Nicolas had been on the phone in the foyer as I’d walked past him. His gaze had coasted from the marble floors, up my thighs, over the ridiculous shorts I was now regretting, and then to my face. He’d looked at me like I was gum on the bottom of one of his expensive shoes. It was a mystery how I could be so attracted to him.
Since that brief, wordless interaction, I’d been trying to conceive a plan to get over this all-consuming interest in everything Nicolas Russo.
I could ignore him. However, I’d already told myself I would do that, and look where it had gotten me: in the kitchen drinking a glass of water I didn’t need, while wearing tiny shorts you could call underwear. I could go to Confession and then pray for the good Lord to save me, though with my luck, Father Mathews would tell my papà.
The most feasible option was to try to turn the attraction on to someone else. That might cause issues in itself, but at least I wouldn’t be lusting after my sister’s fiancé. The problem was, if this were possible, I would have already done it.
Frustration ran through me, and I dumped the rest of the water into the sink. I was being ridiculous. I just needed to put the attraction behind me. Mind over matter. Easy, right . . .?
I didn’t have so much faith in myself after all, so, Monday evening, as we were on our way to Don Luigi’s to have dinner with the Russo family, I posed a hypothetical situation before my nonna. It had to be vague—very much so—otherwise she’d easily put it together with her astute ways.
“Nonna,” I started hesitantly, “say you’ve . . . wanted this . . . dog.”
Her nose wrinkled from her spot in the town car. “I would never get a dog. I have allergies.”
Dominic sat between us, texting. He was my quietest and broodiest cousin. And he smoked too much weed. I could smell it on him now.
Benito drove, singing along to Rocket Man by Elton John with his Aviators on, even though the sun had already fallen below the skyscrapers. Mamma sat in the front seat, fixing her makeup in the mirror and complaining when Benito went more than three miles per hour over the speed limit. Adriana had ridden with Papà and Tony, surprisingly. I was sure my father just wanted to chastise her about all the stuff she shouldn’t do while married to Nicolas.
“Imagine you weren’t allergic and you did want one, Nonna. But you want your . . . neighbor’s dog.”
“We’re not getting a dog, Elena,” Mamma said.
“Cazzo. I know.” I only spoke Italian when I wanted to curse. I hardly ever swore, except for damn, hell, and maybe ass with a hole on the end now that I’d met Nicolas. But that was mostly inner monologue, so it didn’t count. “It’s hypothetical,” I said. “Now, say your neighbor’s dog is so . . . cute, and you want him—er, her for yourself.”
“I think, if I could, I would rather have a cat,” Nonna answered while looking out the window.
“Fine,” I sighed. “A cat, then. You want your neighbor’s cat—”
“We’re not getting a cat, Elena,” Mamma said.
Oh my god.
“I know. I said it’s hypothetical—”
“Why does it smell like skunk in here?” Nonna’s brows knitted.
I didn’t miss Benito shooting a sharp glare at Dominic in the rear-view mirror. He wasn’t supposed to smoke weed; it altered the mind and slowed reflexes. Papà would be mad if he found out.
“Well”—Nonna picked a piece of lint off her skirt—“it must be that perfume you wear, Celia. Seems to ferment after a while.”
Benito choked, and Dominic ran a hand across his almost amused expression while still focused on his phone. I thought Nonna picked on my mamma a lot of the time just because she got laughs from the boys.
Mamma shook her head, probably planning to drink enough for five tonight. She loved wine. And soap operas. If only one of her kids had played soccer.
“Now, what were you asking, Elena? You want a pet?” Nonna opened her clutch purse for candy, most likely. She only put chocolate and Kleenexes in there, of which she reused and reused like they’d quit making them.
“She’s not getting a pet,” Mamma said sternly.
Nonna shifted haughtily on the seat. “Well, I’ve heard pets do wonders for depression. Maybe you should be concerned about your daughter’s mental health.”
“She is not depressed.”
“She wants an animal! In the house. What more needs to be said? Really, Celia . . .”
I tuned them out like the knob on the radio until all I heard was fuzz.