A Winter in New York(48)
“I like you in particular too,” he says. “I want to kiss you again right now.”
“Not in here,” I say, wildly turned on by his words and the touch of his hand. “We agreed, remember?”
“Oh, I remember. But that doesn’t stop me wanting to,” he says. “Or telling you that I want to.”
“I’m not sure I can think straight this morning,” I say. “I might need a gelato rain check.”
“Don’t go, cucchiaino,” he whispers.
“How can you make little spoon sound so sexy?” I say.
He laughs against my hair. “Go home, before I do something I regret.”
* * *
—
BELLA SKIPS INTO BELOTTI’S just as I’m leaving, having made headache excuses to Sophia.
“Iris, I hoped you’d be here.”
“I was just on the way out,” I say, although that’s evident from my winter coat and scarf.
“I need to ask you something,” she says, unhooking her backpack from her shoulders. Her cheeks are pink from the cold outside and her hair plaited either side of her head, more student-ish than when I saw her last at Maria’s dinner.
“Will you sing with me at my school’s Thanksgiving showcase?” she says. “Please? We all have to give a performance and I hate doing them because I feel like everyone’s watching me, but if I play piano and you sing, everyone will be so wowed by you that they won’t even look at me.”
My gut reaction is dread and I glance at Gio for guidance.
“Bells, Iris is a busy woman,” he says. “I don’t think she’d have time…”
“Please?” Bella puts her hands together like a child at prayer, her determined eyes round and fixed on me. “Please say yes, Iris, please? I promise it won’t take up much of your time. We’ll do a song you already know so you won’t need to practice much and my school isn’t far. Ellen Connelly keeps going on all the time about how she’s the big star of the show, and she’ll be so pissed if I bring you as my surprise guest after you went viral singing in the park.”
“Language, Bella,” Gio mutters.
“Ellen Connelly is a giant pain in the ass, to be fair.” Sophia rolls her eyes. “I know her older sister, she was just the same, all jazz hands and everyone look at me.”
I consider it. It’s just one song at a local school performance. Something about it sits badly with me, but I can’t think of a way to say no without looking—and feeling—like a jerk, so I relent and say yes. Bella crushes me in a hug, and over her shoulder I meet Gio’s eye and shrug. What harm can it do?
* * *
—
IT’S FUR-LINED-BOOTS-AND-BOBBLE-HATS CENTRAL AS I make my way home to Chrystie Street, but I feel insulated from the inside out as I remember last night. My emotions are like a tangled ball of wool, knotted and difficult to make sense of. My original mission was clear. Linear. Help Belotti’s on behalf of my mother, and out of personal gratitude for everything their recipe has represented for me over the course of my life. But somewhere along the way that straight line splintered into different threads, and now they’re all overlapping and messy. The Belotti family are a passionate force to be reckoned with—even being on their fringes is seductive. Sophia is my culinary kindred spirit. Bella wants me to sing at her showcase. And Gio. Gio is my lover. Flashes of last night flicker across my prefrontal cortex and I’m glad of the chill wind to cool my face down. It’s almost a relief being away from them all for a while—I’m someone who needs to turn their light off sometimes and just sit in the dark. I’m going to go home and wallow in the bath, and then later I’ll toss noodles and try to recalibrate my brain.
18.
I FEEL AS IF SOMEONE HAS turned my life-dial up from its safe, predictable setting to high-voltage, scream-if-you-want-to-go-faster. The last few weeks have been both physically exhilarating and mentally exhausting, because keeping what’s happening between me and Gio secret isn’t as easy as it seemed in principle. The last thing I need in my life is an extra layer of subterfuge, I’ve got enough of that already around my relationship with the Belottis. I feel like two people inhabiting one body and, to be honest, it’s not the most robust machine to demand double duty of. My mornings have been spent gelato-making, stealing moments alone with Gio and helping Sophia with her experimental flavors before I hotfoot it home and become the girl who tosses noodles, glad of the Groundhog Day sameness of work to keep me stabilized.
Gio came to mine last Monday as Bella was home, and Bobby made sure to conveniently leave something in my apartment that he just had to call in and collect. He spent five minutes attempting to give off big-brother vibes and then another thirty just plain old schmoozing before I unsubtly sent him back upstairs. Seeing Gio in the confines of my apartment was strange—it was just too poky and plain to house such a gorgeous creature. Not that it mattered once he kissed me, we could have been in a broom cupboard or a five-star suite. The week-long tension between us overspilled its banks and submerged us for several spine-tingling hours. Something incredible happens when we’re alone: it’s as if Gio allows himself to wear his heart on the outside of his skin for a little while. He’s quick to smile, able to slay me with the slow, trembling emotion of his kiss. He’s buried this part of himself so thoroughly that no one gets to see it, and I find it deeply sexy that he allows me close enough that I do. There is strength in his vulnerability.