Chapter 2
Thursday night, two days before our first secret dinner in the new house, the two of us knocked back a bottle of Red Label that Cora had bought.
We were wasted, alone in the living room.
Hugo had spent the last few hours locked in his room poring over cookbooks and in the kitchen testing recipes, Miguel had gone out with Rachel, and Piglet needed to finish the new Call of Duty.
She’d taken my phone to look for guys on Tinder, pretending she was me. She got a kick out of it.
“If there’s one thing I understand, it’s men,” she said, swiping right and left. “Check out this one: blond, cute, but he’s got a tiny dick. You can tell by the size of his thumb.”
I laughed, tucking my thumbs inside my fist. Cora laughed too and laid her head on my lap.
“Wait a minute, that one was hot!” I complained, as she continued to swipe.
“Boring. Nobody wants a heteronormative gay guy.” Cora put the phone down and looked at me. “Are you nervous?”
“A little. I’m not really sure what to expect tomorrow.”
We’d arranged to go to Umberto’s apartment to tie up loose ends for Saturday’s dinner.
“It’ll all be fine.”
“I didn’t want you to be upset about not going…”
“It’s cool,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “I trust you guys.”
“I trust you too, Cora.”
“So why don’t you tell me what’s really bothering you? I know you.”
“I was on the phone with my mom. She was asking about my job at the bookstore. I told I’m still there, that everything’s going great, that I even got a raise. I just feel more and more distant from her.”
“Don’t say that, Dante. You’re the shit,” she said, like those words were the solution to all my problems. Then she smiled at me, her eyes half-closed.
Minutes later, she was snoring on my lap.
I sat there, studying her features. For me, Cora was more than just fun or outspoken, she was mysterious.
How could she just disembowel another human being like it was no big deal?
I had always held a certain fascination for women, as if they were these immaculate, unattainable beings.
Maybe that’s why I never felt anything sexual toward them.
I got up, driven by a sudden curiosity about this woman I’d become so fond of.
I went to her bag and rummaged through its contents: lipstick, blush, toothbrush, eyeliner, coin purse, and even a pair of lace panties.
Finally, at the very bottom, I found her faded ID, her biggest secret.
The girl in the photo, born in 1993, really was Cora, but she looked more fragile, uglier, her eyes tired and her skin dull. Her name was Deusdete da Silva.