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Fiona
“You can’t be serious.” I laugh, squeezing Nico’s arm as his brown eyes crinkle at the corners. “He paid a prostitute to be your prom date? That’s insane.”
Nico laughs too, tipping his head back to take a sip of his Americano. A thin layer of the drink appears on his upper lip, and his tongue darts out, erasing it. “I know, and he had the gall to explain it as some sort of Bianchi tradition. Said his father and his grandfather all took escorts to their formal dances, and that it made me a man in the eyes of ‘The Family.’” He raises his hands, making air quotes around that last bit, and I giggle at the absurdity of the mafia putting anything other than murder on that kind of pedestal.
“And I thought my mom making us spend birthdays at the cemetery as kids was crazy.” I shake my head, retracting my hand and slipping it around my frozen caramel latte. Even though it’s still March, the air tonight is exceptionally warm, and the icy drink under my fingers is a nice contrast, giving my nerves something to settle on.
“The cemetery? That sounds...”
“Depressing?” I smile, shrugging. “It was definitely not a favorite pastime of ours, to the point that eventually we all started not looking forward to our birthdays. But I think that was kind of her point.”
“Kind of like facing your mortality, no?”
“Exactly. She wanted us to be aware that every new year we’re blessed with on this earth increases our chances of having everything ripped away.”
‘And eventually, it will be. Death is our only guarantee in life.’
I can still hear her whispering those words, clutching Murphy to her side as we stared at the family plots, as if she knew all along he’d be the first of us to go.
“How is your mom?” Nico asks, and I’m slightly surprised—not that he knows, considering that’s just how things work in towns like this, but that he’s asking at all. I’ve known Nico since his family moved into town a few years back; we worked on the King’s Trace Prep yearbook together with Heidi and Bea, and ran a food drive one winter, using his dad’s vans to transport the donated goods and bonding over shared complaints about our older brothers.
When we graduated high school, Nico came out to me, desperate to get his sexuality off his chest and unable to confide in his father or brother, Romeo, whose Catholic backgrounds run much deeper than the Ivers’. And ever since, we’d formed a tentative friendship, one held together by random coffee dates.
“She’s okay,” I say, my fingers flexing around my cup, the cold spreading to my palms and traveling up my arms. My tongue feels thick inside my mouth, too big to form more dialogue about her declining health. “But enough about me, you’re on spring break, right? Is California everything they say it is?”
A shadow passes over his face for a brief moment, like Helios dragging the sun against the sky to create night. When he blinks, removing his hands from his coffee and placing them against his cheeks, it’s gone, replaced with a smile that looks painful.
“California is great, and campus is beautiful. Berkeley is such a different atmosphere from the one I grew up in, and I’m—”
“Fiona, what the fuck are you doing?”
Jumping at the sound of my name attached to a deep, angry voice, I swivel my head just as Boyd jaywalks across the street, arms crossed over his broad chest, gray sweatpants slung low on his hips.
Oh, my good God.
My gaze falls involuntarily, noting a very distinct outline, and I quickly look away as he approaches our table, eyes wild and blazing.
Nico’s eyes slide to mine, one dark brow raising, as he takes another drink. I suck in a breath, prepared to fend off Boyd’s overprotective nature the same way I would with Kieran. “This is Nico—”
Boyd scoffs. “I know who it fucking is. What are you doing here with him?”
“Um... having coffee?” I gesture at our cups on the table, confusion washing over me. Kieran usually settles after an introduction, using it to remind people of who he is, but Boyd doesn’t seem to relax in the slightest.
Warmth rises to my cheeks when I realize this must look like a date, and since the Bianchi boys have a notorious reputation for whoring around town (even if, in Nico’s case, it’s untrue), I’m sure Boyd’s assumption is that I’m one cup of coffee away from jumping into bed with him.
Not that it should matter. I’m an adult, and really nothing to Boyd. He made that pretty clear the other day when he called me to the hospital and left me there with Chelsea, so I don’t really know what his problem is right now.
“Are you asking or telling me?”
Scrunching my eyebrows together, I frown at Boyd. “I was answering your question?”
His nostrils flare, and I tear myself from the intensity swimming in his cappuccino eyes to steal a glance at Nico, who’s watching us with an amused expression. I tuck my hair behind my ears, tension collecting in my spine because I can’t place where Boyd’s hostility is coming from.
Ignoring him and focusing on the cold in my hands, I sigh, smiling gently at Nico. “Sorry, you were saying? Berkeley is different?”
He opens his mouth to answer, but Boyd’s hand clamps down on my bicep, cutting him off. I’m yanked from my chair and into Boyd’s hard body, knocking my latte over in the shuffle. “What are you—”
“Coffee’s bad for the baby,” Boyd snaps, clenching his jaw. Casting Nico a side glance, Boyd jerks his thumb in my direction. “Only ten weeks along, but the doctors always say it’s never too early to start changing your habits.”
