Chapter 2
SAVANNAH
“Thank you!” I call to the Uber driver as I step onto the broken sidewalk.
The door to my building is decorated with a glowing wreath, the banister wrapped in a string of Christmas lights, thanks to the first floor residents.
They’re a family of six in a two bedroom apartment.
I don’t know how they do it, but I rarely hear the eight-month-old twins even cry.
Even now, just after nine, the only sound echoing in the tiny foyer area is laughter.
The building has seen better days, but I love every inch of it. Especially the people inside.
The Donovans live on the first floor. John is a fire fighter. When he’s not on shift, he’s busy with the kids. His wife Erin is a pediatric nurse. They work opposite shifts to save on childcare, yet every time I see them together, they’re smiling.
I pause outside their door, letting the happiness that spills out into the hallway soak into my bones.
The television is on, but I can still make out the voices of both parents.
If I had to guess, Erin is headed to work in an hour or so.
She probably just woke up and is spending a little time with the kids before she leaves.
“Come on Pip,” John says. Piper recently turned four. “It’s time for bed.”
“Can we fly there?” she asks, her high-pitched voice so sweet.
I watch her and her siblings on occasion.
Once in a while, when one parent is running late and the other has to leave for work, they call me and I’ll pop down to help out.
That little girl in particular has a ton of energy and a lot to say.
My kind of girl, obviously.
“A jet or a bird tonight?” he replies.
He never says no. God, what that must be like. When I was growing up, my house was either extremely loud or extremely quiet. Loud because my father was yelling, or quiet because I was home alone.
My father believed children should be seen, not heard. Maybe not even seen, honestly. He left when I was eleven.
My mother? She fought. Fought with him. Fought to keep him. Berated me for being the reason she was stuck with him.
“If only you hadn’t been his.” She said it often. As if it was my fault that she’d cheated on her boyfriend and had gotten knocked up by the man she didn’t want.
With a breath out, I step back from the Donovans’ door and trudge up the stairs. Thinking about my parents always puts a damper on my mood so I try not to do it often. Twice in one night is well beyond my usual limit. I typically try not to think of them more than twice in a month.
The smell of garlic and tomato sauce hits me as I round the steps onto the second floor. The nightly news blares from inside the apartment, but Rosalie is louder.
“That boy was always bad news,” she says in that thick Italian Boston accent that always makes me smile.
“Huh?” her husband Nick says.
I try not to laugh as they bicker. It’s the same argument they always have. She tells him that he needs hearing aids. He tells her he can hear her just fine.
“You can’t hear me at all!”
“Exactly! Just like I like it.”
She curses at him in Italian, and then the sound of the TV cuts out.
Shit. Now that the building is silent, I have to tip toe by their door. I’ve almost made it to the next set of stairs, the floorboards barely creaking, when the door swings open and I’m yanked inside their cozy apartment.
“Have you eaten?” Rosalie asks. “You don’t look like you’ve eaten. Nick doesn’t Savannah look hungry, go get her a drink while I make her a plate.”
Her hair is so blond it’s nearly white, but her eyebrows are thick and dark.
As she surveys me, they rise in excitement.
She’s always excited. Sometimes it’s from anger, sometimes because she’s been given the opportunity to feed another person.
Either way her energy is always high. I absolutely love it.
Even the anger. This woman’s ire is rarely mean spirited.
Or maybe I just like the sound of her voice when she rants in Italian.
Nick grumbles from the couch. Then he heaves himself forward.
It takes him three tries to stand up but when he does he breaks into a face-splitting smile.
His hair is black, with streaks of silver.
His mustache too. He wears suspenders, a button down shirt and pressed pants every day.
He also reeks of cheap cologne and garlic. Always.
“Chianti?” He shuffles to the bar where he’s always got a jug of red wine.
“I’m really not hungry or thirsty,” I tell them. All I want right now is to climb into my bed and prepare for tomorrow’s meeting with Sienna.
But turning them down is pointless. I’ve never made it out of their apartment without indulging. Not that it’s a hardship. No one makes a meatball like Rosalie. Or a zeppole. Zeppole are my ultimate indulgence. The powdered sugar. The fried dough. The ricotta custard filling.
Just thinking about them makes my mouth water. I search her kitchen, looking for evidence of a fresh batch. I have to do it covertly, though, because if she catches me and she doesn’t have any on hand, she’ll insist on making some for me, and I’ll be here all night.
“None of that.” She waves a hand and scurries to the stove, where a pot of red sauce is still simmering. She doesn’t microwave food–she doesn’t even own a microwave–which is ironic since I live on frozen food.
Within seconds of entering the apartment I’ve been shooed into a kitchen chair that’s covered in plastic that scrunches as I settle and a heaping plate of pasta, meatballs, ricotta and a piece of bread is placed in front of me.
Nick slides a glass of wine across the table and settles opposite me. Then the two of them watch me, eagerly waiting for me to take my first bite.
I know the drill. I pick up my silverware and cut into a meatball, savoring the first bite. When I plaster on a smile, telling them how delicious it is—it really is, despite my lack of excitement—they launch into their usual line of questioning, talking over one another.
“How was your day, amor?” Rosalie asks as Nick says, “Did you take that car service again?”
That car service is Uber, and even though it’s been around for a decade and a half by now and every driver is vetted and tracked by their app, he still swears taxis are safer.
“Yes, I took an Uber home because I still don’t have a car—”
Nick tsks at that.
“And my day was good. I spent it with the girls.”
Rosalie nods, her nearly white curls held in place by a ridiculous amount of hairspray, I’m sure. “What about that boy you went out with last week—” she looks at Nick, “the mechanic you set her up with, what’s his name?”
“Alfonso.” Nick angles forward, scrutinizing me. “He says you cancelled.”
“I’m not dating.” I shovel another bite of food into my mouth, cursing myself for hesitating at their door. I should have rushed up to my apartment before they figured out I was home.
By “not dating,” what I mean is I’m not dating Rosalie’s cousin’s nephew or their godson’s grandson, or Nick’s barber’s best friend’s son. The Donadios mean well but none of those men are my type.
I’m sure there are good men out there. Men like John Donovan on the first floor. Some might even be related to the Donadios or one of their acquaintances. But I’m not meant for that kind of relationship. I wouldn’t know what to do with it if I found it.
I like my quiet life upstairs. My girls nights. My vibrators.
I’m far less likely to be disappointed by others if I stick to relying only on myself.
“She’s not dating,” Rosalie parrots, shaking her head.
“She just hasn’t met him,” Nick says to her like I’m not even here.
“No, she hasn’t met her Nico.” With a warm smile, she brushes her hand against his cheek.
They’ve been married for sixty-two years and still he looks at her with pure affection and she touches him like she can’t help it.
That doesn’t seem like the worst thing in the world.
With a shake of my head, I focus on my food. Unlike Sutton I don’t believe that a love like that is bound to find me.