“You’re quiet tonight,” he says.
“Just enjoying the show,” I deflect, gesturing at them. “You two are like a podcast I didn’t subscribe to.”
Ethan snorts. “She means we’re boring.”
“I mean you’re very engaging,” I correct. “Very... engaged. In engagement.”
Smooth, Jess. Very smooth.
“She’s saying we might as well be married,” Ethan quips.
Marco’s mouth twitches. His eyes never leave mine. “What would you rather talk about?”
“Um.” My mind goes blank. Completely empty. Not a single thought. “Is there a cocktail called ‘gainfully employed’?”
“Off menu,” Marco says without missing a beat. “Very bitter.”
Okay. Okay, he’s funny. That’s not fair. Hot billionaire widowers aren’t supposed to be funny. That’s against the rules.
“I should probably stop self-deprecating about my career implosion,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone.
“You should,” Marco agrees. “From what Ethan’s told me, you built something impressive. Algorithms change. Doesn’t mean you weren’t good at it.”
I blink at him. That’s... surprisingly generous coming from someone who probably thinks TikTok and Youtube are something teenagers do. “You know about the whole influencer thing?”
“Ethan mentions you. Often.”
“Oh God. What has he said?”
“That you’re funny. Creative. Stubborn as hell.” Marco’s mouth does that almost-smile thing again. “And that you hide when you’re scared.”
Wow. Okay. Ethan is getting murdered later.
Straight up Fratricide.
“I don’t hide,” I protest weakly.
“You climbed out a restaurant window.”
“Ground floor window. And that was strategic.”
This is it. The moment where I should be normal and mature and have an actual adult conversation without making it weird.
Instead, my mind goes blank and I hear myself say: “Uh. Marco, sono bagnata. Grazie. Uh. A tutti. No. Uh.”
Marco’s eyebrows go up again. “You’re... wet? Already? And thanks to everyone?”
“I hate myself,” I announce to the bar at large.
Ethan is losing it. Full-on laughing,the kind where he has to put his drink down so he doesn’t spill it.
“She minored in Duolingo,” he manages between laughs. “Majored in oversharing.”
Ethan stands, claps my shoulder, and still grinning says: “I’m clocking out before she starts conjugating. Text me if either of you need me.”
And then he leaves.
He just leaves me here.
