Chapter 5
I'm in a café, sitting outside under a striped awning that tints the light Chianti red—the same color swirling in my glass.
I don't usually drink that much.
I don't usually do a lot of things.
Like lie to my husband about where I'm going because it's easier than explaining Mara.
Or maybe that's just what I tell myself, since she's Ben's sister and I keep Ben sealed away.
Not just because I'm shady, but because I pretend—desperately and daily—that he isn't real so I can go on with my life.
Anyway...
Mara texted again this morning, threatening to drag me out if I ghost her, and knowing her? Yeah, I got scared.
She added that Ben's busy running errands, which is good.
I can't face him after that mural—the way it felt like the universe knew he was coming. I'm still shook about it.
I tear open a sugar packet, watching a few granules skid across the table.
Am I angry with him? Probably. Most definitely.
Not because I want him back. No. I'm married. Happily.
I mean, mostly. Sure, Richard and I argue, but every couple does, right?
Ah! And there's Mara, striding through the crowd like she owns it, hair hacked into a sharp blonde bob now, pink mini, cat-eye shades.
She's stunning, always looking like a '00s pop star walking just off the set between the takes.
"Stranger danger!" She crashes into me, like she's both punishing me for the three-year drought and happy to see me and then takes off her shades with a flair.
She's got those Bellini-colored eyes—dark brown, gorgeous. Only hers are round, huge, deer-like; Ben's are half-lidded, dangerously magnetic.
"Love your hair like this," I say, pointing.
"Same!" she bells in her usual loud voice she apparently inherited from her mom, although I never met her. That and her Christian values you can see in the bedazzled small cross she always wears around her neck.
"Can't believe you cut yours to shoulder-blades, you had it so long!"
"I know." I run my fingers through my hair out of reflex. "Thought I needed some grounding, so I cut it."
That's partly a lie, which I'll explain later.
"Oh... okay." Mara casts me an amused glance, but the second she flips open the menu, her expression changes into a frown. "Damn. My friend recommended this place. It's pricey."
I gesture around the sunlit terrace I've been admiring the whole time. Cesca chairs, marble and Italian disco floating through the speakers. "Yeah, but cheap for something out of a Sorrentino movie?"
She hums, surveys the surroundings, then—approving nod—she calls the waiter with her smile and a hand flick.
The same guy who took ten minutes with my water now rushes as if she gave an order.
"Hi." She beams at him, batting her eyes ridiculously the way only Mara knows how. "Two strawberry lemonades and two affogatos."
"I don't drink—" I start.
"One regular. One decaf," she cuts me off. A wink. "I know your vices, babe."
I smile. She always had that big-sister energy, even though she's technically only two months older.
Even with Ben, despite her being two years younger and him pushing thirty.
When we get our drinks I grab her hand, wanting to ask her about that holographic shimmer on her nails, crowned with pink mini-bows because that's what Mara and I do—we do girly—but my eyes catch the huge princess diamond ring.
"Oh my god! Are you engaged?"
Cue Mara's signature grin—fingers tapping her cheek, eyes darting sideways. Obviously, she's been dying for me to ask.
"Yeah. Paul. He's a family lawyer," she says enthusiastically. "And don't worry, he doesn't have to be right all the time and he isn't boring. He knows when to be serious, and when to dance around in a towel to 'Let's Get It On.'"
I snort-laugh. "How did you even meet this towel-dancing lawyer?"
"Online." She sighs like that kills their romance.
"Oh..."
"Yeah. He liked all my photos, and I thought stalker," she says jokingly before she looks at me with starry eyes. "But then I saw those blue eyes and brown curls, and I thought you know what? If I ever get a stalker, he might as well look like that."
She lifts her glass to toast her foolish heart and I laugh.
"Let me guess—then you went into full CIA mode," I say with a raised brow.
She nods, all cavalier. "You know me. Scrolled all the way to 2016. No lurking exes. No luxury cars, or watches. Found his Pinterest—"
"Pinterest?"
"I know. I know. But don't worry," she stops me when she sees my suspicious face. "He's only pinterested in me, and pinning his DIY projects. He built a whole terrace with papà last summer."
"Ah. Domestic genius. I approve."
Mara launches into a three-year recap at bullet speed, her Brooklyn-baby accent slipping in: she mostly talks about music and fashion, with the same intensity I reserve for novels because she works as an event coordinator for high-end brands, but today everything circles back to Paul, her purrs practically audible.
"I'm so happy for you!" I chew on the strawberry from my lemonade. The best part.
"By the way!" She taps my hand, suddenly too excited. "We're doing Burning Man this year. You have to come!"
"Me?" I lean back, skeptical. "I'd be so lost."
She snaps her fingers at me. "Don't give me that. You're the one who swore you'd walk barefoot through the desert and come back a new woman."
She laughs, the idea obviously still entertaining her and I snort a laugh too because she's right.
"Yeah, that was five years ago. I'm a little more domesticated now."
"But it will be so much fun. Come on!" she whines. "We could undomesticate you." She presses, her hand closing around mine.
"I'm afraid that ship has sailed."
"Ben's going too," she adds, and I swear, did she just give me a sly smirk?
Well, she knows what she's doing because I definitely flinched.
He's coming? We discussed it back in the day, but it was mostly me pushing for it and he didn't seem on board, so what, now he's suddenly into it?
I manage to give her my laziest shrug. "Cool. I'm sure he'll love it."
"You should reconsider. We could put you in our tent. I mean, mine and Paul's. It's big enough for one more person."
I crack my knuckles for no reason. "I don't know. It's in what?"
"Two weeks, I think," she says, swiping her phone screen. "Yeah, exactly."
"Probably too late to get a ticket anyway." My tone says I'm flirting with the idea of going, which is absurd because I'm not. I'm totally not. I can't go if Ben's there. Obviously.
Mara pouts, conceding. "Oh yeah. That could be a problem."
Good. Problem solved. I'm not going.
She gets lost in a message on her phone, her fingers flying in response while she talks to me.
"Sorry... One second. Meanwhile, tell me about the man who made you trade bikinis for rain jackets?"
I laugh awkwardly.
Discussing Richard with Mara feels totally out of place, since I've no idea what Ben told her after we split up, so I hedge. "All you need to know is: steady, ambitious, perfect credit score."
"Mm. Nice," she says, distracted by another message that lit up her screen. "Who's his favorite artist?"
I smirk because I'm not surprised she'd ask that. "Honestly? Probably Ravel."
Mara frowns, mentally scrolling through every pop-artist she knows. "Is that some rising star?"
Somehow I manage a straight face. "I hope he's not rising. He's been dead about a hundred years."
"Oh. He's into that." She laughs at the joke, and then looks at me like she's got Richard figured out in that one sentence.
Which isn't that far from the truth.
"He treats you well I hope?"
I drain the last of my wine, feeling a little languid, and take in the couples around, wondering when was the last time Richard and I went out. Nod. "Yeah. He's an anchor to my floating head. I don't deserve him."
Her lashes sweep up. "Okay, no? You're the sweetest thing, babe." She finishes typing and gives me an earnest look. "I mean it. You need someone who actually gets you. Protects you. Maybe a little obsessed with you?"
"Ideally a lot," I joke, but not really.
"Yeah, like build an altar for you at home," she says, and I don't think she's joking either. She's a fierce matriarch.
"Can you suggest it to him? He might listen if it comes from you."
"That's arrangeable. I'd love to meet him," she chirps. "Maybe that way you won't disappear from my life like before?"
I wince a little, smile apologetically. "I'm sorry, Mara. That was just because of the—"
"I know," she cuts in quickly, her expression soft. "But you were always my friend, babe. I don't want you to think I picked any sides. I love my brother, but I know how complicated he can be. So, call me whenever you need a friend. Doesn't matter what it's about. Okay?"
"Okay," I say, and I mean it. Or at least, I want to.
"Besides," she goes on, "I'm here for two more days. We have to go shopping or—"
Mid-sentence, she stops. Her eyes dart past me, then narrow slightly, and she mutters something under her breath.
"What?" The turn happens before I can stop it.
And just like that, I forget how to be a normal person. How to sit still without rearranging every part of myself that might give me away.
Ben approaches like a thunderstorm-in-black cutting through the bright day. Slacks, a plain fitted tee—but there's nothing plain about him. He looks devastating. Black fabric usually hides. On him, it outlines. Clings to muscle and bone, giving away every contour of his chest.
Oh my god.
His eyes catch mine, like they always do. Like even in complete darkness he'd still find me.
He makes it to the terrace, drags a chair from the next table and slides in beside me like that's exactly where he belongs.
"Hello, ladies," he says, all smiles and casual catastrophe.
It takes me a while before I manage a tight "Hey." It takes me another beat to add: "Mara said you were busy?"
His eyes skim my mouth for half a beat.
Damn, am I biting my lip again? No. Thank God.
"Still am," he says, leaning back in the chair. "Thought I'd steal a moment. If you don't mind."