“Marshmallow heart?”
He shifts me into the crook of his arm, his palm resting on my hair.
“You know how it is at that age,” he says. “So tender. My heart is nearly forty years old, and it’s not a pretty sight. It’s been through catastrophe and magic, chunks missing and given away, a mangled thing held together by gelato and tradition and famiglia. But Bella…her heart is still soft, unprotected, no shell. I know it can’t stay that way forever, that there will be”—he pauses, grimaces as if he just sipped acid—“boys.” He fills the word with such darkness that I fear for those future boys. “But I don’t want to be the one who puts the first crack there, and I’m afraid that the closer she gets to you—that I get to you—the more possibility there is that she will be hurt.”
I appreciate his honesty. I think he’s asking me what the future holds, and is standing guard for Bella and himself because they’ve been through something catastrophic. He’s right to be wary. I don’t have a crystal ball, but if I did, I think I’d see us walking blindly toward oncoming traffic, the secrets I’m holding on to flashing their lights at us to get out of the way before it’s too late. He asked me just now if he’s a selfish man. He isn’t. I’m the selfish one. I stepped through that glass door and tumbled into the Belotti universe, a place so seductive and all-encompassing that I’m finding it almost impossible to walk back out of the door for good.
* * *
—
WE WALK HAND IN hand to the noodle house, quiet, caught up in our own thoughts. He lingers outside my front door, pulling me into his arms.
“Thank you for tonight, cucchiaino,” he says, his voice rough in his throat. “You sing like a fuckin’ angel.”
“Stop already with the sexy swearing, you know what it does to me,” I whisper, and he laughs under his breath before he kisses me, slow and searching. I press my fingers against the imprint of his lips on mine as he walks away, and I watch him until he’s swallowed by the darkness.
* * *
—
I THINK ABOUT GIO’S marshmallow heart analogy as I go through the motions to prepare for bed, of his heart glued together by family and gelato. He’s been both terribly unlucky and terribly fortunate, the Belotti safety net always stretched out beneath him to ensure he doesn’t injure himself irreparably. My life has been more precarious. My mother was my only safety net, and without her I fell so far and so hard that I almost lost myself completely. That I didn’t is on me. I remembered whose daughter I was just in the nick of time, and found the strength from somewhere to claw myself up out of the well and run away. The real miracles in my story are that I kept running as far as Chrystie Street and that I found Bobby, who picked my trampled self-worth up from that damp sidewalk and held it when I couldn’t. So, yeah. My heart isn’t marshmallow either. We share that much in common, at least.
20.
MARIA HAS INVITED ME TO spend Thanksgiving with them, but I find myself relieved to have to politely decline. I’ve had long-standing plans to eat with Bobby and Robin, who are excited to be hosting a fancy dinner for Robin’s family. I offered to cook, and Robin almost successfully hid his horror behind assurances that he’d hired in caterers. “You spend every night behind the stove,” he said. “Enjoy the gift of time off feeding people.” I chose to accept his offer gracefully, but in truth I’d love to have cooked dinner. I’ve had so little opportunity to use my finer culinary skills here, I miss the adrenaline rush of creating food for people to feast on. This will be my first experience of Thanksgiving. The effort of keeping secrets from the Belottis weighs heavy on my shoulders, a constant reminder that I don’t truly fit in. It’s a depressing thought. My entire life I’ve felt that way, never settling anywhere long enough to feel part of the landscape. Until Bobby, that is, so I’ll put on my nicest clothes and head upstairs to eat turkey I haven’t cooked myself with them later and thank my lucky stars for the noodle house on Chrystie Street.
* * *
—
ROBIN’S FAMILY TROOPED PAST my door a few minutes ago, so I hang back to give them time to say their hellos and settle in before I show my face. I’ve bought a decent bottle of red I know Robin will hide at the back of the cupboard and I’ve made them a batch of cinnamon rolls—if I can’t contribute to dinner, they’ll at least have something to nibble on in the morning. I’m sitting on the sofa browsing recipes on my phone to pass the time when a message alert scrolls over the top of my screen. I glance at it and go cold, all fingers and thumbs as I fumble to open it, hoping I misread the sender. I didn’t.
Adam Bronson.
Just his name is enough to make me sick. What does he want? How does he have this number? I close my eyes and try to slow my panicky breathing. I could just delete it, not look. But then I’d wonder and worry, create even worse scenarios in my head than the real one. I don’t want him in this life I’ve built. I don’t want to see his name on my screen, or to allow him any space in my head, but I have to read it right now.
New York, New York, someone’s a dark horse! Who knew you could sing, little mouse? Your Song, my song. @BellsyB16 was more than happy to send your info on to an old friend who might be passing through soon to pay you a surprise visit.
I throw the phone across the sofa, my eyes scalded by the incendiary words. Fuck. Fuck. I lean over and grab it again, stabbing at the screen. Bella sent me a link earlier to a video posted on her school YouTube channel of our performance last week and, sure enough, she’s supplied my full name for the description. Oh, Bella. Why? I know why, of course. Because she’s fifteen and naive, because she’s proud of us and doesn’t see the danger, because I’ve lied to them all and she doesn’t know any better. And now Adam knows I’m in New York, and can fairly accurately pinpoint me to within a few streets. And he contacted Bella, for Christ’s sake. My skin is literally crawling off my flesh with shame that I’ve exposed Gio’s daughter to the nightmare that is Adam, a man willing to exploit the kindness of her marshmallow heart. I can’t breathe. I sit down with my head in my hands, and the rage that boils up in me has no exit but hot, angry tears and clenched fists pounded against the sofa.
Bobby texts to say come up and save him from Robin’s mother, and I push my face into a cushion and scream. I can’t go upstairs. I can’t pretend this hasn’t happened. Little mouse. Today is supposed to be about gratitude and thankfulness, but right now all I feel is ugly hate and humiliation.
I make excuses in the form of period cramps, and one look at me through the crack of the door is enough to convince Bobby I’m not lying. My brilliant friend taps lightly on my door half an hour later and leaves a plate piled high and a hot-water bottle, and I add Bobby to the list of people I lie to now.
I don’t know what to do. I’ve worked so hard over the last year to build this new life, and in the space of a few scant lines Adam has set a ticking bomb underneath it. Why did I write my real surname on the cast sheet at the school? Have I learned nothing? It just never entered my head that it would leap from that simple sheet of paper on to the internet, a hop, skip, and a jump away from anyone who might tap my name into a search engine. Do I reply? Ask him what he wants? Or do I ignore it and pretend it never happened? Both feel like the same level of risk.