“I wish I could believe you,” she whispered, pushing her chair backward. “I should probably go.”
He lifted his gaze to hers and held it steady, then suddenly stood and grabbed her hand. “I’ll show you,” he said, tugging her across to the counter. He tore a mint-green Belotti’s napkin in half and grabbed a pen, and she watched as he wrote across it in bold blue ink, then handed it to her.
“That’s how much I trust you,” he said.
She scanned it, her breath caught in her throat.
“No one outside my family has ever seen that,” he said. “If my family ever knew I’d given it to you, hell, I don’t know what they’d do. Disown me or something, probably. But I trust you, Viv. I trust you to keep it safe. You can go out there and be brilliant now because we’re connected, always. And every time you look at that napkin, I want you to remember that I’m right here on Mulberry Street if you ever need me.”
He pulled her into his arms and hugged her harder than anyone had ever hugged her before.
“I’ll bring it back,” she whispered, the napkin pressed against her wildly beating heart. “I’ll bring it back one day, I promise. I’ll give it back to you because I won’t need it anymore, because after that day you’ll be there to make the gelato for me. I won’t need the recipe to remember you by because you’ll be in my life again.”
“I look forward to that day,” he said, pressing a kiss against her hair.
She stepped back and wiped her eyes, picking up a photograph propped against the cash register.
“Can I take this?” she said, looking at the picture of Santo leaning against the shop window, his hand raised to shield his eyes from the summer sun.
He nodded, then made a picture frame with his hands and looked at her through it.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Taking a photo of you with my mind,” he said. “Keep still.”
She raised a trembling smile for Santo’s imaginary shot, then slid the photo and napkin inside her shirt for safekeeping.
“I’ll be seeing you,” she said, and he touched his fingers to his forehead in silent salute.
They didn’t say another word. He crossed the black-and-white checkerboard gelateria floor and opened the glass painted door, and she nodded and walked out into the hot July morning, her head high.
Santo watched her until she disappeared in the distance, flexing his fingers at his sides, aware of the forever scorch from temporarily holding on to lightning.
22.
I WALK AIMLESSLY, SNATCHES OF CHRISTMAS music reaching me from open shop doors. It feels as if New York has pirouetted seamlessly from Thanksgiving straight into holiday festivities, easy as changing from pumpkin latte to cinnamon spice. I think I just royally screwed up. I mean, I’m walking away single and off the hook about the recipe, so I guess you could objectively call that a win, but it certainly doesn’t feel like one. I’m heartbroken—and worse, Gio is too.
I don’t want to go home, I don’t know what to do with my Monday. I’m ghost-walking without really seeing where I’m going until raised voices in a side alley pull my attention back outside of myself. A girl, seventeen or eighteen at most, and a guy who looks a little older snatching her phone from her, shoving the screen in her frightened face, close enough for her to have to jerk her head backward against the wall. He’s mad about some message she’s received, demanding details, calling her names no one should be called. Nobody else has noticed, or if they have they’re not willing to intervene. I pause, feeling sick as I’m mentally thrown straight back into life with Adam. How I wish someone had intervened for me. I see the guy step uncomfortably close to her, his forearm in front of him across her shoulders, pinning her to the wall.
“Get your hands off her right now.”
The words bark out of me on instinct, and they both turn my way as I stalk toward them in the alley, unwilling to let him see my fear. He rocks his upper body back and throws his arms out to the sides as if to question who the hell I think I am, and she shakes her head, a tiny movement designed to send me on my way, telling me not to involve myself. I know that look all too well, and cobra-like fury rears up inside me, swallowing the fear.
“Mind your business, grandma,” he says, his chin coming up, all bravado and laughing. “Nothing to see here, is there, Jade?”
I step closer and a single tear rolls down her cheek as she shakes her head.
“Nothing. Honestly, it’s fine,” she whispers. “You can go.”
“Give her her phone back and get lost,” I hiss. “Or I’ll call the police. You choose.” I pull my cellphone from my back pocket. “You’ve got exactly ten seconds.”
He stares at me, desperate not to do as he’s told by a woman twice his age and a good foot shorter, but I don’t flinch a muscle. I’ve dealt with worse than you, shithead, I think, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Seven. Eight.” I tap my phone screen into life and stare him down.
He all but growls as he bares his teeth and chucks the girl’s phone on the ground as he shoulders past me.
“Stupid bitch,” he says, right down my ear.
“Eat glass,” I spit back, watching him leave.
I push my cellphone back into my pocket and turn to the girl. “Jade, right?” I pick up her phone and wipe it on my jeans before handing it back to her.
“Thanks,” she says. “I was all right, you didn’t need to do that.”
“Oh, I really did,” I say, matter-of-fact. She passes her hand down her face and I see she’s shaking. My heart rages.
“Let’s sit for a minute, give him time to bugger off.” I nod toward a couple of concrete steps leading to the side entrance of one of the stores.
“Can I tell you something?” I say, sitting alongside her.
She shrugs, hunched forward, hands clasped around her phone.
“Is it to dump him?”
“Oh God, yes. Drop him like a stone,” I say, no hesitation. “Because he won’t change. He’ll only get worse, and you’ll get more and more isolated.”
She takes a slow breath. “He doesn’t hit me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I nod. “My ex didn’t hit me either. Violence isn’t the only form of abuse. How long have you been together?”
She sits back and sighs, resting her head against the door. “Seven months. Maybe eight.” She slants a look at me. “He isn’t like that with anyone else.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “Everyone thinks he’s a right laugh.”
She nods.
“And he doesn’t like your friends, so it’s easier to just not see them.” I don’t phrase it as a question, saving her the bother of trying to defend the indefensible.
“My ex took everything from me. For the last year we were together I didn’t have a cellphone, or a bank card, or a door key. He dismantled my entire life, made me doubt myself, and I blamed myself for the way he treated me. He called me his little mouse, because I spent my days and my nights scurrying around the place trying not to do or say the wrong thing, desperate not to make him angry.”