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“I actually don’t care enough,” I say casually. “Unlike you, who cares too much. The charities, volunteer work, the cookies, the smiles. You need to live a little more for yourself and a little less for everyone else.”
She stares at me, but doesn’t say anything. I hit a nerve, and I know she’ll think about it when we say our goodbyes. Nonetheless, we still have a few minutes to burn together.
“So tell me—what are you passionate about, Winnifred?”
She rubs at her chin, a tic she cannot conceal. “Mostly theater. Since I was a little girl, the stage has been my escape.”
“What did you escape?”
“The same thing we all escape.” She runs a finger over the rim of the elevator’s mirror, just to do something with her hands. “Reality, mostly.”
The elevator slides open. She is quick to get out.
“What was so wrong with Winnifred’s reality, growing up?” I’m a dog with a bone. I’m chasing her across the lobby, making a spectacle of both of us, and I don’t care. I won’t care tomorrow either. I never cared what people thought of me. It was always Grace who gave a shit.
“Well, if you really must know, I hated to be the small-town gal, with the big aspirations, who knew full well people like you would always stand in my way, ridicule and belittle me whenever possible. I wanted to believe I could be something amazing, and the world didn’t always let me.”
I stop on the pavement, just as a black Toyota Camry Uber stops in front of us. I get it now. This is why Winnie resents me with so much passion. I represent everything she fears and feels insecure about. And I’ve been taunting her with it from the moment we met.
Maybe because I, too, resent what she represents. An easy, laid-back life. Where running after money and prestige breathlessly is tacky, not honorable.
She pops the back door of the Camry open.
I want to chase her. To steal another kiss, while the getting’s good. Perhaps even tell her my sole reason for taunting her in Italy was because she was alluring, too damn fuckable, and I hated her for it.
But what’s the point? Winnifred is too engrossed in her love for her dead husband. Even if she wasn’t, I’ve only ever wanted one woman. Wanting another one seems foreign; unlike riding a bike, it is not a skill you can neglect and pick right back up.
“Oh, and by the way.” She throws one last look at me, clutching the door. “That kiss? Four out of ten. Maybe that’s why Grace cheated on you. You’re a bad kisser.”
She dips her head and disappears inside the vehicle before closing the door. The car slides back into traffic, leaving me in a cloud of exhaust smoke.
I laugh to myself, shaking my head.
Bumpkin is ten out of ten entertainment.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WINNIE
Then
It was my first time in Italy—anywhere outside of America, actually—so even the old seemed new. The ancient pastel buildings stacked together like colorful ice cream flavors. The yellow August sun that painted the landscape in an antique brush.
Everything in Italy was smaller—rooms, roads, cars, stores. The food tasted different too. The cheese and herbs and cold meats were more pronounced, sharper in flavor.
Paul, red nosed and extra freckly in the heat, plastered me against the banister of our hotel balcony. His hands wrapped around my waist, his erection digging into my stomach. I took a juicy bite of the peach I was holding as he nibbled his way up my throat, sucking on the nectar residue.
“So tasty ... so addictive ...,” he murmured, dropping his head farther down, between my breasts. I wore the same burgundy dress I’d attended senior prom in. While I was no longer that girl who had to count her pennies, using Paul’s money to pay for expensive dresses didn’t feel right either. Even if he begged me to do so, and often.
“Itisa very good peach.” I kissed his ear, playing innocent.
Paul pulled away, the heart-stopping smile that I loved so much—fresh faced and shy and good—on full display. “I’m talking about the woman I married. I still pinch myself every morning seeing you next to me. How’d I ever get so lucky?”
Somewhere not so far away, music blasted from one of the houses kissing the promenade. A classical piano piece. I wrapped my arms around my husband. The peach dropped from my hand. I kissed him deeply, and it was perfect. Sweet and needy, with a promise for what’s to come. In a minute, we’d go upstairs to the restaurant, and Paul would throw himself into his role. A member of the boys’ club. Indifferent to sexist jokes, conceited, and aloof.
Paul was the first to pull away. His blue eyes searched mine. “Let’s take it to the bedroom. We still have a few minutes before dinner.”
My stomach dropped.
