Chapter 27
CASH
The sun was setting, turning the courtyard into something out of a painting I would have paid obscene money for if I’d seen it in a gallery. It was wild to think people actually got to see this on the daily. They probably didn’t even see the beauty of it because they’d seen it a hundred times.
But Cleo and I couldn’t seem to leave. We’d been here for three hours.
I checked my watch a couple of times. We were supposed to have made appearances to prove my engaged status, but I didn’t want to leave. And I no longer cared about making an impression. Watching her enjoy the place was far better.
I was warm and I could feel my shirt sticking to my back, but I didn’t care. My hair was probably a disaster. I kept running my hands through it, which was a terrible habit I’d broken myself of years ago, but I felt nervous.
I was buzzed. Not drunk. That was sloppy and put me at risk of doing something that jeopardized my reputation and the family name.
My brothers could get away with that shit but not me.
I felt loose in a way I hadn’t felt since…
I couldn’t actually remember when. She wasn’t suggesting we leave and I didn’t want to bring it up.
I promised her sightseeing but she seemed to be perfectly content to stay in the courtyard.
The wine kept coming. So did the food. Little plates of cheese and cured meats and olives and bread that our waiter brought without us asking. We were sitting at the table, occupying space, and that meant we were supposed to be eating. I was fine with that.
Our waiter had taken a shine to Cleo almost immediately. She was an easy person to like for most people. I seemed to be the only that had disliked her at our first meeting. She was just not my normal cup of tea. She was loud. Bold. And just Cleo.
It wasn’t just our waiter that seemed to be drawn to Cleo. When we’d first sat down, the staff had been cool, professional but distant, the way service industry people were when they clocked you as tourists with money and decided you probably weren’t worth the effort.
But Cleo had asked our waiter’s name—Luca—and then actually used it. Had complimented the wine selection. Had asked where he was from, and when he’d said Calabria, she had gone wide-eyed and told him she’d been dying to go there, what was it like, should she visit in the spring or the fall?
By the time the second bottle arrived, Luca was bringing her samples of things that weren’t on the menu and telling her about his grandmother’s restaurant in Tropea. Now, every time one of the servers passed our table, they smiled.
She made everything better, I realized. Even people.
I watched her across the table. She was in the middle of a story, gesturing wildly with a piece of bread in one hand and her wine glass in the other.
She was so animated that she didn’t notice she was about to knock over the olive oil.
I reached out and moved it before disaster struck. She didn’t even pause.
“So I’m eight years old,” she was saying. “And I begged my parents for a pet. Begged them. I wanted a cat but my dad’s allergic, so we compromised on a hamster.”
“Compromised,” I repeated.
“Shh, I’m telling a story.” She pointed the bread at me. “So we go to the pet store and I pick out this adorable little hamster. White and brown, very fluffy, extremely cute. And I name her Francesca.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Like our tour guide?”
“Purely coincidental. Anyway, I loved this hamster. I cleaned her cage every week, I bought her the fanciest hamster wheel, I read to her and told her all about my day when I got home from school.”
“You read to your hamster.”
“She had excellent taste in literature.” Cleo took a sip of wine. “But then a few months go by and I notice Francesca is looking a little different. Specifically, she’s growing these enormous testicles.”
I choked on my wine.
“I’m talking huge,” Cleo continued, completely deadpan. “Like, disproportionately large. Bigger than his head. I was horrified.”
I was laughing so hard I had to set my glass down. “You didn’t notice when you bought him?”
“I was eight! I didn’t know what I was looking for!
” She was laughing too now, that snorting laugh that she tried to hide behind her hand.
“So I go running to my mom like, ‘Mom, something’s wrong with Francesca!’ And she takes one look and sighed like I told her the sky was falling.
” Cleo dissolved into giggles. “She just says, very calmly, ‘Honey, I think Francesca is a boy.’”
“What did you do?”
“I changed his name to Franklin immediately. Gave him a proper masculine identity to match his massive hamster balls.” She took another drink, still grinning. “He lived for three more years. Very happy life. Extremely well-endowed. Now, as an adult, I feel bad for him.”
“Why?”
“He had those big balls and no lady hamsters to show them off to.”
“You’re under the impression males can only be happy if we’re showing them our testicles?”
She shrugged nonchalantly. “Is it not true?”
“Do women need to show their boobs?”
Another very casual shrug. “We don’t mind showing a little cleavage.”
“No. Men do not need to flash their balls to be happy. I’m sure your little hamster wouldn’t have minded getting laid, but I’m not a hamster. I don’t know hamster libidos.”
She burst into laughter. It was clear she was feeling the wine.
Her laughter made me laugh. I couldn’t remember the last time I laughed.
Like really laughed. Her energy was infectious.
She had a way of disarming and stripping people down to their basest selves.
The people we are when we’re not pretending or allowing stress to weigh us down.
“What about you?” Cleo asked, leaning forward. “What was your first pet?”
“I didn’t have one.”
Her face fell. “What? Never?”
“Never.”
“Not even a goldfish?”
“Not even a goldfish.”
She looked genuinely distressed by this information. “Cash, that’s so sad.”
“Is it?”
“Yes!” She put down her glass and frowned. “You had all that property. All those brothers. You could have had dogs, cats, horses. Anything. What’s the point of being obscenely wealthy if you can’t even get a dog?”
I’d never thought about it that way. “We were busy.”
“Busy.” She said it like I’d just told her I was too busy to breathe. “You were a kid. Kids aren’t supposed to be busy. They’re supposed to have dogs and get in trouble and track mud all over expensive carpets.”
“We had expensive carpets.”
“Did you track mud on them?”
“No. Not me. My brothers did.”
“See? That’s the problem.” She pointed at me accusingly. “You needed a dog. A big messy one who didn’t respect the rules. A dog that you got into trouble with.”
I smiled. “You sound very passionate about this.”
“I am passionate about this. Every kid deserves a dog.” She sat back, arms crossed. “Tell me you at least wanted one. When you were little.”
Had I? I tried to remember. There had been a period—maybe around seven or eight—when one of my friends had gotten a golden retriever puppy, and I’d spent an entire summer visiting just to play with the dog.
I’d asked my father about it once. He’d said dogs were too much work, too much mess, too much liability. I’d never asked again.
“I suppose I did,” I admitted. “For a while.”
“And they said no.”
“They said no.”
Cleo’s expression softened. “That sucks.”
“It wasn’t—” I paused. “It was fine. I got over it.”
“Did you, though?” She was studying me. I had the distinct impression that she knew exactly what kind of kid I’d been. The one who learned not to ask for things. The one who learned that wanting was inefficient. I was the one managing my brothers’ wants and a few of them had a lot of wants.
“Why don’t you have a dog now?” I asked, deflecting.
She let me. “Too busy. My apartment doesn’t allow them anyway.”
“You could move.”
“I could,” she agreed. “But I won’t. Not yet, anyway.
When I have a dog, I want to do it right.
Yard. Time. The whole thing.” She smiled, distant now, like she was seeing something I couldn’t.
“When I settle down. Have a family. Then I’ll get my dog.
My dog is going to need kids to play with and guard.
Someone who’ll throw the ball and paint their nails. ”
“Paint the dog’s nails?”
“Of course. A good dog would allow it. And I’ll scold my daughter for painting the dog’s nails. It’ll be a funny story I tell my husband when he gets home from work.”
“You want kids,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
“At least one.” She was turning her wine glass in her hands, watching the light move through the red liquid.
“Maybe more. I’ll know after the first one if I want to go for round two.
The first one might drive me crazy. Although I’ve always heard the first one is easy and lulls you into thinking parenting isn’t so hard so you go for that second.
The second one is going to rock your world so you think the third one will balance things out. ”
I glanced down at the ring catching the light. The fake engagement ring. She hadn’t taken it off. I watched her thumb move over it absently, like she’d forgotten it was there, like it had already become part of her.
“What about you?” she asked. “Kids?”
“I haven’t thought about it much.”
“Liar.”
I looked up. She was smiling at me, knowing and a little bit sad.
“Maybe a liar,” I conceded.
“You’d be a good dad.”
That stopped me. “You think so?”
“Yeah.” She said it simply, like it was obvious. “You’re patient. You’re protective. You care about people even when you pretend you don’t.” She paused. “You held a baby and didn’t immediately hand it off to the nearest woman.”
“That was Kent’s daughter.”
“Still counts. And you’re the oldest in a huge family. You’ve basically been parenting your whole life. I would think growing up in such a large family, you’d want the same.”
I snorted. “Don’t you think growing up in a zoo would make me want quiet?”
“Nah. You can pretend it was crazy, but I know you loved it.”
I did. Kind of. There were days I wanted to run away. A few times I actually did, but I always went back.
“I always thought I’d have it figured out by now,” I said. “The marriage thing. The family thing. I’m forty.”
“So?”
“So I’m behind schedule.”
Cleo laughed. “You can’t put marriage and kids on a spreadsheet, Lurch.”
“Why not?”
“Because life doesn’t work that way. It just… happens. When it’s supposed to.”
I frowned. “That sounds inefficient.”
“It is inefficient. It’s messy and unpredictable.”
“And after the kids?” I asked. “What then?”
“Oh, I’m going to be amazing. Purple hair down to my ass. Eccentric outfits that make people uncomfortable. Like, fur coats in July. Sequined caftans. Hats with feathers. Bright. Lots of noise.”
“Hats with feathers,” I repeated.
She sipped more wine. “And I’m going to hang out at thrift stores just to mess with teenagers. Hide in the coat racks and jump out. Follow them around offering unsolicited fashion advice.”
“You’re going to terrorize children.”
“I’m going to educate them. There’s a difference. They’re going to see me living my best life in full technicolor and think that’s the way to be.”
“You think?”
“Absolutely. I’ll be a beloved local fixture. They’ll tell stories about me.” She took another sip. “What about you? What’s old man Cash look like?”
I considered. “I’ve never thought about it.”
“Think about it now.”
I tried to picture it. Me at seventy, eighty. I’d always just assumed I’d be doing the same thing I’d been doing—working, managing, running the empire my father would eventually leave to all of us. But that felt hollow now.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly.
“That’s sad.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah. You should have a vision. Something to look forward to. Something to work toward.”
Luca appeared with another plate, something with prosciutto and figs that I absolutely had not ordered. He winked at Cleo and disappeared.
“You’ve adopted a waiter.”
“He’s delightful. We’re best friends now.”
“You’ve been here three hours.”
“Some friendships move fast.” She popped a fig in her mouth. “God, that’s good. Try one.”
I did. She was right.
I didn’t know what was happening to me. I felt like I was walking in someone else’s shoes. Someone that liked color. It couldn’t be me. I was black and white and, if I was feeling spicy, gray. Never purple.
So why did I want to run out and buy a purple shirt? Purple tie? Purple socks?