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“You did all the right things. He’s hassling you, trying to put you on edge.”
“It’s working,” I mutter, turning on the stove.
“I’ll talk to Dawson about it again.” Lorenzo takes another sip of his wine, as relaxed as if this is a normal setting for him. Or if he’s not relaxed, he’s putting on a good show.
“What am I supposed to do?” I feel a twist in my stomach as I add the garlic to the pan and start pushing it around, leaving it for a moment while I chop the onion. My fingers are shaking, and Lorenzo moves away from the counter to come stand next to me, gently prising the knife from my grasp.
“Let me,” he says calmly. “You cook the garlic; I’ll do this.”
“You don’t know how?—”
“I can figure it out.” He chuckles, nudging me aside, and the brief touch of his hip against mine, mingled with the casual familiarity of the movement, makes heat blaze down the side of my body. I suck in a soft breath, wanting him to touch me again.
“We’ve got an audience,” Lorenzo says after a moment, turning away from the counter. I mirror his movement, glancing back at the door, and see Niki standing there. He’s watching Lorenzo, a curious expression on his face, but he doesn’t look upset or scared. If anything, he looks happy.
“Are your cartoons done, buddy?” I know they’re not, I can still hear it from the living room, but Niki doesn’t budge. “You want to watch us make dinner?”
He nods, and I step away from the stove. “Come sit at the table, then. Here, your coloring book and crayons are still waiting for you.” I herd him towards the table, getting him settled there, and when I turn to go back to the stove, I see Lorenzo is adding the onions to the pan and stirring.
A mafia boss, in my kitchen. It feels like a very strange dream, the kind you wake up from and wonder how on earth your imagination could have come up with such a thing. It feels like adding insult to injury that tonight is the night I’m making the blandest spaghetti he could probably ever have, but Lorenzo hasn’t said a word about it.
“Fresh basil, hm?” He raises an eyebrow as I step back up to the stove and take the wooden spoon back from him. “That’s a nice touch.”
“The extra money I had paid for it.” I reach for the ground beef, adding it to the pan. “Usually, we’re not so fancy.”
“I’m pleased I could help improve your spaghetti. My grandmother is smiling down on me right now.” There’s that dry amusement in his voice again, and I see the corners of his mouth curling upwards when I glance back at him. The feeling it gives me makes me reach for my wine again.
After a few minutes, Lorenzo glances at me cautiously, then picks up his own wine glass and goes to the table. I realize then what the hesitation on his face was, when I see him sit down next to Niki.
“Can I see what you’re working on?” he asks casually, and my stomach tightens.
My first, protective instinct is to tell him to leave Niki alone—maybe to leave altogether. I’m under no delusions that Lorenzo is anything other than a dangerous man. But he doesn’t seem dangerous, leaning forward over the table with a glass of cheap wine in one hand as he looks at Niki’s coloring book with a smile on his face.
In fact, all I feel while I look at him is the devastating sensation that, under other circumstances, I could fall in love with this man.
He nods as Niki points at something, complimenting him on his choice of colors. I watch as Niki giggles, picking up a crayon and handing it to Lorenzo, and I can feel myself melting.
I’ve never seen Niki open up to someone so quickly. It’s proof that therapy is helping—but it’s something else, too. It makes a part of me wish I’d never let Lorenzo into the house, because he can’t stay. He’ll probably never come back here again. And Niki will have met him and liked him only for Lorenzo to disappear.
I feel a twist of resentment at the fact that he showed up at all, mingled with an aching wish for him to stay. A tangle of confusing feelings that only the smell of overcooking meat cuts through, and I turn quickly back to the stove, feeling a hot burn at the back of my eyes as I quickly shred the basil and mix it into the beef, going to start the noodles and heating the sauce.
By the time I have dinner in three bowls, the garlic bread arranged on a large plate to put in the center of the table, Niki and Lorenzo have finished coloring another page. He’s gravely explaining color theory to Niki as I set the bread down, and for a minute, I truly can’t believe what I’m seeing and hearing.
He doesn’t say a word about the freezer-section garlic bread, or the way I’m sure not even real garlic and basil can disguise the cheapness of dinner. He takes a bite, and, as if he can feel my tension from across the table, gives me a smile. A real smile.
“This is delicious.” Lorenzo twirls a bite around his fork, and I shake my head.
“You don’t have to actually lie to me.”
“I’m not.” He glances at Niki. “Isn’t your sister’s cooking delicious?”
Niki nods enthusiastically, spaghetti sauce already smeared across his mouth. Lorenzo refills his glass of wine, and pours me another, and I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. Like I’m seeing something that I didn’t even know how to want until it was right in front of me.
We don’t talk very much during dinner. I have no idea what to say, and Niki and I usually don’t talk very much during meals. I ask him a few questions about his day, but too many overwhelm him, so I always take it slow.
“Was school good?” I ask, and Niki nods. “Is your teacher being patient?”
Another nod.
