by James, Ella
I pull Elise in for another quick hug. Her arms around my waist squeeze back.
“You’re sure you’re good with this?” She looks up at me. “You don’t mind a surprise guest?”
“Don’t be giving me the stranger schtick now, la mia rosa. You already went out on the limb and walked down to the edge where it’s bending.”
“And now I’m whipping in the wind,” she whispers.
“Nah.” My palm smooths her hair. “Now I’ve got you.”
I take the bag cooler into the kitchen, and she follows. She must be hella nervous, because once we get in there, she can hardly look at me. She’s got her hands clasped, hand-wringing style. When I pull out the tinfoil-wrapped boxes, her cautious eyes meet mine. “I got the pizza from my favorite place.”
I grin as I unwrap it. “Pie in the Sky. That’s my favorite here, too. I’ll eat some supreme.”
“The other one is cheese,” she laughs. “Because I wasn’t sure.”
She watches as I unwrap brownies and then lemon cake that’s packaged like it came from Janie’s, the best little hole-in-the-wall bakery.
I close my eyes, lifting it up near my nose and inhaling. “Smells amazing.”
Then I set it down and turn to her. I squeeze her shoulders gently, run my hands down her upper arms.
She looks down.
“You embarrassed?”
“Yes. Of course.” Her eyes flicker to mine.
“What reason do you have to be embarrassed?” I frown as she bites her cheek.
“You were my person. And you…still seem like my person. Even though you’re not.” She’s speaking in a whisper.
“Oh, so that’s it,” I say, like I’m teasing. “You’re here to find out just how not your person I am?”
She gives me a screwy little smirk that makes me want to fuck her.
“I haven’t made a lemon cake in years,” I tell her. “I don’t even think I could now. How about that?”
Her eyes widen, like she’s stunned and saddened by this news from me. “Why not?”
I shrug. It’s because I couldn’t stomach them after all the times I made them that year for her.
“Remember how I used to…skateboard?” I ask, twisting my face as I reach for something I no longer do now.
She nods, solemn.
“No more skateboarding.”
“Oh.” There’s a little notch between her dark brows. “Do you still…read?”
“Do whales still swim?”
She grins, showing me that little dimple again. “I don’t know,” she says. “I guess they do. They sort of float.”
“They swim. They have fins, you know.”
“If their fins failed, I bet they would still float. Lots of padding.”
“Are you calling whales fat?” I arch a brow.
“They’re supposed to be fat. They’re whales!”
I can’t help giving her a quick grin. “I do read, yes. If I recall, you were impressed by that the first go ’round.”
“I wasn’t impressed,” she says. “I was happy.”
“And if someone doesn’t read? What if I only watched TV?”
“It’d be less fun to chat about things.”
“What are you reading these days, Ms.—”
“Don’t do it!”
“I was going to say O’Hara.” I grin over my shoulder as I grab some plates down from the cabinet.
She shakes her head. She’s hugging herself, but I’m not sure she notices she is. “I’m reading a lot of things,” she says softly. “Memoirs, nonfiction—basically every memoir by anyone who seems even remotely interesting. I read mysteries. Thrillers—mostly women’s fiction. And some romance.”
I turn around, leaning back against the counter so I can face her. “Romance, huh?”
“If I recall, you yourself have read some Anne Rice smut.”
I can’t help smiling at that memory. “Checked it out at the library. Pretty damn embarrassing.”
“But worth it?”
“Oh yeah. Absolutely worth it.”
“What do you read?” she asks as I set our pizza slices on twin plates.
I carry them over to the table, scooping up the gun inside my ball cap and setting it atop a nearby shelf. “I read a bunch of different stuff.”
I pull a chair out for her and add, “Like you.”
“What was the last book you read?” she asks as she takes a seat at my small table.
“I’m reading a book called Less.” I set the dessert plates beside her.
“Less?” Her brown eyes flicker up toward me. “Like…as in Arthur Less?”
I suck air in through my nose as I turn back toward the kitchen to grab glasses for the cider. “That’s his name.”
“I read that last month. Did you like it? Did you like him?”
“Well…yeah.” I flash a quick grin. “Isn’t that sort of the point?”
“What do you mean?”
I twist the top off the cider, hesitating before I pour some in a glass. “Doesn’t the author want to make us like him?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I think they don’t.”
I shrug. “I almost always like them.”
“Them being…any lead in a book?”
I nod, sitting down across from her, sliding her glass across the table. I could sit beside her, but I want to see her hand around the glass, her throat as she swallows.
“They’re usually endearing.”
She takes a bite of her pizza, and I do the same. There’s this moment where I realize this is fucking crazy—that she came back over here, given who she is and who I am—but I do what I can to keep the conversation moving.
“I like that the writer took a stab at writing about another writer. I don’t think I’d do that.”
“If you were a writer?”
I nod. “Seems like you could fuck that up.”
“I feel like writing about what you know makes sense.”
I shrug. I would never want to write about what I know; maybe that’s the problem.
“I’m surprised you’re reading that book.”
I give her a little smile that’s not a smile, because I’m dreading hearing what she thinks I would read. “What would you expect?”
“I guess what you used to say you read. Like Stephen King. More genre fiction.”
“I think Mr. King defies the genres, don’t you?”
A funny look passes over her face—amusement.
“What, you disagree?” I smile.
“You called him Mr. King, like this is an article in the New York Times.”
“Our local rag, you mean?” I tilt my head, looking skeptical.
She gives a soft snort, then has another bite of pizza.
“Is this not what you expected?” I ask, amused by how shy she seems.
“I don’t know.” She frowns down at her plate before she looks briefly at me—and she is definitely shy. “I thought you wouldn’t have time to read.”
“Well, that’s true. I do have a rockin’ social life.”
“Do you?”
I laugh. “No. I read and I watch…” I trail off when I realize this all might sound lame or—so much worse—sad.
“What else do you do?” She’s leaning slightly forward now, like she really wants to know.
“Uhh. Watch TV. Go out to a show sometimes.” A show, Luca?
“What kind of shows?”
“You know. Plays and shit.” Oh yes. Plays and shit. I take a swallow of the cider stuff.
“Do you go out with Isa?”
Ah, fuck. It takes some effort to keep my face neutral. “Isa’s not around much.”
“Where is she?”
“She travels.”
“She does that for work, right?”
I snort, and then feel like a dick for belittling Isa’s job. “Yeah, it’s work, I guess.”
“She gets paid, right?”
“Oh yeah. Lots of people pay her, plus they send her t
hings in the mail.”
“Sounds like a pretty cool job to me.” Elise looks earnest, like she’s trying to be generous. It would make me smile, except I don’t really want to talk about jobs.
She takes a swallow of her cider, and my hunch was right. It was a good move to be across from her.
“What about you?” she asks. “Do you like what you do? You asked me that.”
Shit, I guess I did—up on the roof that night at the CB.
“Did you answer?” I give her an exaggerated side-eye sort of look, intended to distract.
I can tell I make my mark, because her cheeks flush. “I’m not sure.”
“Is that a ‘no’ from you then?”
“No, I mean—it’s a yes. I do like it. So far. Kind of.”
“That’s a lot of qualifiers, Ms.—O’Hara.”
She laughs, shaking her head.
I got a degree in philosophy, I think of saying. That’s because I want her to see me in a certain light. But…I can’t. I can’t tell her I got started the spring after she stepped into the elevator with me. That Columbia was still happy to take me on—free of charge. I bet she would laugh if she knew I almost went with economics, but it seemed too dry, and also pointless. All that talk about wealth.
I’m worth millions is another thing I’d love to say to Elise. It’s true, after all. Some of it was gifted to me by Lamberto, but isn’t that how wealth is almost always obtained? That old fuck brought me into his ill-begotten line of inheritance, and I didn’t even know till more than a year after he died. I made lots of it myself, too. Investing. Economics, I think with a smirk.
“What are you looking at me like that for?” She touches her mouth with a napkin, and I smile.
“Define ‘like that.’”
“You were smirking.”
“Not at you.”
“I do like my job,” she says, sounding more sure this time. “I don’t like the way it intersects with you, though.”
Oh, so we’re gonna go there. I press my lips together. “If it intersects with me, you probably better not say much. Yeah?”
Her face reddens. “Not you personally. I mean…unless it did.”
“It doesn’t matter, E. And I don’t need to hear about it.”
“That’s a stupid thing to say. Of course it matters. From your vantage point, what matters more?”
“Global warming. The fallibility of democracy. A decline in bees. The widening gap between socioeconomic classes, for-profit healthcare, A.I., poverty and starvation, human trafficking—”
“Matter more to you than your own fate?” she cuts in.
I lift my brows. “Just being objective.”
She gives a hoarse laugh. “From whose point of view?”
“Well…mine.”
“Your point of view is supposed to be pointed toward you.” She gives me a topsy-turvy smile.
“I don’t think that’s always how it works.”
“Not always,” she agrees.
“In this case, it’s pointed toward you.” I arch a brow at her. I’m sort of trying to be funny, but her face goes somber, so I know I fucked that up. Her features soften, her eyes widen, and her mouth does something that I know means she’s caught feels. “Don’t ask me why. Just take it, O’Hara.”
She looks like a deer in headlights.
My foot finds hers underneath the table. “C’mon. Don’t be looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re worried. Or upset.”
“Well, I’m both.” She sounds exasperated.
I come around and take the seat beside her. “I thought you came over to have this off-the-radar night, forget your troubles eating lemon cake and pizza.” I press my leg against hers. Then I can’t resist rubbing my hand down her shoulder. “Don’t get bogged down by that other shit.”
“What other shit?”
“The anything that makes you think too hard shit. Stuff like jobs and worrying and who’s on what team, who would do what if whatever happened. You know what I’d do if whatever happened?”
She blinks at me.
“I don’t know.” I throw my hands up, miming my grandmother. “Who knows, la mia rosa. And who cares?”
Her eyes glisten, and she blinks. “That reminds me of a story,” she says hoarsely.
18
Elise
I’m the kind of person who asks the universe for signs. It’s a secret, of course. No good, self-respecting prosecutor requests signs. That’s like believing in app horoscopes or having lucky socks. But I’m a closet sign-seeker.
I think often of my mother’s rabbit story—and about what she hoped I would get out of it. My mom had a lot of flaws, but I think she knew I was a perfectionist and sought to help me out of that. Unfortunately, she failed. And when you care so much about things being right, you’re desperate for some confirmation that you’re on the right track.
So, all afternoon, as I ran my errands, showered, and dressed, I was hoping for some sign. That coming here would be a neutral move, if not a wise one. That nothing that happens here tonight will really hurt me.
Then I arrive, and he welcomes me the way I’d hoped he would. When we were talking about jobs, things felt tense. But then we had that last exchange. And what he said…it sounded so much like what my mom used to say. He even threw his hands up like she used to.
Don’t worry, Elise. Just be. I can hear her telling me that. It makes me almost cry—but I hold back. I am not going to cry here tonight. I refuse. Let the tears rain down tomorrow, when I’m driving home and all of this is in my rearview mirror.
I sit up straighter. “Maybe you’re right.” I smile at him, and stick my hand out. “Hi there, I’m Elise…your neighbor. I’m an attorney. I like books and tea and France and Italy—really anything in Europe, which I realize sounds so bourgeoisie, but it’s still true. I’m not ashamed.” I grin. “If you want, you can expand that to all international travel. I’ve been places like Micronesia and the North Pole, plus all the regular places people like to go. The Baltic Sea is my favorite. Also a fan of spiked cider, lemon cake, U2, classic black chucks, history museums, and small, fluffy dogs.” I widen my eyes at my own lengthy, insane introduction. “What about you?”
His hand doesn’t let mine go as he looks into my eyes. “I’m Luca. Galante,” he tacks on, somewhat awkwardly. “I watch a cliché amount of ESPN, play ice hockey on a rec league, foster dogs sometimes when my place gets too boring, and I read a lot of newspapers. For fun.” He laughs, so affable, but I think a little self-conscious. “I like Stranger Things, Black Mirror, The Fall, The Witcher—probably not for the same reasons you do.” He quirks a brow. “And I think I would like horror movies…but alas, I’m not about the blood.”
He takes an extra breath there, like he realizes he fucked up and made a light thing heavy. I squeeze his hand.
“I’m on the board of advisors for the Brooklyn Art Museum, and I think you are, too,” he adds, tilting his head.
“Oh wow, I just got appointed. I didn’t know you were on it.”
“Yeah. I know Suzanne Malone.”
“And she’s the chair,” I say slowly.
He nods.
“How do you know Suzanne?”
His brows waggle. “She’s my neighbor.”
“She’s your neighbor?”
“Right next door.”
“Do you like her?” I ask, surprised.
“No, we hate each other. Sometimes her dogs try to attack my foster pups. I retaliate with laser warfare. All I have to do is stand on my roof and just aim it into her windows.” He mimes holding a flashlight. “One blink wakes her right up, any time of night. When she sees me, especially if I’m walking, she’ll try to run me over.” He mimes steering a car, and I can’t help laughing.
“Luca, that is…wild.”
His eyes are twinkling. “I’m a wild guy.”
“You are.”
“I’m really not.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” My jaw drops, and my free hand comes up to hover over it. “I was not supposed to say that,” I say through the barrier of my hand.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” He tilts his head, looking entranced rather than put off.
“Yes. I mean…no. I’m engaged,” I choke out.
He smiles. “I know.”
“Really?”
“We have a few mutual acquaintances.”
“More than a few, it sounds like.”
“I’m a friend of Max.” He says it pointedly, and I nod slowly.
“Are you? I think I heard that.”
His hand, wrapped around mine, shifts so he can intertwine our fingers. “Yeah. So, just deductions.”
I know what he means. At least I think I do.
“Well…damn.”
“And I don’t have a girlfriend,” he says. “Not enough time.” His eyes flicker from our joined hands up to mine, and I nod slowly.
“That’s not true,” he says with a wince. He looks sad…almost abashed.
“No?” I murmur, squeezing his hand.
“The right person is…not easy to find.” He drags a breath into his lungs as his hand squeezes mine in return.
“I agree,” I whisper.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“I’m sorry for you, too.”
“Don’t be sorry for me, Elise.” He smiles gently.
“I can be if I want to be,” I say petulantly.
He laughs, and it’s a warm, wonderful sound—like the echo of a lovely memory. Then he leans in close and feathers a kiss over my jaw. He reaches across the table to get his pizza plate and takes another bite, but he won’t let go of my hand. When he’s finished with his slice, he pulls the plate bearing the lemon cake around so it’s in front of him. He gives me a wicked grin and squeezes my hand before letting go.
I watch as he cuts a big piece, slides it my way, and gets himself a smaller one. He forks a piece off, chews it slowly. I watch his eyes widen.
“It’s good.” Man, he looks so gorgeous.
My stomach flip flops as I try a bite of mine, even though I haven’t finished my huge slice of pizza. I nod as I chew, and then I have a sip of cider because the cake feels like it’s stuck in my throat. “Pretty good.”
I look over at him, and he’s looking at me. I swear, all he does is blink. And then we’re kissing.