AllFreeNovel
Share Us
After texting David that we were going to take the train to the North End, Brandon spent the ten-minute walk to the station holding my hand and brooding silently. He strode quickly and efficiently through the darkened campus, forcing me at times to jog to keep up. By the time we descended into the brightly lit T station, the din of public transportation was a nice substitute for Brandon’s hurried footsteps.
“Did you remember your tokens?” I asked, batting my eyelashes as we approached the turnstiles to swipe Charlie cards.
“Very funny,” Brandon said, but surprised me when he whipped out a card for himself. He waved it in front of my face before swiping through. “First thing I did after I got back to Boston. Well, the first thing I asked Margie to do.”
“Because you take the Tallthe time, right?” I joked.
“Apparently now I do,” Brandon said with a grin.
He took my hand again as we walked to the downtown track. His steps were slower. Thank goodness.
“I have some hand sanitizer if you need it,” I whispered. His nose wrinkled when we passed a corner that smelled distinctly of urine. “You know, if you can handle hanging with us ordinary folks.”
Brandon rolled his eyes. “You act like I was raised with a silver spoon. I’ll let you know if I need some help.”
He released my hand and slid an arm around my waist comfortably, just before he reached a little lower to pinch my backside. My squawks were apparently better than he expected since he laughed out loud at my reaction. The sounds of our horseplay echoed through the tall chamber. I reveled in the sound for the brief seconds until it subsided into the hum of the station.
“So, are you doing this for me?” I asked as we stood apart from a few other people waiting for the inbound Red Line to approach. “I mean, you pay for that fancy car of yours. You don’t need to take shitty public transit—and it’s well known that this line is particularly shitty—just for me.”
“Would you take the car with me?”
I raised an eyebrow. “All the time? Probably not.” Something about that still felt uncomfortable.
Brandon tipped his head from side to side, as if weighing the option. “You’re suggesting I abandon my date just so I can stay in my posh, clean car while she takes the train with everyone else? Are you trying to make me strike out with you completely, Red?”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course not. I just feel bad. You shouldn’t have to be someone you’re not any more than I do.”
Brandon shrugged but didn’t quite meet my gaze. “Don’t you sometimes just want to forget who you are anyway?” he asked quietly. “I told you, something about you makes me feel like regular Brandon again, instead of ‘Mr. Sterling.’ Who knows, maybe itisthe fact that you drag me onto the train.” He glanced at me with a crooked smile. “I kind of like it.”
He winked, and stepped toward the edge of the platform to look for a sign of an approaching train. I didn’t reply. I didn’t know whether his comment meant that I was good in his life or bad (did I want to be thought of as a distraction?), but I didn’t want to spoil his good mood while it was making a comeback.
* * *
“Well,you’re never going to convince me that was better than New York pizza, but it was pretty good,” I said as I put my gloves back on.
We strolled out of Alberto’s Pizzeria, a tiny hole-in-the-wall place deep down one of the windy North End corners the tourists couldn’t find. A bell rang behind us as we stepped out into the cold.
“You’re a dirty liar, Red. That’s the best pizza outside of Italy,” Brandon said as he patted his still-flat belly.
He had put down at least half a pie by himself. I didn’t know how he did it; I had eaten two pieces and was completely stuffed.
“Am not,” I insisted.
“Are too. Did you hear those guys speaking Italian? It’s the real deal here. Nobody in New York’s Little Italy is like that anymore.”
I shrugged. I couldn’t argue with him there. Everyone from New York knew that the real Little Italy was in the Bronx anyway. “Doesn’t matter. You don’t have to be Italian to make great pizza. Every New Yorker knows that.”
Brandon scoffed. He slung a heavy arm over my shoulders and steered us toward the pedestrian-heavy Hanover. Even though it was still the middle of winter, the cobblestoned street was full of people waiting to eat at the varioustrattoriasandpasticceriasthat lined the uneven sidewalks.
Brandon walked us into one shop that was crowded enough that condensation fogged the storefront windows. Releasing me, he elbowed his way to the counter, then pulled me in front of him, wrapping his arms securely around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder.
He never seemed to want to stop touching me, I thought with pleasure. All through dinner, which we had eaten on stools at a Formica-covered counter, he had rested one hand comfortably on my knee; on the train, he’d balanced his arm along the back of my seat so his fingers could toy with my hair. Now, with his hands knotted about my waist, I could hear him hum as we perused the pastries.
“You ever been here before?” he said directly into my ear so he could be heard over the din.
Shop employees scurried behind the counter, taking orders from customers at such a dizzying pace I felt like I was back on Wall Street, watching the traders on the floor.
I twisted my head around to grin at him. “Mike’s? Of course. Best cannoli in the city. Not as good as back home, but still delicious.”
