Chapter 14 Santino
I've been thinking about Tuesday night constantly.
Days of replaying every moment in my mind with obsessive detail. The poker game and her dramatic entrance. That barely-there red dress. The car and what happened in the backseat. The way she just walked away afterward like it meant absolutely nothing.
Like it was nothing at all.
Tonight, I'm getting answers. No more games, no more deflection. We're going to talk about this like adults.
I ordered dinner from Trattoria Centrale—nothing particularly fancy, just good, honest food that doesn't require me to spend hours cooking.
Pasta, a good bottle of wine, tiramisu for dessert.
We're eating here at my place, in my apartment, where we can actually have a real conversation without interruptions or drivers or privacy partitions.
She arrives at exactly seven o'clock. For once in her life, she's actually on time.
She's wearing jeans and a soft sweater, casual and comfortable. Her dark hair is down, falling loose around her shoulders. She looks beautiful and completely normal, which somehow makes me more nervous than if she'd shown up in something outrageous.
"Hi!" She kisses my cheek in greeting, warm and familiar. "Something smells amazing in here."
"I ordered from Trattoria Centrale."
"Oh, I love that place! Their carbonara is incredible." She sets down her bag—a large canvas tote that looks surprisingly heavy. "Should I open the wine? I'm pretty good at it."
"Sure, go ahead."
She busies herself with the wine while I plate the food. Carbonara for her, amatriciana for me. Simple dishes, classic preparations, nothing complicated.
We sit at my dining table across from each other. She takes a bite of her pasta, makes an appreciative sound that makes my stomach tighten.
"This is absolutely delicious."
"It's good, right?" I'm stalling, I know I am. "They use guanciale from this specific farm in Umbria that—"
"Santo." She sets down her fork and looks at me directly. "You're nervous about something."
"I'm not nervous." The denial is automatic.
"You're talking about guanciale sourcing." She smiles knowingly. "You only talk about food in excessive detail when you're avoiding something. What's wrong?"
She's right. Damn it, she's absolutely right.
"Fine. I want to talk about Tuesday night. About what happened."
"The poker game?" She takes another bite, seemingly unconcerned. "I already apologized for interrupting. I know it was inappropriate."
"Not the poker game itself. After that. What happened after."
"After?" She tilts her head, looking genuinely confused. Or expertly pretending to be confused. I can't tell anymore.
"In the car, Liana. What happened in the car."
"Oh!" Her cheeks flush with a delicate pink color. "Right. That."
"Yes. That." I lean back in my chair, watching her carefully. "You left afterward. Just walked away like it was nothing."
"I had volunteering in the morning. Dorothy depends on me."
"That's not why you left, and we both know it."
She's quiet for a moment, studying her pasta like it contains the secrets of the universe. "What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to tell me what that was. What we're doing here. What this is between us."
"We're engaged. We're getting married in a few weeks. We're... getting to know each other?" She says it like a question, uncertain.
"Is that what you call it? Getting to know each other?"
"What would you call it?" She challenges back.
"I don't know. That's exactly why I'm asking you."
She sets down her fork with deliberate care, reaching for her wine glass. She takes a long sip, clearly gathering her thoughts. "Okay. You're right. We should talk about this honestly."
Relief floods through me. Finally, we're getting somewhere. "Good. Because I think we need to establish some boundaries, some understanding of—"
"I made a plan." She stands abruptly, walking to her tote bag.
"A plan?" I watch her with growing concern.
"Yes. For going forward, for our future together." She pulls out a laptop from her bag. "I put together some materials to help us communicate better. Do you mind if I use your table?"
"Materials? What kind of materials?"
But she's already opening the laptop. The screen faces directly toward me.
It's a PowerPoint presentation with professional formatting.
The title slide reads in bold letters: PHYSICAL INTIMACY SCHEDULE - MARCELLO MARRIAGE
I stare at it, my brain struggling to process what I'm seeing. "What is that?"
"A schedule for our physical relationship." She clicks to the next slide with obvious enthusiasm. "I've been thinking a lot about our intimate life together, and I realized we need structure. Organization. Clear expectations."
The next slide is a detailed calendar, color-coded with different shaded time blocks.
"See? Tuesdays at 9am, Thursdays at 8pm, and Saturday mornings if you book in advance through the online system I'm setting up.
" She points to different colored blocks with genuine excitement.
"Blue is for scheduled intimacy. Green is for spontaneous encounters if we both agree.
Red is blocked off for my cycle, obviously. "
I can't speak. My brain has completely stopped processing information.
"I know 9am on Tuesday seems early," she continues earnestly, "but I read an article in a women's magazine that said morning intimacy increases productivity and improves mood for the entire day.
And Tuesdays are ideal because we're both fresh from the weekend but not too tired yet from the work week. "
"You scheduled sex," I finally manage to say. "On a spreadsheet. With time blocks."
"It's more of a calendar system with an integrated booking feature, but yes.
I think it's important to plan these things carefully.
Especially after marriage." She clicks to another slide with obvious pride.
"I also built in buffer time for spontaneity, but I'll need 24 hours advance notice for anything outside the scheduled windows. "
"Twenty-four-hours notice." I'm just repeating her words now, unable to form original thoughts.
"For spontaneous intimacy, yes. That way I can prepare myself mentally and physically. Maybe do some grooming, pick out nice lingerie, that sort of thing."
I'm having a stroke. I must be having a stroke. This can't be real.
"Liana—"
"Oh, and I have a cancellation policy." Another slide appears. "If you need to cancel within 12 hours of a scheduled time, we'll need to reschedule within the same week to maintain our intimacy quota. Otherwise, it rolls over to the next month's availability."
"Next month's availability." My brain has completely given up trying to understand.
"Exactly! I'm so glad you understand the system." She beams at me with genuine pleasure. "Now, let's talk about birth control options."
"Let's absolutely not do that."
"We should!" She pulls out an actual physical folder from her bag. "I did extensive research. Here's a detailed comparison chart."
She spreads papers across my dining table like she's presenting a business proposal. Actual printed charts with graphs and bullet points and footnotes.
"IUD pros: long-term protection, low maintenance, highly effective.
Cons: insertion discomfort, possible side effects like cramping.
" She points to different sections of her chart.
"Birth control pills: more control over my cycle, but requires daily commitment and remembering.
The implant is interesting—goes in your arm, lasts three years, very effective—"
"Liana, we don't need to discuss this right now over dinner."
"We don't? But we're getting married in less than a month. We should decide before the wedding night so we're prepared." She pulls out another sheet with even more detail. "Unless you prefer condoms? I made a comparison of brands with ratings. Durex versus Trojan versus Skyn versus—"
"Fuck." I stand up abruptly, walking to the window to escape. "Can we not do this over dinner?"
"Oh! Sorry, is this bad timing?" She checks her watch with concern. "Should I have scheduled this discussion? I can put it on the calendar for next week—"
"The calendar is the problem!"
"The calendar is the solution," she corrects me earnestly. "Without structure, how will we maintain a healthy intimate life? Communication and planning are key."
I turn to face her, trying to understand. "Most couples don't schedule sex like business meetings with cancellation policies."
"Well, maybe they should. Think about it—no miscommunication, no disappointment from mismatched expectations, no arguments about frequency. Everything is clear and organized." She taps the laptop screen enthusiastically. "I even color-coded by activity type to make it easier."
"Activity type?" I'm genuinely afraid to ask.
"Basic intimacy is blue. More adventurous activities are purple. And special occasions are gold." She smiles proudly. "Our anniversary, your birthday, Valentine's Day, that kind of thing."
"Special occasions get their own color-coding system."
"Of course! They require more planning and preparation."
This can't be real. She can't possibly be serious about any of this.
But she looks completely sincere. Earnest, even, like she's genuinely trying to help.
"And speaking of planning," she continues, pulling out actual glossy travel brochures from her bag, "I've been researching honeymoon destinations."
"Liana—"
"I know we haven't discussed it yet, but I want you to know I'm completely open to your interests." She spreads the brochures on the table next to the birth control charts. "I found some really interesting options that might appeal to you."
I look down at the brochures with growing horror.
Hedonism II, Jamaica.
Desire Resort, Riviera Maya.
Hidden Beach Resort, Mexico.
All of them feature couples in various states of undress on the covers, strategically positioned.
"These are swingers resorts," I say slowly, carefully.