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“Any particular designer?” Teresa asks.
Bianca shakes her head. “I don’t think they’refroma known designer. They’re not exactly the same, but they’re similar. Big chunky gold things with lion heads engraved on them.”
A cold sensation slices into the nape of my neck and drags down over every vertebra in my spine. The rest of the table keeps going on about rings and jewelry, and then moves on to other topics.I’m still gripping the tablecloth by my lap with white knuckles as the past jumps out of the darkness at me with a snarl.
The man who pinned me down, the gold band of his ring digging into my flesh. The men who did the same to Nina right next to me, knuckles glinting with the jeweled-eyed glare of golden lions.
“Tempest?”
I blink back to reality as I slowly turn to stare at Bianca. She frowns with worry.
“Are…are you okay?”
“Sure,” I mumble, swallowing the bitter lump in my throat. “Yes,” I force out with slightly more conviction.
She smiles. “The cannoli are here.” Her chins nods, and I look down in front of me, realizing the dessert has been brought out.
Dante collects rings.
Specifically, Dante collects the rings I see in my nightmares. And I’m not sure if that makes me more curious, or more completely fucking terrified.
When the whole thing is over, I walk over to Mrs. D’Amico and apologize for my language and for disturbing the peace earlier. She just smiles and shakes her head.
“First, just call me Maria, hon. Second, it’s no trouble at all. I’ve met Silvio a number of times…” She winks. “‘Hemorrhoid’ is a compliment compared to what I’d call him.”
Then she insists I take the box of to-go food she’s taken the liberty of ordering for me, because “if I’m too thin, I’ll snap when I walk down the aisle”.
I’m outside with Bianca and she’s calling Lorenzo for a pickup when I suddenly think of something.
“Hey—what are you doing tonight?”
She shrugs. “I’ve got rehearsal in an hour until six, but nothing after that.”
I’m not exactly great with friends. I mean you don’t need to be a therapist to get that I purposefully don’t encourage interpersonal relationships after what happened to Nina, probably as some sort of self-defense mechanism. Now, knowing that my timeline is shorter than anyone would imagine, it feels even more of a waste of time to attempt to make friends, because what’s the point?
But I don’t know. IlikeBianca. She reminds me of Nina, or maybe of myself, when I was younger.
“You, uh, wanna come to my bachelorette party?”
Bianca’s brows shoot up. Her lips curl into a grin. “Whoa, seriously?”
“Yeah, I mean, don’t feel like you have to,” I shrug, my mouth twisting. “It’s not a fancy thing, just some girlfriends taking me out?—”
“I wouldloveto!”
I smile. “Yeah?”
“Definitely!”
“I mean…” I snort. “When I saygirlfriends, I mean my brothers’ business partner and two of her employees.” I give Bianca a weak smile. “I’m not great with friends…”
“I wouldloveto come,” she beams at me.
A happy spark—the kind that’s been pretty damn quiet since my diagnosis—flickers inside of me as I grin back at her.
Maybe I could use some more friends.
Even if they’re only temporary.
