5. Enzo #2
He stands, shakes the hands of each man in their designer suit uniforms as they thank him for his honesty and insight.
It’s all bullshit. Giovanni always gets what he wants without making it appear to be so.
While they accept the crumbs he tosses their way and congratulate themselves for cultivating a prosperous business relationship with a man who clearly has a special talent for increasing profit margins out of the ballpark.
I’m already at the door when Gio stops me. “Enzo, we’re not done.”
He might not be, but I am. I literally don’t have the bandwidth for business decisions, not today, not when I’m starting to question my entire life to date.
“I have somewhere to be.”
My eyes meet his, and I don’t get a hint that he knows about Bianca, although Gio is a pro at masking his feelings in the right environment. It’s only when he’s with Megan and the twins that the facade slips and my brother, the family man, re-emerges.
A client shakes Gio’s hand, demanding his attention, and I grab my opportunity to leave.
I get as far as his PA’s office when Megan reverses out of the elevator with the twins in a double stroller. She swivels the stroller around so that it’s facing the right way, and her face lights up when she sees me.
“Enzo! Where have you been? It feels like we haven’t seen you in ages.”
Her British accent gets me every time. It’s like a familiar perfume that conjures up a vivid memory, or a song from your childhood that your mom taught you to sing. It reminds me of Demi every goddamned time, because if it wasn’t for Megan, Demi and I would never have met.
“I’ve been busy.”
She pushes the stroller closer, leaning over the twins and saying, “It’s Uncle Enzo. Remember him?” She giggles, her eyes gleaming when she looks up at me. “You should come for dinner one evening. I’ll make a cake.”
Megan worked in a boutique bakery in London before she met my brother.
She now has a tiny bakery of her own in Brooklyn, a blink-and-you’ll-walk-straight-past-it café, with barely enough space for two small tables inside, but a permanent atmosphere of frosting and glitter that is gradually earning her the reputation she deserves.
She gets me with cake every time.
And she knows it.
“Soon.” It’s an asshole copout, and Megan deserves better.
But she’ll ask about Demi in that soft voice she reserves for the children and anyone in need of a hug, and my heart will crack open all over again remembering evenings spent together, the four of us, drinking wine, playing cards, and laughing like we’d all won at this game of life.
“Enzo.” Megan’s shoulders drop. “I know you still miss Demi. I miss her too. But please don’t shut us out. We’re family. We care about you, and we want to—”
“It’s fine.” I cut her off. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
I see the hurt in her eyes, and I do nothing about it.
Valentina rocks forward in her stroller seat and grabs the leg of my pants. She’s a mini version of Megan, with huge eyes and an easy smile. I crouch in front of her, and her brother Fiero instantly shrinks back in his seat, half-hiding behind the frame separating the two of them.
I point to Valentina’s soft toy, which looks like a squashy marshmallow. “Who’s this then?”
“Gabby.” Valentina has no confidence issues. She looks me straight in the eye and hugs the soft toy harder.
I turn to her brother. “Where’s your teddy, bud?” He sinks even further into the seat and lowers his eyes like he’s waiting for me to go away.
The instant I stand up, Fiero sits forward and studies me like I’m a creature he’s never encountered before. The strange uncle who never visits and when he does, he smells of liquor and aftershave.
I spot Gio crossing the room, and I head for the elevator before he reaches us. “Can’t stay,” I say to Megan, whose smile hovers halfway between trying to stop me and lighting up for her husband.
“Dinner,” she reminds me as the elevator door slides open and I step inside. “I won’t stop asking until you tell me when you’re free.”
“Next week sometime.”
“Not specific enough, Enzo.” But the door is already swallowing her voice as she follows it up with, “Friday…”
I think we both know that I won’t be there.
Megan deserves an explanation or at the very least a credible excuse for my ongoing absence from their lives.
There was a time when I was Uncle Enzo to her two little ones, the silly child in a man’s body who would lie on the floor and let them climb all over me while Bella, their chocolate brown spaniel licked my face.
Now, I’m the stranger who can’t even get Fiero to make eye contact.
I need to do better. I want to be in their lives; I felt the tug just now when Valentina showed me her soft toy. But part of me has been missing since Demi walked out of my life, and I need to be whole again before I can start participating in life.
Bizarrely, Nyx has made me realize this by igniting a tiny spark inside me.
I spend the rest of the day holed up in a bar where the bartender leaves me alone and something in the set of my shoulders staves off unwanted attention. I tune out the laughter and conversations. When I hear a raised voice that sets my back teeth on edge, I warn myself not to get involved.
The hours tick by. I ignore Gio’s phone calls and messages.
When Megan’s message appears on the screen, I read the first couple of lines and turn my phone over.
Are you alright, Enzo? I’m worried about you. We both…
I don’t open it. If she thinks I haven’t read it, she won’t get hurt when I don’t reply.
When the bar closes, I pace the sidewalk.
I don’t know JADED’s opening times, keeping the obvious information secret substantially adds to the mystery of the place, and I’m torn between getting there early before another client can choose Nyx… and keeping her waiting.
Maybe I should give tonight a hard pass, go home, spend some time with Bianca, and eat a decent meal. My sister probably made pasta. She maybe even opened a bottle of wine while she waited for me to come home.
The mental image of her sitting at the breakfast bar with a glass of red in front of her while she waits for the elevator door to glide open increases the ache in my chest and makes my decision for me.
I want that. I want to go home to a kitchen that smells of spicy tomatoes and melting cheese and someone who knows exactly what to say to make me smile.
But what I want and what I’m going to get are poles apart these days.
The same woman takes my credit card payment in the small foyer when I arrive, the flashlight casting eerie shadows across her face like this is a Halloween party and she’s about to tell me a ghost story.
“Is Nyx available?” I ask as she clamps the bracelet around my wrist.
“Did you not learn the first time? No questions.”
She knows, she just doesn’t want to deal with my reaction to her response.
“Can I request Nyx in advance?”
She rolls her eyes and hands me a leather mask, but she doesn’t increase my entrance fee. I want to ask her why, but I know when to back down.
Shoes off, phone and wallet confiscated, and mask fastened tightly at the back of my skull, I walk along the corridor, and my heart skips when I can see the green light above Nyx’s door.
Deep breath. As my hand closes around the doorknob, I experience a moment of panic that Nyx might be someone else tonight, someone who doesn’t understand the game we were playing.
Then I step inside, and her voice in the darkness says, “Hello, Brian.”