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“This is my house, and you’re welcome here. Come in, I’m just finishing dinner.”
We follow Rieta through to the dining room and she tells us to sit down and that we’re eating right away. The table is set with five places, so I put two of them away. There’s also a bowl of salad, homemade vinaigrette, and a dish of shaved parmesan.
“Can I do anything to help?” Laz calls after her.
Rieta sticks her head around the door and points at a bottle sitting on the dining table. “You could open the wine. Thank you, Lazzaro.”
“He prefers Laz, actually,” I tell her.
Rieta glances from Laz to me in surprise. “Oh, I didn’t realize. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Laz mutters, reaching for the wine.
“It does matter,” I say firmly. “Rieta will remember, won’t you?”
Even if it’s just Rieta and I who call him by the name he prefers, it’s something. It’s important that he feels like himself.
“Of course, if that’s what you prefer.” Rieta smiles at Laz before disappearing into the kitchen.
Laz is winding the screw into the cork. “Why did you do that? I don’t care if you’re the only one who calls me Laz.”
“Because it’s the man you are. I like the man you are.”
He pulls the cork from the bottle with a pop. “Don’t say shit like that when I can’t kiss you. Wine?”
I’m not old enough, but wine is sacred in my family, and I’ve been allowed to have a little with dinner since I was sixteen if I want it. Usually I don’t, but I feel happy tonight. I feel relaxed. In Rieta’s house, I can almost pretend that Laz is mine.
I hold my fingers up and measure three-quarters of an inch in the air. “This much, please.”
Laz pours it out and hands it to me, and then pours a bigger glass for himself.
The two of us end up standing in front of a picture of Rieta and Nero on their wedding day, my sister radiantly beautiful in her lace wedding dress and Nero handsome in his suit. It’s a candid photo that’s full of chemistry between the couple. A surprising amount of chemistry when you consider that it was an arranged marriage. Things have cooled between husband and wife since the photo was taken. When I see Nero, which I rarely do these days, he’s never affectionate with his wife. Trying and failing so many times to have a baby is driving a wedge between them.
But in this photo? He’s gazing at the beautiful, smiling woman in his arms with eyes filled with adoration. What happened to all that love? Did it drain away? Burn up and blow away like ashes?
I’m hyperaware of Laz standing by my side, his arm pressing into mine. What if I fall in love with Laz and that happens to us? We could sacrifice everything for each other and be left with nothing to show for it.
“They look really happy,” he murmurs.
“Yeah, they sure look that way,” I say sadly.
Laz glances at me sharply. “You okay, Bambi?”
I’m saved from answering by Rieta coming in holding an enormous dish of pasta, her hands covered in oven gloves. “I hope you’re both hungry. I made enough for six because I thought more people were coming.”
The pasta looks and tastes delicious. Chunks of ricotta cheese, toasted pine nuts, roasted cauliflower, cumin, and olive oil. Best of all, dinner is relaxed for once, the three of us chatting away about TV shows, the upcoming mayoral election, the places we’ve been on holiday. I keep sneaking looks at Laz and smiling to myself as he chats with Rieta. He’s an entirely different man when he’s not got a snarky wall up or he’s not expecting someone’s words to knife him in the guts. His smiles are so beautiful that they take my breath away.
I like this man.
I like him a lot.
When Rieta’s plate is almost empty, she turns to me, wine in hand. “I heard about your dinner with Drago Lastra. Is Mom insisting that you marry him?”
Instantly, a chill wind sweeps through the room.
“Mom’s not insisting yet, but she keeps bringing him up. I didn’t like him, and I’ve told her that, but she can’t seem to accept it.”
Every time I’ve walked into a room and Mom is there, it’s taken her less than three minutes to bring up marriage, engagements, or so-called suitable men.
