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“Okay. Any of your customers need anything?”
“No, I just checked in with all of them. You’re good.” He walks toward Massimo and out from behind the bar, and I follow him but stop when I reach Massimo’s seat.
“Marcus is closing tonight, so when he gets back, I’m done for the night.” I nudge my glasses up to adjust them.
Massimo’s eyes widen, and a grin spreads across his face revealing his canine teeth slightly raised and larger than the others. “In that case, give me my check. I’ll leave with you.”
“Night, Tracy,” I say, exiting the front door with Massimo behind me. Once outside, I stop, and Massimo stops beside me.
“Where’d you park?” he asks as he’s putting on his leather jacket.
Fall in Boston is unpredictable. Some days are warm, and others are downright cold, more akin to winter than fall. Tonight is one of the nicer nights, high 50s and clear skies. It’s beautiful out, chilly air but not cold and no wind—no doubt the Berkeley Weather Beacon in Copley is steady and blue right now.
“I was lucky today and found a spot a few blocks away.” Parking is one thing that frustrates me about working in the North End. Street parking is hard to come by because I have to find an available visitor’s spot. Most of the street parking in this neighborhood is residential and requires a resident’s sticker. I usually have to drive around for at least fifteen minutes in hopes of finding a spot. Taking the T, the Subway system in Boston, when I work nights isn’t possible because I usually finish after the last train, and I don’t like taking the Kenmore bus home that late.
“I’ll walk with you,” he says, placing his hand on my lower back while guiding me toward North Square.
The North End isn’t just the oldest neighborhood in Boston; it’s steeped in history. Among the narrow streets and hidden alleyways, you’ll find several stops along the city’s Freedom Trail, a 2.5-mile walking path marked by a red line painted on sidewalks that spans the city to highlight locations significant to U.S. History.
North Square is home to Paul Revere’s House, and the streets in this triangular area are paved with the original setts, more commonly called cobblestones, and the street lamps resemble gaslights. The small square is quaint and busy during the day when it’s filled with tourists and parked trucks whose drivers are unloading deliveries to various restaurants. But at this time of night, it’s quiet.
I’m nervous—the butterflies in my stomach swirl in anticipation. Before speaking, the back of my left hand nudges my glasses up the bridge of my nose. “I have a question for you.”
“What’s that?” he responds.
“Are you still interested in going out sometime?”
He stops and spins toward me. “Is that a rhetorical question?” He rewards me with a beaming grin that reaches his eyes.
“Things change; life happens. The answer could be no.” I shrug, adjusting the frames on my face and looking away.
Stretching his right hand out, his fingers graze the underside of my jawline. “Have I ever told you I love this beauty mark here?” His thumb swipes across my left cheek left to right and back again, over the beauty mark that sits in the middle. His pointing it out makes me squirm. I’ve tried to wear makeup to cover it up, but I was never happy with how it looked, so I gave up trying. Every time I look in the mirror, it glares back at me like a big hairy mole. In reality, it isn’t that big. We’re always our own worst critics.
“No, you haven’t,” I say sheepishly. The touch of his fingers burns my skin.
“Lena, I’m gonna kiss you now.” My name falls from his lips as he’s leaning toward me, his mouth landing on mine. I close my eyes. His bottom lip is plump and soft. When he moves, his tongue teases my lips, prying them open, and I comply. Massimo pushes his hands into my hair as our tongues tangle.
When our kiss ends, my glasses have skin imprints from his nose, and I remove them. “I’ll take that as a yes,” I say, blushingly, grabbing the bottom of my T-shirt in an attempt to wipe my glasses. I’ll have to clean them better when I’m in my car.
“The answer is always yes.”
Heat rises to my cheeks, and his proximity dizzies me. I take a step back.
“Sorry about your glasses,” he says.
“It’s okay. I’ll get over it, but only because you’re a good kisser.”
“There’s more where that came from, but we’ll save it for another time.” He winks at me and continues walking.
“This is me,” I say when we reach my car, a white two-door Honda Civic. It’s a hand-me-down from my mom that she gave me a few months ago when she wanted to buy a new one for herself. The car I had after high school died last year. Stefano didn’t want me to get a new one; he said he’d drive me everywhere I needed to go. I now realize it was just another way for him to control me. When mymamioffered, I jumped on the opportunity because I was tired of not having a car and relying on Stefano or taking the T.
“When can I see you again?” he asks.
“I work all weekend, but if you’re free next week, we can hang out. What about Tuesday?”
“I’ll make it work. What’s your number so I can call you?” I open my pockabook and look for a pen. I find an old receipt at the bottom to write on. When I look up, Massimo has his cell phone in his hand—waiting for me. “I’ll save it on my phone,” he says.
“617-555-1212.”
