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I’m sensing a long-standing argument that I have no stake in.
“What do you do for Salvatore? I’ve seen you in action and I still can’t figure it out.”
Marcel studies me. I wonder if he thinks I’m overstepping, but we’re not talking about Salvatore—surely Marcel can answer questions about himself. It’s not gossip as much as it is polite conversation.
“I do whatever he asks.”
When I complain about the answer, he finally admits, “I went to business school, and I’ve studied law and accounting. If Salvatore wakes up tomorrow and needs me to become an architect, I’ll be in night classes by next week.”
“Seems like a difficult role.”
“No,” he says, somehow without a shred of ego. “Just purposeful.”
An off-key, boisterous song interrupts our conversation, a lanky boy walking toward us singing loudly with a tray of food in his hands.
“Oh, no,” Ava whispers. She’s gone as red as a strawberry.
The boy is all grin as he brings the tray over, his hair tied back from his face in a short, low ponytail. The song might be French, if French were a language invented by a 5-year-old. He doesn’t stop singing until he puts the tray down on the blanket and bows. Ava has not looked up once.
“Ladies and—well, Marcel, I present to you, your lunch! Prepared specifically by me, with love, and with a little extra sprinkled in for Ava,” he adds, in a false whisper. “See, I only cut your sandwich into a heart.”
Ava shakes her head to herself, a silent despair playing across her face.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met,” I say, trying to figure out what’s happening suddenly.
“It’s intentional,” Ava groans.
The boy wipes his hands off on the apron around his waist and holds one out to me. He has the glossy, pink hands of a cook, the kind that, within a few years, won’t have any fingerprints left and can pull a hot dish right out of the oven. We shake warmly.
“Nice to meet you, princess. I’m Vinny. Sorry we haven’t met, I’m too pretty, so they have to hide me in the kitchen. Ava gets jealous otherwise. She’s a wildcat.”
“Oh my God,” she mutters, but she smiles, too.
“Are you two…?”
“Engaged? Absolutely.”
“We are not engaged!” Ava cries, which Vinny follows up with an enthusiastic,
“Yet.”
“We are dating,” Ava admits to me.
I feel an immediate sense of betrayal. Ava spends so much time with me every day, rarely seeming to leave the house. I never imagined she had a not-engaged-maybe-boyfriend. That he could live here too had never crossed my mind. But then, I’m the one who didn’t ask. It just seems like the sort of thing that should come up naturally when you’re imprisoned in a room with someone for several hours a day.
“You can’t trust anything V says. Everything is a bit. I haven’t had an honest conversation with him in months.”
“That’s not true! I haven’t told a lie in 5 years,” he boasts.
“That’s another bit,” Ava says dryly.
It seems to delight him whenever she’s annoyed, but even she can’t resist her own smitten smile when she tries to glare at him. It makes my stomach thump with jealousy. I have spent so much time thinking about survival, about how to please Salvatore, about the complicated nature of our dark and tangled future—I had forgotten what it felt like to be around two people who were actually in love.
Like they had hit gold, while you have only dirt on your hands.
“A man who can cook,” I say, speaking through the own tightness in my throat. “That’s a valuable combination.”
“Another year here, and Salvatore’s gonna line me up with a chef position at one of the family restaurants. The real ones, I mean, not one of the fronts. White tablecloths and reservation-only seating. And, y’know, if ol’ Sal needs a little space cleared in the freezer one day cause he’s gotta put something on ice, well—”
