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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.
