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Not much, but it’s a start. I hope you don’t mind. I’ve taken several photographs of your parents from your apartment.
Of course, I don’t mind,I type.Anything that helps you find her.
I bite my lip, wondering if I should mention the steaminess. I want to talk about it and explain that I won’t be able to give him what he clearly wanted before the interruption. However, now’s not the time. Mom and Dad need help. That’s all that matters.
The morning sun shining through the closed curtains makes the room look even more surreal. It’s almost as big as our apartment. The carpet looks brand new. The drawers and closets are carved, ornate, shiny wood. Everything evensmellsmore expensive, somehow.
What should I do?I text.
Ask Sebastian to whip you up some breakfast. Or you can eat with my mom. She should be at the dining table around eighty-thirty.
I swallow.Does it make me a dork if this makes me wildly nervous?
Don’t worry. My mom’s a good woman. She might grill you some, but you can handle it. I’m sorry. I’ve got to head out. Stay strong, my singing angel. I’ll see you later…
I imagine him opening the door when it’s dark, creeping across the room, and slipping into bed beside me. I don’t have to wonder what it would feel like to have his hand pressed against my sex. The memory makes me shiver, but no, that’s not right. It wasn’t skin-on-skin. It wasn’t the real thing.
I flinch when somebody knocks on the door. “Miss.” It’s the butler from last night. I recognize his voice—thebutler. I must be hallucinating. “Mrs. Marino would like to know if you’d join her for breakfast.”
It’s not like I have much choice here. She’s letting me stay in her home. It’s the polite thing to do. “Yeah, of course. Uh, give me a few minutes?”
“Very good.”
I put my suitcase on the bed, open it up, and look for something appropriate. I almost debate doing an internet search.What’s the right outfit to wear to meet your not-boyfriend’s mom the night after you share some crazy steaminess and he offers to save your parents?Somehow, I don’t think much would come up for that.
I settle on some fairly new-looking jeans and a shirt that doesn’t have holes, with the material mostly its original color. After a quick shower—the water pressure and heat are like Christmas gifts—I walk through the apartment. It’s mind-bogglingly big. I get lost twice, and then, by chance, I walk past the dining room.
“Angela?” a woman calls in an old-money sort of accent. It takes me a moment to respond to the name. Russel can’t learn thatScarletis staying here, hence the name. Plus, I’m my man’s singing angel.
I poke my head through the door. Mrs. Marino looks intimidating as hell to me. She sits upright, her gray hair intricately woven, tapping her fingernail against the table. She looks more put-together than I’ve ever felt.
“Uh, hello, Mrs. Marino.”
Oh, God. I justcurtsied. I’m not joking. I held an imaginary dress and bent forward. I expect her to laugh at me for being a complete weirdo. Thankfully, she seemed to like it, smiling and gesturing at the chair beside her. The table is long, with eight chairs around it. I sit.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” she says, offering me her hand.
I take it and shake her hand. She smells of perfume. Sadly, she reminds me of how Mom used to be, before Dad’s schemes, before her pills. “And you, young lady. How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
I remember what Elio said in his text. Mrs. Marino—what the heck’s her first name—suspects I might be a possible girlfriend of Elio’s. Will she be shocked by my age? “Nineteen,” I tell her.
She smiles. “Oh, to be nineteen again. Savor these years. So young and yet so talented. My son says you’re a simply sensational singer.”
“I… uh, I try my best.” My cheeks are blazing red again. “I will try my best, I mean, for you and Mr. Marino.”
She waves a hand. “That can come later. For now, food! Do you like food?” She laughs in an almost unhinged way. “What sort of question is that? Of course, you do. It’s food. Do you like oxygen? How about water? Ha! We have to have our little jokes, don’t we? Otherwise, we’ll go simply insane.”
I laugh. I can’t help it despite everything. There’s something infectious about her energy. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“What are you in the mood for this fine morning?”
“Whatever’s convenient,” I tell her. “I don’t want to be a nuisance.”
“Nonsense. You’re our guest. Nothing is too much trouble.” She leans forward. “Between you and me, I like to keep the chefs on their toes. If you could dream up the most extravagant, unrealistic meal, you’d be doing me a favor.”
I laugh again. “Honestly, Mrs. Marino—”
“Please,” she cuts in. “Call me Allesia.”
