GIANNA
MY SHOPPING CART SQUEAKED AS I pushed it down the cereal aisle, absently knocking two boxes of Count Chocula into the basket. That score would have been the highlight of my day a week ago, but now, I couldn’t find any excitement in it because my mind was still stuck on my revelation from the night before.
“How could someone ever forget your face?” I’d asked him once.
For some reason, he thought that was funny.
I felt like an idiot. Though it wasn’t only that. It seemed he was always going out of his way to do nice things for me. Sure, it felt like he’d walk a mile to make me miserable as well, but ever since I’d stepped foot in New York eight years ago, he’d been picking me up off the floor—literally.
I could still hear the words he pressed against my ear after I’d announced he’d been at my wedding.
“I’m glad to see you remember, malyshka, because there is nothing I have ever forgotten about you.”
And then he’d dropped me to my feet and walked out the door.
I was halfway out of the store when I realized I’d only come for one thing and almost left without it.
With a bag on each arm, I sighed and turned around.
I needed eggs because I was teaching Elena how to make pasta dough today. And while I might have told Christian to expect my pilfering of his refrigerator the day I’d moved into his building, I wasn’t ready to face him yet.
My body was still reeling from last night with this breathless, nervous energy he always seemed to bring out in me. I’d told Aleksandra I wasn’t interested in him and then hours later sucked his fingers on command. Maybe the model and him weren’t exclusive, but they’d seemed comfortable enough around each other for me to believe they’d slept together. That thought alone made me sick to my stomach. And I wasn’t ready to analyze why.
“Mommy, Mommy, can I have it? Puh-lease, Mommy?”
I paused with an egg carton in hand to look at the tiny dark-haired girl who seemed so eager to have a . . . single banana. The answer must have been yes because the girl smiled real big and hugged the fruit to her chest. I drew my eyes to the mother, who was cooing at the cutest little giggling baby.
Warmth set in, yet a strange pressure ached in my chest.
I stood there for too long, watching the happy trio until they disappeared around the corner.
I swallowed, confused at the feeling that stopped me in my tracks. A feeling that bloomed like hope and, at the same time, wilted like despair.
Somewhere between the ages of twenty and twenty-eight, I’d forgotten what longing felt like.
“Mamma mia, Elena! Are you trying to burn the place down?” I put out the small fire on the stove by smacking it with an oven mitt. Grabbing a corner of the incinerated cloth from the gas burner, I turned around with a frown. “Towels don’t cook very well, I’m afraid.”
She bit her lip. “I’m hopeless, aren’t I?”
“I pride myself on being a positive person and would normally have something uplifting to say here, but . . . I think it’s time you hire a cook before you kill someone.”
I’d gone to the bathroom for two minutes and come out to my apartment in flames, while Elena stood in front of the TV, oblivious.
She sighed, dropping to the couch in a dramatic fashion. “If I have to have another Isabel in my house, I think I’ll scream.”
I nodded. “Screaming certainly helps in most situations.”
“You’re right, though. I just need to hire someone. It’s not like I have a passion for cooking—”
“Or safety,” I parried.
“Or, apparently, that.”
“You know, this is justice. Women who look like Barbie dolls shouldn’t know how to cook. You’d simply leave the rest of us in the dust.”
“Stop being ridiculous.” She flushed. “By the way, why is your TV in Spanish?”
I sighed. “Insolent housekeepers.”
“Have you seen my cell phone?” she asked, getting to her feet. “I’m sure Nico has texted me by now, and he hates when I don’t text him back. Especially when I’m with you. I think he thinks you’re a bad influence.”
“Oh, I’m glad you reminded me—I almost forgot to drag out the drugs and alcohol.” I winked. “It’s kind of amazing how you ignore him, though. He’s had women fawning over him for far too long.”
“I don’t ignore him on purpose—” She stopped to pick something small off the living room floor. “Hmm . . .” An edge of mischief played in her voice. “When did you start wearing cufflinks, Gianna?”
I kept my expression aloof and went to take it from her hand. “I’m trying out a new look.”
She laughed. “Sure. So . . . when was he over?”
“Who?” I acted innocent, closing the cufflink in my palm. It burned.
“You know who.”
My gaze narrowed on her, though, with a sigh, I gave in. “Last night.”
“I knew it!” Her eyes sparkled. “I knew there was something between you and Christian.”
“If something is sex, sure.”
“I think I would pay money for those details.”
“How much you got on you?” I joked, just as a knock sounded at the door. With a sigh, because I already knew who it was, I went to open it.
Nico stood there, practically glowering at me.
I grinned. “Oh, you made it just in time for the party! I was just about to let the male hooker out of the closet.”
He rolled his eyes and walked past me toward his wife, who stood by the couch looking guilty.
“Been calling you for an hour, Elena.”
She chewed her cheek. “I might have misplaced my phone.”
“Missed you,” he rasped against her hair, pulling her close.
Feeling like I was intruding on something, I went to clean up the kitchen.
“What’s for dinner?” Nico asked a few moments later, while Elena searched the place for her phone.
“Fried towel served with a side of half-cooked pasta.”
“Huh.” He rubbed his jaw and sat at the kitchen island, amusement playing in his eyes.
I turned the burner on to finish cooking the pasta and started chopping the tomatoes for the sauce.
“My wife likes you,” he said, voice low.
“Not surprising,” I said. “I’m a very likeable person.”
“She might have been brought up in this life, but she didn’t grow up like you and I, Gianna. She’s not . . .”
Damaged? Desensitized? Unsympathetic? Was there a word for all of them?
“Cold?”
He nodded, like he couldn’t find the right word either. “I’m asking you to remember that when you spend time with her.”
“You’re asking me? Why, Ace, did you hit your head on the overhang on the way in?”
“Sometimes feels like it,” I thought I heard him say, as he glanced at Elena with a volatile and vulnerable look in his eyes. I suddenly feared for anyone who dared to touch a hair on her head.
And then that feeling came back—that confusing feeling that had eluded me for eight years. Longing. Longing to be the subject of a look that intense. A look full of something so raw and vehement it could make anyone a believer.
That night, after the three of us had watched Channel 7 in Spanish and ate dinner in silence, I lay in bed unable to sleep. I was . . . perturbed. I was alive. My skin lit up like the noises and lights at a carnival.