I squeeze my eyes shut and lean against the wall with my back to him as I slip on my boots.
I’ll be home soon. Done with this night that I can file away as a wonderful memory of something I never have to go through again.
Once my feet are securely in my boots, I look back over the Bianchi home.
Gracie and Lucia have cleared almost all the dishes, and Mario is coming from the kitchen with a heck of a lot more than a plate. He’s packed up a travel bag of some kind. He’s easily got several pounds of food in there by the size of it.
“Pops, she’s one person.” Franco reaches his hand to take the handle of the travel container.
Mario lifts a shoulder. “And now she won’t have to cook for herself for a while.”
“That’s too much,” I say, shaking my head. “Too generous.”
Mario waves me off with a hand. “Come anytime, sweetheart.” He gives me a grin and then turns to his son. “Get her home safe, and then yourself.” He claps Franco on the shoulder, and Franco gives his dad a kiss on the cheek.
“Thanks for dinner, Pops. Love you. Love you, Ma. I’m leaving!” Franco bellows through the house, and I hear Gracie come padding into the hallway.
“She’s up to her elbows in soap suds. She says bye and she loves you.” Gracie kisses her brother’s cheek, then smacks him hard on the back. “Don’t be a dick,” she says, and Franco glares.
“Bye, sweetie,” Gracie says to me. “I’ll probably see you Tuesday for coffee.” She leans in and gives me a kiss on the cheek, and I’m so stunned you could probably knock me over with a feather.
I nod and say nothing, just look back at the dogs on the couch, the table that’s almost completely clear of dishes, and I can hear the sounds of water running far off in the kitchen.
I was so anxious to get home, but now that it’s time to leave, a part of me feels rooted to the floor.
This is a home.
A real family.
So unlike anything I’ve ever had, and while it was a lot at first, I’m already sort of adjusting to it.
But then Franco clears his throat and opens the front door.
“Did you bring your bike?” Mario asks, peering past him toward the street.
“Nah,” Franco says. “Drove the truck. We’ll be fine.” He lifts a thick brow at me. “You ready?”
And even though I’m not at all sure that I am, I nod and follow Franco and ten thousand pounds of leftovers out into the night.
* * *
The drive is onlythree miles, but somehow walking it seemed to feel faster than riding beside Franco.
He hasn’t said a word since we got inside, other than to ask for my address. He opens his window and then mine just a crack. He leans his elbow out the window, resting it on the door, and drives with one hand. He seems completely at ease with the silence.
For the first few minutes, I am too, but then it just gets weird.
“So, Franco.” I force myself to say his name. It feels dangerous and delicious on my lips, and I shake my head to clear away the idiotic thoughts. “Are you a reader?” I ask.
“What?” His question is sharp-edged and defensive.
“Read?” I press. “You know, I own a bookstore now. I was just curious if you, you know…read.”
I watch him out of the corner of my eye and see his shoulders relax just a little. “Oh,” he says. “Nah. I’m not much for books.”
“Ouch,” I say, clutching my heart. “I think that brings me actual physical pain.”
“Could be heartburn from the coffee and sauce,” he says, and something in his voice is a tiny bit lighter.
