Chapter 10 Santino #3
"I'm a realist. I believe in being practical about these things." She takes another bite, then pauses. "This osso buco is seriously incredible though. Do you cook like this often?"
"No. This was special."
"You should cook more often. You're really talented at it." She pauses, setting down her fork. "Oh! Speaking of which, we should probably figure out a system."
"A system for what?"
"For when I'm here regularly. Like, should I bring my own food? There’s plenty of room in your refrigerator. Or will you cook? Or should we cook together?" She's warming to this topic with obvious enthusiasm. "I could make Sunday dinner sometimes. When I'm living here."
"You're not living here," I say firmly.
"We're getting married, Santo. Where else would I live after the wedding? Do you expect me to still live with my parents when we’re married?"
"We haven't discussed living arrangements. Nothing is decided."
"Well, we should discuss it! We need to figure these things out soon." She sets down her fork. "Should I sell my car? Or keep it? Do you have parking here for two vehicles?"
"We're not discussing this now. Not during dinner."
"When should we discuss it then?"
"Later. Much later."
"How much later? Because time is running out." She picks up her wine glass and takes a long sip. "Oh! And I'll need a key. Or a code. However, your building works."
I choke on my wine, the liquid going down wrong. "A what?"
"A key. So, I can come and go freely." She says it like it's completely reasonable. "You know, when I need to bring more stuff over. Or if I want to surprise you with something nice. I could make dinner for you sometime. As a surprise."
"No."
"No to dinner? Or no to the key?"
"Both. Absolutely both."
"That seems unreasonable. We're engaged, Santo. I should have access to your home. It's going to be my home too."
"You should have access when I'm here to let you in personally."
"What if you're not here and I need something? Like if I left my phone charger here? Or my favorite sweater? Or I need to pick something up?"
"Then you wait until I'm home. You text me and wait."
"That's not right." She finishes her wine with one long swallow. "I'll need a key eventually anyway. Why not just give it to me now and save us the trouble later?"
"Because you're not moving in!" I realize I'm raising my voice.
"Not yet," she says again. "But the key would make things easier for both of us. More convenient."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what exactly?"
"All of this. The containers of products. The questions about keys and closet space. The planning to move in. What are you actually doing?"
She looks at me with those big, innocent eyes that I'm starting to realize might not be innocent at all. "I'm preparing for our marriage. Isn't that what I'm supposed to do as your future wife?"
"This isn't preparing. This is invading my personal space."
"Invading?" She looks genuinely hurt. "I'm just trying to be practical. We're getting married in a month. Shouldn't we start merging our lives now? Getting used to living together?"
"Merging is different from taking over everything."
"I'm not taking over! I'm just making sure I have what I need here when I need it." She stands gracefully, bringing her empty plate to the sink. "That was delicious, by the way. Thank you for cooking. You really are talented."
She starts washing her plate without asking, just takes over at my sink.
"You don't have to do that," I say, following her to the kitchen.
"I don't mind! I should help clean up. That's what partners do." She's looking around my kitchen, opening drawers. "Where do you keep your dish soap? Never mind, found it."
She washes her plate, then reaches for mine without asking.
I stand and bring my plate to her, our hands brushing when I hand it over. She doesn't react at all. No pause. No acknowledgment of the contact.
Like yesterday's kiss never happened. Like there's nothing between us.
I step closer, deliberately invading her space. Close enough that she should notice.
"Liana." My voice is low.
"Hmm?" She's scrubbing my plate.
"Look at me."
She glances up briefly. "Yes? Do you need something?"
I'm standing very close now, my body nearly touching hers. This proximity should mean something to her.
"You're standing very close," she observes matter-of-factly. "Am I in your way? Do you need something from this cabinet behind me?"
She's doing this on purpose. She has to be. This deliberate obliviousness can't be real.
"No. I don't need anything from the cabinet."
"Oh. Okay then." She goes back to washing, completely unfazed by my proximity.
I don't move. I'm still close, testing her, trying to get some reaction.
"Santo, you're kind of in my space," she says without looking up. "Can you hand me that dish towel?"
I hand her the towel.
She dries the plates, then moves to put them away. She opens the wrong cabinet.
"That's not where those go."
"Where do they go then?" she asks.
I reach around her to open the correct cabinet, my arm brushing hers, my chest nearly touching her back. I'm surrounding her, giving her every opportunity to acknowledge the physical tension between us.
Still nothing. No reaction whatsoever.
"Oh, there. Got it." She puts the plates away. "You should label your cabinets. Would make things much easier for anyone using the kitchen. I’ll bring my label maker next time."
"I know where everything is. That's sufficient."
"But I don't. Not yet anyway." She closes the cabinet and turns, forcing me to step back. "When I move in, I'll need to learn your system. Or maybe we can create a new system together. One that makes sense for both of us."
She walks past me, back toward the living room. "Do you have a vacuum? I should clean up before I leave."
"Clean up what? Nothing is messy. Everything is clean."
"Still, it’s good to know where it is. For when I'm here regularly and need to help maintain the place."
She's wandering through my apartment now, opening closets, checking rooms, exploring without permission.
"This could be my office," she says, standing in my guest room. "Or a nursery eventually. We haven't talked about kids yet. Do you want kids?"
"Liana—" I start to protest.
"I think I want two. Maybe three. Not right away, obviously. But eventually, in a few years." She turns to face me, completely serious. "What about you? Have you thought about how many children you want?"
I'm not discussing children with her while she's actively reorganizing my life without permission.
"We should talk about this later. Much later."
"Why? These are important questions that engaged couples should discuss."
"Because right now, you're trying to move into my house without actually asking permission first."
"I asked!" she protests.
"No. You showed up with containers and started unpacking. That's not asking."
"Same thing. Implied consent." She walks past me yet again, still exploring. "Where's your washer and dryer? I'll need to know for doing laundry when I stay over."
"Liana." I catch her arm, stopping her mid-stride. "Stop. Just stop."
She looks up at me with those dark eyes. "Stop what?"
"All of this. The unpacking. The questions about living arrangements. The planning our entire future." I'm still holding her arm, aware of how soft her skin is. "What are you actually doing?"
"I told you. I'm preparing for our marriage."
"This isn't preparing. This is something else entirely."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. That's what I'm trying to figure out."
She looks at my hand on her arm, then back at my face, her expression unreadable.
"You're very tense," she observes calmly.
"I'm frustrated," I admit.
"Why?"
"Because you're—" I stop, struggling to articulate what she's doing to me.
"Because I'm what?" she prompts when I don't continue.
Because you're driving me insane. Because you're taking over my space and my thoughts. Because you're ignoring every signal I'm sending you. Because I still want to kiss you even though you're making me absolutely crazy.
"You’re complicated," I finally say.
"Is that a bad thing?"
"I don't know yet. I haven't decided."
She smiles then, a real smile this time. Then she slips free from my grip.
"I should go," she says, glancing at the clock. "It's getting late."
"What about all your stuff?" I gesture at the containers still in my entryway.
"Oh, I'll leave it here. I'll need it next time I come over anyway." She's already heading for the door. "Thanks for dinner! It was really wonderful. You're an amazing cook."
"Liana, you can't just leave all of this—"
"I'll text you tomorrow!" She grabs her purse from the entry table. "We should discuss schedules. Figure out when I should come back. Maybe this weekend?"
"This weekend?" The words come out strangled.
"Yeah! We could spend the whole day together. Here. In your place." She opens the door, pausing in the threshold. "Our place, really. Oh, and think about that key situation. It would really be helpful for both of us."
"I'm not giving you a key. That's final."
"Not yet," she says with that knowing smile. "But you will eventually. I'm patient."
Then she's gone, the door closing behind her with a soft click.
I stand in my doorway, staring at the evidence of her invasion. The containers stacked in my entryway. The garment bag I know is hanging in my closet among my suits. The army of beauty products that has overtaken my bathroom counter and drawers.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. She’s barely had time to make it to her car.
Liana: Thank you again for dinner! You're an amazing cook! Can't wait to do it again! Maybe Friday?
Three exclamation points. Always three exclamation points. It's her signature.
I walk to my bathroom, needing to see the damage for myself. The counter is completely covered with bottles and jars and tubes in every color imaginable. My clean, minimalist space has been transformed into a war zone.
I open the drawers. Makeup brushes. Cosmetics. Tools I can't even identify.
I walk to my closet. Her garment bag hangs among my suits like it belongs there, like it has every right to invade my personal space.
I return to my living room and pour myself a drink. A large one. Neat whiskey, no ice.
My phone buzzes again.
Liana: Oh! What's your building's WI-FI password? I'll need it for when I'm here. Thanks!
I stare at the message, then at my apartment. My invaded, reorganized, no-longer-entirely-mine apartment.
She's doing this on purpose. She has to be doing this deliberately.
But why? What's her endgame?
And more importantly: why do I still want to see her again despite all of this chaos she's bringing into my carefully ordered life?
I type back reluctantly: Friday is fine.
Her response is immediate, like she was waiting: Perfect! I'll bring more things! See you then!
More things. More invasion. More chaos.
Fuck me.
I stare out at the city lights.
I'm starting to think I won't survive this.