A Winter in New York(40)

Confusion crosses Bobby’s face, and I explain about the photograph of my mother in the Belottis’ album.

“For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you,” he says. “I know how hard it is for you to put yourself out there again. Don’t overthink stuff, what happens happens.”

I smooth his hair. “That’s worth a lot to me, actually.”

After a few moments he gets to his feet. “Stay here tonight?”

I’m more comfortable than I’ve been in as long as I can remember. Rum-warm and fire-drowsy. “Robin has to be up early,” I say.

“You won’t be in his way, he’s up and out. Besides, he threw a log on to keep you warm, we’d already talked about it. Seriously, even Smirnoff thinks it’s a good idea.”

I contemplate my cold apartment below and can’t find one reason to move a muscle.

“You guys are the best brothers I never had,” I say, meaning Bobby and Robin, even though the cat takes it as invitation to join me on the sofa.

“I’ll leave you to deal with him,” Bobby says, clicking off the side lamp and pulling the blanket up to my shoulders. “Get some sleep now.”

I lie and watch the fire for a while, the cat curled up behind my knees. Don’t overthink stuff, what happens happens. It’s as good a bit of advice as any right now.





15.


I DRAG MY FEET AS I near Belotti’s familiar green-and-white awnings. I slept the sleep of the dead on Bobby’s sofa last night, but right now I feel as if I have a tennis ball bouncing around my internal organs, and I consider turning back and running for home. I could, there’s still time. No one has seen me yet.

“Morning!” Sophia comes barreling out of the gelateria, dark curls jumping around her shoulders, her apron sticking out beneath her puffa jacket. “Milk delivery didn’t come. I’m on the hunt to find some, we don’t have enough to make it through the day.”

So sloping off isn’t an option. That’s okay. I’m not a slope-off kind of gal. I’m here trying not to overthink it, tennis ball or no tennis ball.

I spy Gio through the glass door, stacking pastries into the display case. There’s a woman at one of the tables sipping coffee, and a guy reading a newspaper at another. I push the door open and Gio looks up, a series of micro-expressions crossing his face that tell me he’s not sure how to navigate things either.

“Morning,” I say, dumping my bag on one of the counter stools.

“Hey, you,” he says.

Two words, and now I feel like the class nerd who made out with the cool guy at the school disco last night. If this was high school, I’d drop my bag about now and he’d come over and help me pick up my books. But it isn’t high school. We’re in our thirties and we’ve been around the relationship block enough to know this is a dangerous neighborhood and you’d be wise to guard your bag rather than let it spill out.

“Iris, I wanted to—”

He stops speaking when the door pushes open and a couple of women come in and hover near the counter.

“You guys go, I’m still thinking,” I say, turning to wave them forward.

“Can we get everything in here?” One of them touches the display case, her eyes scanning the contents. “And”—she pauses to count on her fingers—“fifteen Americanos to go, please?”

Her friend sighs beside her. “Staff meeting, caterer let us down.”

“Of course,” Gio says, glancing at me.

“Can I help?” I say.

He hands me an apron, and for the next few minutes we work as a team, me boxing pastries, him making coffee, and it feels harmonious, last night’s tension melting away as I tie string around the green-and-white-striped boxes.

The woman in front of me reads the customer notice on the counter and then looks at me.

“Will there be gelato again soon? I miss that stuff.”

Gio turns from the machine with takeaway cups in his hands. “We hope so,” he says. “It’s a temporary glitch.”

The customer nods, already moving on to a different conversation with her colleague.

A temporary glitch. His words knock around inside my head as we pack and stack the order to go. It’s a good summary of us, we are a temporary glitch in each other’s timeline.

It feels unnaturally quiet when they leave. The woman at the table has gone too, leaving just the guy behind his newspaper over by the window.

“I think we should —” I begin quietly and stop again, because Sophia returns, her arms full of milk cartons.

“Managed to bum these from Priscilla,” she says, leaning forward over the counter to put them all down at once. “She said you can pay her back with lunch sometime.”

I conjure Priscilla from memory, the woman in the gelateria across the street, and swallow down unnecessary needles of jealousy. Gio can have lunch with whoever he wants. As can I, of course. I layer the cartons in the fridge beneath the counter as Gio restocks the display case and Sophia hangs her coat.

“I’ve been thinking,” she says. “About the gelato situation.”

“Join the club,” Gio says.

She pauses and squares her shoulders. “Hear me out here? I know you’re working on the recipe, and I’ve every faith in you both, I do. But those machines back there are standing idle when they could be making us a profit, you know? How about if we schedule some guest flavors, make a big splash about it with publicity?”