks me as I’m braiding her hair.
“No, he’s a friend of mine, just like your mom,” I say. Although her mother has never sucked on my bottom lip like a popsicle.
“Then can he be my boyfriend?”
Four years is pretty young to start trusting these bastards. Luckily, her mother will set her straight soon. We go to my room, and she takes the liberty of poking around my things while I change.
We’re rolling around on the carpet pretending we’re underwater when the phone rings. It’s my mother. She’s been calling me nonstop lately. Maybe I should change my number. Meanwhile, I’ll let the machine get it.
“Erika is just dying to meet Luca! You should bring him to the wedding; otherwise, you’ll be going with Catello.”
I wonder if she intends to keep him fresh in a freezer bag so she can pull him out if necessary. But I have another reason to go alone: to prevent Erika from hooking up with Luca. Mom must have described him well, because my loving sister is clearly already scheming to snatch him from under my nose. This will mean that I’ll have to put up with Catello. It would help if I could remember anything about him. Mom says I’ve met him before, but I don’t remember ever meeting anyone with such a ridiculous name.
Lara comes to get Emma that evening. Luca showers and dresses. He’s got a date somewhere with someone I don’t know. While he ties his shoes, he asks me about my workday. I tell him about my latest adventure, and he looks at me for a moment, eyes wide with shock. Then he bursts into laughter, first laughing at me, then laughing with me, throwing himself down on the bed with all his weight.
“You are a wonderful catastrophe,” he exclaims, running a hand through his hair and offering me a view of his magnificent neck and five o’clock shadow. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. I had a hellish morning, but you always make me smile.”
“Why, what happened to you?”
He shrugs and smiles again, but I can tell that he doesn’t seem his happy self. I don’t understand why, and I suddenly feel worried about him. I love him—I can’t stand to see him sad.
“If something’s going on, you know you can talk to me, right?” I say.
“I know, butterfly. I’m sure you would give me advice worthy of a Dear Abby column.”
“I would, I learned from the best.”
He stares at me for a moment. “Do you think a person who has closed off his heart and doesn’t want to let people in would be able to handle sudden, strong emotion?”
My mouth gapes for a minute. My heart somersaults like a trapeze artist at the circus. I preferred his questions about breasts and high heels.
“You mean . . . Is this a personal thing? Or . . . is it for your book?”
“For my book, of course,” he says. “The sex and revenge scenes are fine, but now that’s she’s fallen in love in spite of herself, I’m in trouble. I have to make this woman’s love realistic, without it sounding ridiculous.”
Despite my boasts about my worth as a counselor, my tongue is tied up in knots. For some reason, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s not talking about his book at all. He’s turned my heart into pulp. He doesn’t notice my silence, though, because his own overshadows it. Tense, distracted, and impatient, he seems lost in a thousand thoughts.
When he leaves, he’s wearing a simple blazer with a white shirt, jeans, and a padded trench coat. This is different from his usual detached air; he’s acting like this is a tryst. The pain this causes me makes the torment I suffer over his moans in the other room seem inconsequential. A monster thrashes in my stomach. My hands shake. It’s like the earth has opened up and sucked me down into its darkest depths.
I can’t resist peeking out the window. Luca is standing on the sidewalk, whipped by
“Is Luca your boyfriend?” she suddenly asks me as I’m braiding her hair.
“No, he’s a friend of mine, just like your mom,” I say. Although her mother has never sucked on my bottom lip like a popsicle.
“Then can he be my boyfriend?”
Four years is pretty young to start trusting these bastards. Luckily, her mother will set her straight soon. We go to my room, and she takes the liberty of poking around my things while I change.
We’re rolling around on the carpet pretending we’re underwater when the phone rings. It’s my mother. She’s been calling me nonstop lately. Maybe I should change my number. Meanwhile, I’ll let the machine get it.
“Erika is just dying to meet Luca! You should bring him to the wedding; otherwise, you’ll be going with Catello.”
I wonder if she intends to keep him fresh in a freezer bag so she can pull him out if necessary. But I have another reason to go alone: to prevent Erika from hooking up with Luca. Mom must have described him well, because my loving sister is clearly already scheming to snatch him from under my nose. This will mean that I’ll have to put up with Catello. It would help if I could remember anything about him. Mom says I’ve met him before, but I don’t remember ever meeting anyone with such a ridiculous name.
Lara comes to get Emma that evening. Luca showers and dresses. He’s got a date somewhere with someone I don’t know. While he ties his shoes, he asks me about my workday. I tell him about my latest adventure, and he looks at me for a moment, eyes wide with shock. Then he bursts into laughter, first laughing at me, then laughing with me, throwing himself down on the bed with all his weight.
“You are a wonderful catastrophe,” he exclaims, running a hand through his hair and offering me a view of his magnificent neck and five o’clock shadow. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. I had a hellish morning, but you always make me smile.”
“Why, what happened to you?”
He shrugs and smiles again, but I can tell that he doesn’t seem his happy self. I don’t understand why, and I suddenly feel worried about him. I love him—I can’t stand to see him sad.
“If something’s going on, you know you can talk to me, right?” I say.
“I know, butterfly. I’m sure you would give me advice worthy of a Dear Abby column.”
“I would, I learned from the best.”
He stares at me for a moment. “Do you think a person who has closed off his heart and doesn’t want to let people in would be able to handle sudden, strong emotion?”
My mouth gapes for a minute. My heart somersaults like a trapeze artist at the circus. I preferred his questions about breasts and high heels.
“You mean . . . Is this a personal thing? Or . . . is it for your book?”
“For my book, of course,” he says. “The sex and revenge scenes are fine, but now that’s she’s fallen in love in spite of herself, I’m in trouble. I have to make this woman’s love realistic, without it sounding ridiculous.”
Despite my boasts about my worth as a counselor, my tongue is tied up in knots. For some reason, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s not talking about his book at all. He’s turned my heart into pulp. He doesn’t notice my silence, though, because his own overshadows it. Tense, distracted, and impatient, he seems lost in a thousand thoughts.
When he leaves, he’s wearing a simple blazer with a white shirt, jeans, and a padded trench coat. This is different from his usual detached air; he’s acting like this is a tryst. The pain this causes me makes the torment I suffer over his moans in the other room seem inconsequential. A monster thrashes in my stomach. My hands shake. It’s like the earth has opened up and sucked me down into its darkest depths.
I can’t resist peeking out the window. Luca is standing on the sidewalk, whipped by
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