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No, I tell myself. Don’t jump too fast. Don’t swim out too far. So I answer Vic.
“Nothing. I’ve got everything I need right here.”
Chapter 20
Fitz
Sundaynight,I’mbackat Cosette, and José is practically buzzing as he flits around the kitchen, tasting pans of sauce and tossing instructions at his staff. Frannie and I watch, amused, from our perch next to the swinging double doors, where servers are already pacing in and out with the pre-plated salads.
Frannie’s team is on site taking photos of the event happening tonight - an over-the-top 50th Anniversary celebration that rivals most of the weddings we do. Old Dallas money at its best. I agreed to tag along, both needing the distraction and also wanting to get a better feel of what she was hoping to express in the marketing materials she had me reviewing for her.
I’ve barely spoken to Piper since Friday - I let things simmer before texting her a short apology yesterday morning, but her response had been curt and there hadn’t been much since then.
Were we talking a lot? Sure. Especially for me. But the near-stop on talking all together gave me a sort of whiplash I wasn’t expecting. Like I was missing something.
“If José would just agree to be the star of this campaign, I’d be done,” Frannie whines, picking up a piece of toasted baguette from the plate next to us and dipping it in whatever red sauce José’s made for the night.
“I told you, mija, this face doesn’t do cameras,” he replies, making a circle around his face and then breaking out into a grin. “Let this place shine, not me. I won’t be here forever.” I shudder at the thought, but know he’s right - he’s teetering on the edge of breaking into the retirement I knew he’d been stocking for the last several decades. He deserves it.
“Nope, not allowed,” Frannie says simply. “I can’t put up with this one and his emotional shitshow by myself.” She hitches a thumb at me, and I scowl. “You can’t say I’m not right.”
“Oh, you’re right.” I shoot the same look at José.
“Gang up on me, why don’t you.”
“Not like you don’t deserve it,” Frannie mutters, and then scoops a heaping dollop of sauce into her mouth. “You’ve been a fucking roller coaster of emotions for the last couple of weeks, and I don’t like it. It’s weird.”
“It’s a girl.” José points his tasting spoon at me, and I’m vaguely reminded of the night after seeing Piper again for the first time. “And he won’t tell me anything.”
Frannie looks between the two of us, clearly confused. José knows more about me, about my life, than most people outside of her and our brother - and Olivia, at one point. Growing up, I’d gravitated toward the warmth and personality José exudes, rather than the cool one my father gives, and Frannie knows that. She knows why - she and Freddy have their own issues with Dad, but they understand that as the oldest and the outlier, it had the most emotional effect on me.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Bullshit,” Frannie coughs, mostly to cover the word. “Oh, I’m sorry. I mean, of course, nothing to tell, that’s why you haven’t stopped checking your phone every five minutes.” I cringe, phone in hand, and stuff it back into my pocket. “What did you do this time?”
I glance around the kitchen - most of the staff isn’t paying attention, just following José’s rapid instructions, mostly in Spanish, but I still hesitate at answering.
“I may have said something stupid about her ex,” I say cautiously.
“Her ex?” Frannie asks, but continues, “Or her dead husband?” There’s a clatter as whatever utensil José’s holding clatters to the counter, and I turn to see him staring blankly at us.
“Way to be subtle, Fran.” She smirks. “Her ex, who is very much alive.” And sleeping with her roommate, I want to add, but don’t. Chloe, Carla’s sister, and Frannie are still pretty good friends, and I don’t want to put her in that position.
I’d suspected something after the baseball game and hospital, but Carla’s tone of surprise when he showed up at the apartment, coupled with the fact that they quickly pulled out of an intense conversation when I left Piper’s room the other day, confirmed my suspicions. It wasn’t any of my business, but it did ease my mind a bit.
“You’ve lost me,” José says, and leans forward on the metal countertop, hands pressed flat.
“Cliffs Notes?” Frannie asks, and José nods. I just sit back and watch as Frannie tries to summarize. “Will is talking to someone he knew from high school who’s since lost her husband.” José blinks at her, and then looks at me, but Frannie continues. “And as his opening act, he sent her a bottle of champagne, which she couldn’t drink, because she’s a recovering alcoholic.”
“For the record,” I retort, “that last one was your idea.”
“Dead husband,” José breathes. “Dios Mio, what did you get yourself into?” I pause a beat before responding.
“I have no fucking idea.” I scrub my hand across my face. “I swung by her place this week with flowers, and her ex showed up wanting to talk to her, and I may have indicated that I didn’t trust her to tell me the truth about him.”
“Yikes on a bike,” Frannie says, wide-eyed, and José scowls. Someone from the other side of the kitchen yells a question toward him, and he answers, before picking up a big spoon and a pot from in front of him.
“Trust is a big deal, especially starting out a new relationship.” I nod, leaning back into the counter behind me. “And especially for sober people.” My eyebrows knit. He sounds like he’s speaking from experience, but running down the list of people I know in José’s tight-knit family, I can’t think of anyone he’s ever mentioned as being sober.
