“I asked my uncle if you were his girlfriend,” she announced abruptly.
“Oh, really?” I closed my eyes. “And what did Uncle Vince have to say about that?”
“He told me to mind my own business.”
If I could’ve managed a laugh, I would’ve, but instead, I just huffed. “That’s one of his favorite things to tell people.”
“But I think you are his girlfriend, because when he was talking to you on the phone and he found out you were sick, he got really upset. Like, worried. Like how Nonna gets when I don’t feel good. And then he said we had to get here quick, and he stopped at the grocery store to get all kinds of stuff for you. So ... I think he likes you.” She shared this last bit in a lowered voice, as though she was confiding a big secret.
“Ah.” A warm feeling that had nothing to do with my fever flooded my chest, and once again, I wanted to cry. I knew Vincent cared about me, in his way. The more we’d gotten to know each other, the more I’d realized that his gruffness and occasional assholeryness was really a cover for a guy who didn’t like to be caught with his feelings hanging out. I’d listened to him talk about his family, and in unguarded moments, it was clear that while he loved them all fiercely, he also struggled with their expectations for him and what he saw as their inflexibility.
But he didn’t express to me how he felt beyond some mumbled words of affection during sex or teasing me that I was an all right girl now and then. I’d noticed, though, that he held my hand now. He kissed me hello and goodbye, and it was more than just a perfunctory habit. He stroked my hair, touched me often even outside sex and called or texted frequently.
It wasn’t like I was any different. I hadn’t blurted out to Vincent that I was pretty sure I was falling in love with him, probably because I hadn’t let myself think it yet. Now, though, worn down by rampant fever and the throbbing in my head, tears filled my eyes at the thought of Vincent’s worry for me. If his niece was telling me the truth—and why would she not?—he’d been freaked out with concern for my sick self.
“Hey. I told you to deliver the message and scram, sport. If you end up catching whatever crud Amanda has, Nonna will have my head on a platter.” Vincent rounded the doorway, carrying a bottle of ibuprofen. “Go on back and watch the soup. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Okayyyy.” Frankie gave an exaggerated sigh. “Can I start the bread, though? I remember what you told me, and I want to try it. I won’t make a mess.”
Vincent paused and glanced my way. “You trust this hooligan in your kitchen, babe? She’s generally trustworthy.”
I waved my hand. “Have at it. That kitchen’s never seen any action, so it’s good that someone will be cooking in there.”
Frankie grinned. “Can I, then?”
“May I, not can I, and yes, you may. Think about what you’re doing before you do it, and I’ll be right there to check your progress.”
“Thanks!” Frankie disappeared, and I heard her footfalls as she sprinted away.
“She’s adorable.” I tracked Vincent’s progress, walking toward me. “But maybe you’re right—I don’t want her to get sick from me. Or you either. I’m in bed, I’ve got liquids and meds—you should probably go. I’ll be all right now.” Even as I said it, I could hear the wobble in my voice.
“Nah, she’s fine, and so am I. As long as she stays out of the bedroom, she’ll be safe from germs. And I don’t get sick. I’ve got an iron constitution.” He pounded on his chest. “Here, take these pain killers. They’ll help bring down your temp and make your head feel better.”
“All right.” I held out my hand and took the ibuprofen, tossing them into my mouth and swallowing with a small wince of pain.
“Now we need to talk about something much more serious than you being sick.” Vincent sat down on the edge of the mattress and studied me. Trepidation gripped me. What was he going to say?
“What’s that?” I tried to sound pathetic, so he wouldn’t bring up anything I didn’t want to discuss just now.
“What you said to Frankie about your kitchen. It’s never seen any action? Are you serious? Your kitchen rocks, baby. The counters—all that granite—they’re just the right height.”
I frowned. “For what?”
“For you to sit on while I fuck you senseless.” He murmured the words, smirking. “I can’t believe you were telling the truth. Have you never had sex in your kitchen?”
I coughed, covering the fact that I was choking on my ginger ale. “You’re incorrigible, Vincent. Here I am, practically on my death bed, and you’re talking about sex in the kitchen. And your niece is in the other room.”
“First, you’re sick, you’re not on your death bed, baby. But I have to say that even if you were, I’m into you so much that even then, I’d probably want to do you.”
The smile I’d been trying to work up before was now curling my lips. “The things you say, Vincent. You’re positively a poet.”
“That’s me. Also, Frankie is way down in the kitchen. She can’t hear me. And you’re the one who brought up action in the kitchen and cooking in there and all that. So it’s really on you.” He ruffled my hair and stood up. “Try to go back to sleep now. I’ll check on you in a little bit.”
Amanda slept for a few hours. I snuck into her bedroom every twenty minutes or so to make sure she was all right, and about two hours after I’d given her the ibuprofen, I noticed that her hair was sweaty and her face was flushed. When I touched her forehead, she felt a little cooler.
Back in the living room, I took out my phone and called my mother.
“What’s the matter, Vincent? Is it Frankie?”
