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“Exactly. Didn’t you and Elia talk about having kids before you got married?”
“I’ve told you both; this marriage isn’t conventional. We didn’t talk about much of anything.”
“It wasn’t conventional at the start, but you’ve been together, what, ten weeks now? You’ve spent a lot of time together, and you’ve still not talked about kids? Birth control? Nothing?”
I shrug. “It never came up.”
Liv sighs, pulling a fountain pen from her blouse pocket and signing her name at the bottom of the invitation. She blows on the ink for a moment, and then stuffs it into an envelope, continuing the sealing process. “Okay, let’s talk about howyoufeel. Do you want to keep it?”
“I think so.”
“Do you wanthimto want to keep it?”
My hand draws invisible circles on the table. “Yes.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“I don’t know what he wants.”
“You, Caroline.” Liv points a manicured finger at me, and Juliet nods her agreement. “We’ve all seen how that man looks at you. It’s enough to makemewet, and I haven’t been attracted to a man since middle school. Stop pussyfooting around and just tell him.”
Feeling simultaneously scorned and empowered, I move on to the next invitation. We work in silence for a few moments, and as I scan over the artist’s name for the millionth time, curiosity wins out. “Okay, who the hell even is this Mia Lombardi?”
Liv smirks. “She’s only the greatest Irish-Italian indie songwriter in the freaking country. Seriously, you need to get out from under that rock you’ve wedged yourself under.”
“Irish-Italian sounds like a great idea for a restaurant,” my sister murmurs, fiddling with her pile of invitations.
I glance at Juliet, eyebrows drawn in, before turning back to Liv. “I don’t like indie music.”
“Well, you’re in the minority here. She’s mainstream indie, like Lorde and Lana del Ray, kinda. Does everything herself, from writing to recording, and even producing. Moved to L.A. at eighteen and happened to get lucky.”
“Luck of the Irish, am I right?” Juliet snickers and I watch as she takes a swig from an insulated water bottle, wondering if she honestly thinks I can’t smell the alcohol inside.
Liv blinks at her, sliding her gaze back to me with an eyebrow raised. I shake my head slightly. Whatever Juliet needs to get through the summer at home, I can’t begrudge her.
God knows, a little drinking problem would’ve helped me. And as long as she isn’t blacking out, who is she really hurting?
“Anyway,” Liv says, picking up a dozen envelopes and pushing them into a neat stack to her right, “my dad was in Houston during her last tour and happened to meet her at a smaller gig. He mentioned Jupiter, and she said it sounded like a great business and a good way to give back to the black community, so she hired us to do her album release. So, here I am, almost single-handedly running this fucking show because I gave people the last week of July off. Because not only am I the boss, but I’m also an absolute dumbass.”
“I’ve known you for, like, a decade. I can’t imagine you letting your interns help, even if they wanted to.”
“I’m lettingyouhelp, and you have no idea who we’re even working for.”
“You’re letting us help with physical labor. Why haven’t you pitched any other part of your launch plan?”
She smirks. “Maybe you have a point.”
Laughing, I ball up a torn envelope and toss it at her head. She swipes a moment too late, giggling, and for the briefest moment in time, it’s easy to forget everything else outside this conference room—all the pain, the worry, the stuff that keeps me up at night.
I feel normal, again. Almost like no one ever broke me in the first place.
Later that night, I stand at the kitchen sink, watching my husband roll ground pork around in his palm. “I’ve never seen meatballs with milk in them.”
He’s trying to teach me how to make them, but I keep getting distracted by the way his back muscles strain against his t-shirt. Black, but still, he gets less and less buttoned-up around me with each passing day. The outline of a gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans sends a ripple of desire through me.
“You’ve never had mine,bella.Americanized meatballs are always so dry and spherical; adding half-and-half makes them a little sticky and wonky, so they don’t roll right off your plate.” Cocking an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth turns up as he catches me drooling.
“Uh-huh.” I avert my eyes, dropping butter into the skillet, watching it crackle and begin to melt under the heat. “What’d you say this is called?”
