“Branzino,” I say. “And the fennel salad.” My body wants bright, clean things today.
She orders the carbonara and a plate of roasted carrots for the table and adds sparkling water with lemon for both of us before I can open my mouth. The server smiles and moves away; in the corner, the host seats a couple with a stroller. I can’t stop myself from looking. The baby is asleep, tiny mouth open, fists up by its ears. A small ache blooms under my ribs, want and fear wound tight. I reach for my glass.
Nico is three tables behind us, back to the wall, pretending to check his phone. He’s dressed like a man having lunch alone—dark jacket, no tie, nothing flashy—but he is not having lunch.When I glance right, I catch the second guard at the bar watching the door in the large mirror, and the third by the service station, pretending to read a wine list.
I can’t see the two outside, but I know they’re there, somewhere in the slow foot traffic, talking quietly into the mics tucked at their collars. The knowledge presses at the edges of my calm. I swallow it down and focus on Caterina’s voice.
“You sure about the crib style?” she asks, tapping a photo on her phone I sent her earlier this morning. “Solid wood is good, but soft-close drawers on the dresser are non-negotiable. You’ll thank me at 3:00 in the morning.”
“I wrote it down,” I say, and I really did, eager to consider any piece of advice.
The sparkling water arrives with a bowl of olives and a plate of bread. The server leaves a dish of chilled crudités and a little ramekin of whipped ricotta with honey. I take a carrot and drag it through the ricotta. It’s cold, sweet, creamy, exactly what I wanted and didn’t know how to ask for.
“So,” Caterina says, resting her chin in her hand. “We got sleepers, the belly band, the cardigan that makes you look like a rich art teacher, and those low-top sneakers we can pretend aren’t for your swollen feet.”
“Allegedly,” I say.
“Lawyers,” she says and snorts. “Plus, three maternity dresses that you won’t admit you love.”
“They’re comfortable,” I insist, but that’s all.
“You absolutely preened.” She lifts one brow. “That navy wrap one? You love it.”
I picture it again, the way the crossed fabric flattered my growing belly—and boobs—and I can’t help the small lift in my chest. “I did like that one.”
“You glowed,” she says. “And I’m not putting that on hormones. It was the dress.”
I look down at the napkin spread over my lap and smooth a crease that isn’t there. “Thank you. For coming with me.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” she says, simple and sure. “This is the fun part.”
The plates arrive fast: the salad, shaved fennel and a scatter of citrus that smells fresh and sweet; the branzino, skin crisp, lemon set on the side; Caterina’s pasta, glossy and peppery, steam rising. She slides the carrots between us and forks one onto my plate without asking. I don’t mind. The fish flakes under my fork; I squeeze lemon and take a bite, and my shoulders drop an inch. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s delicious.
Outside, a dog trots past, tongue lolling, owner talking into a headset. A delivery truck hisses to a stop down the block. I cansee a strip of blue sky in the window and can practically feel the breeze and warmth on my skin. I wish we were out there, shaded by an umbrella. I wish there weren’t eyes on us at every angle. I wish the simple act of eating lunch wasn’t a small operation.
Nico catches my gaze and tips his chin, a question without words. I nod: fine. He looks past me to the bar, then to the door, then back to his phone. I put my fork down and take one deliberate breath.
“It’s pretty,” Caterina says, following my eyes to the window. “We’ll sit outside next time.”
“Promise?” I ask, light.
“Promise,” she says, and steals a bite of my fennel. “It won’t be like this forever.”
“I hope not,” I whisper. “I don’t think I can live like this all the time.”
“You’ll always need protection, Elena,” she says. “But it’ll be like before, unseen and uninterfering. Nico is good at that.”
“I believe it.” I sip water. “He’s good at hovering without hovering.”
“Years of practice,” she says. “And he likes you.”
“I like him too,” I admit. “Even when he makes me sit inside on the nicest day of the month.”
She flashes a grin. “We’ll hold it against him later.”
We eat, and I let the normalness of it do its work. Fork, bite, sip. Every so often, I feel that squeeze in my chest, the one that says this is temporary, this safety, this daylight, this ordinary. But it loosens when I think about the bags under the table. The tiny sage sleeper. The starry swaddle. The navy dress I did, yes, preen in.
Nico’s voice cuts through the low sounds of the room. Not loud but hard. “Move.”
