37. Allie
Allie
Three weeks. That’s how long I’ve been married to Rico Bennetti, and this marks our third official appearance as a married couple at Sunday family dinner. The novelty wore off five minutes into the first experience.
Sure, I won the battle of the ludicrous ovulation clause—no more peeing on sticks just to wait for the glow of ovulation.
But in true Rico fashion, he retaliated by ditching our once-a-week date nights.
Fair, I suppose. I scribbled out one requirement off the contract; he passed over another.
He even came home late for dinner last night.
I know he's testing my defenses and trying to irritate me.
Not that I’m really complaining. Hard to gripe when your broody husband gives you multiple orgasms every night.
He still eats dinner with me. Leaves his Post-It notes and speaks to me as seldom as possible—unless we’re having sex. Then, suddenly, the man’s a poet. Dirty words whispered in my ear, each one lighting me up inside and me whimpering for more.
Which brings me to today’s Post-It, also known as my daily neon sign of passive-aggressive passion, sitting on the counter.
Rico: I never went to school to learn what I do. Self-taught. Not bragging.
I blinked at it for a solid minute this morning. Not because the handwriting was, as always, immaculate, but because this one actually said something.
Not a government conspiracy theory against kale. Not a hot take about why kittens are the spawn of Satan. Not some useless fact such as “Sharks existed before trees.” (Yes, he actually wrote that once, and no, I did not let it go.)
This? This was real. A glimpse behind the iron fortress of Rico Bennetti.
And I hate I don’t know how to respond.
Maybe that was his goal. To throw me off my game. To silence the bratty brief responses I leave every day. He probably figured if he tossed me something personal, I'd move on.
Cute. He must’ve forgotten who he married.
Balance is the foundation of our marriage.
I executed the ovulation tests. He murdered date nights.
He leaves passive-aggressive Post-Its instead of speaking like a normal human, and I write back because, unlike him, I don’t believe in the silent treatment.
I know why he does it. Post-Its don’t invite conversation.
He gets to lob his little fact grenade, and I get to reply after he’s safely out of range.
No talking. No eye contact. Just sarcasm on paper.
And yet, here I am, pen poised, brain suspended.
The worst part? The man’s home.
For three weeks, Rico’s been gone every morning before I wake up. Every single one. I roll over, sheets cold, body sore, and house unoccupied. He returns like clockwork for dinner, screws me senseless, and ghosts the bed before sunrise like it’s his side hustle.
But this morning, I stumbled out of his room, half-asleep and craving coffee, only to freeze in the hallway outside his office.
The unmistakable click of a keyboard.
His door was closed. Locked, probably. But the man himself? Home. Not at work.
Seven days a week, he drags himself to the office, likely to avoid sharing oxygen with me. And yet, today, he was here.
I spent the day pretending not to care. Cleaned the already immaculate house. Did laundry. Rearranged the spice cabinet alphabetically, then by color because apparently, I’m now the woman who gets emotionally wrecked by Post-It notes and copes with paprika.
He didn’t appear until three, stretching with the slow, predatory ease of a six-foot-three jungle cat shaking off hibernation. I stood at the kitchen island, piping the last swirl of ricotta into the cannoli I planned to bring to dinner, and when I glanced up—there he was.
Watching me.
I smiled. He glared.
Then, without a word, he pivoted and stalked off to his room, probably to shower and mentally prepare for another thrilling evening of pretending not to hear me talk.
God, I married the human equivalent of a grumpy house cat. Only affectionate when it suits him. Prime reasons I abhor cats.
I pull the Post-It from my pocket, staring at it once more. It means nothing, right? It’s just another one of Rico’s cryptic little love notes. (And by “love,” I mean the bare minimum effort required to acknowledge my existence.)
I haven’t responded yet, mostly because he hasn’t left his cave all day.
Not once. If he’s not working, he’s hiding, and I’ve stopped trying to figure out which is which.
But screw it. I grab the pen from the drawer—the one he’s stuffed with enough Post-Its to suggest this “communication” system isn’t temporary.
Allie: I took culinary classes, but only to learn proper French techniques. Not bragging either.
I slap the note next to the coffeepot because caffeine is the only reason Rico functions, and I know he’ll see it.
Sighing, I wrap the tray of cannolis I’m contributing to Sunday dinner. My eyes flick back to the note, then to the hallway.
Every Sunday, we arrive at his parents’ house like awkward prom dates who forgot to coordinate.
Separate cars. He drives his two-seater death trap; I hitch a ride with Vinnie. We leave at the same time, pull up within seconds of each other, and pretend it’s totally normal. Nothing about this is normal.
No one mentions it, but the raised eyebrows from his mom are louder than a foghorn. Like I don’t already know how ridiculous it is. We live together, yet can’t handle being in a confined space together for a forty-minute drive?
The soft rap of knuckles against the garage door pulls me from my thoughts. Vinnie steps inside, mouth open to say something, but he stops short, eyes flicking past me. I follow his gaze and—holy hell.
Rico.
Damp hair. Black jeans. White T-shirt. Oh, and my wet panties.
Why the hell does a basic outfit appear as if sin personally stitched it together just to ruin me?
It’s infuriating. He’s wealthier than half the city, yet he dresses as if he’s about to fix a leaky faucet, then pose for a GQ feature immediately after. I wouldn’t be surprised if his wedding tux was the first—and only—time he’s worn a suit.
Not that I’m unfamiliar with his wardrobe. I snooped. The man is a walking enigma, and I’m only human. I found exactly three suits. That’s it. Meanwhile, my dad’s closet rivaled a Brooks Brothers flagship, and Vinnie treats his Armani rotation like a gym uniform.
Violet once mentioned he shows up to board meetings in jeans and a Henley, and no one dares to criticize. His robotic, passive-aggressive dismissal is probably why they know better.
“We can ride together.”
His voice snaps me back to reality. He doesn’t look up as he fastens his watch, treating the idea of sharing a confined space with his wife with the same enthusiasm as asking if I want extra cheese on my pizza.
I blink. “Together? As in… your car?”
The last time we were in a car together was on our wedding night. No one needs to tell me how messed up that is. I’m achingly aware.
Rico caps his sparkling — that’s right, I won that one — bottle of water with surgical precision and levels me with a look.
Nodding once, he pulls his keys from his pocket.
Vinnie glances between us, brows knitted.
“Should we all go in the sedan?” I gesture to Vinnie. You know, the man who routinely chauffeurs me around. Honestly, I can't recall a time he didn't drive me. “Save gas. Help the environment. World peace and all that.”
Rico shakes his head, pocketing his keys. “He’s riding with Antonio.”
Vinnie and I exchange looks, equally baffled.
“I guess I’ll see you there, then…” Vinnie mutters, already pulling out his phone. Probably to text Antonio or draft an SOS. Both seem appropriate.
I, however, remain rooted to the spot, staring at my husband—the man who’s dodged anything remotely mirroring quality time for three solid weeks.
Without another word, he snags the tray of cannolis off the counter and heads toward the garage. Am I the only one noticing he flipped the script on our entire dysfunctional routine?
Vinnie’s smiles and mouths, Good luck, bambolina.