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“Twenty-nine.”
“Uh oh, the big three-oh is coming up. You’re practically ancient. Birthday?”
I filled in the form with his answers: sex, nationality, phone number. For the address I put the Residencia Al Gladiatore.
“Now I need your weight and height.”
“One ninety-five,” he said. “Six-foot-one. These questions are getting personal.”
“Now I need your favorite color. And your celebrity crush.”
“Blue. And Salma Hayek.”
“Salma Hayek? Really?”
“Yeah, why?”
“You just like her because she hasenormoustits.”
There was a pause, and then Donovan said, “Well, yeah?”
“I want you to know that I’m rolling my eyes at you,” I said with a laugh. “I kind of like asking you questions like this. You’re too sick to lie.”
“Disease is nature’s truth serum.”
I frowned at the next entry. “Codice fiscale? What’s that mean?”
“I think it’s their equivalent to a social security number,” he said. “Mine is two-four-zero…”
After he rattled the numbers off, I said, “Perfect. I have everything I need to steal your identity. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go order ten credit cards in your name.”
I heard him laughing on the other side of the door. “This was a long con the entire time. I knew it!”
“Hope the sex was worth it,” I replied.
It felt good to laugh about everything. For a few moments it didn’t feel like there was a barrier between us.
I stuck the filled-out forms in the plastic bag with the test, then sealed it with the included red tape. I changed clothes and put on my shoes.
“I’m taking this to the testing site. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
“Can you bring me dessert on the way back?”
“Sure. What flavor of gelato do you want from the creamery down the street?”
“Actually, I was craving some cookie dough from the kitchen.”
I blinked with surprise. “You want cookie dough? I thought you said it was better baked.”
“I’m taking a page out of the Molly Carter playbook,” he replied. “I’m sick and I want comfort food.”
“Your wish is my command.”
“Molly?”
I paused. “Yeah?”
“Be safe out there.”
