“Nothing.”
“Jesus,” Ben mumbles. “Spit it out, man. You’ve been acting weird since you got back from your brother’s wedding. You hate his wife or something?”
“Yes.” Then I chuckle. “She’s fine, I guess, if you like controlling prima donnas.”
“Gotcha.” He nods. “Is that what crawled up your ass?”
I glare at my partner. “Nothing crawled up my ass, fucker.”
“Come on, just spit it out. Then we can go back to silence.” Ben arches his brow as he says that.
“It’s nothing. I just can’t stop thinking about this weird girl—I mean, woman—from home.”
“The one in the photo on your phone?”
My brother sent me some of the wedding pictures. There are two with Matilda and me, one on the dance floor at the wedding and one of those professional shots we took before the wedding. That’s the one on my phone.
And, yeah, it’s my home screen. Don’t say a fucking, goddamn word.
I pick the phone up and tap it to life, causing the photo to illuminate. “Yeah, Matilda.”
“She’s cute,” Ben says, like it’s nothing.
“She’s not cute.” She’s more than that.
“She’s ugly?” he asks, sounding confused.
“No, jackass, she’s pretty.”
“Ah, now I get it. You and she”—he points at my phone—“have a thing going, and she did something to piss you off, which is why you’re over there mumbling to yourself like a psycho.”
“I’m not mumbling like a psycho. And, no, there is no ‘thing’ going on. We’re friends.” Just friends.
“And you want there to be more, but she doesn’t because you’re a grumpy asshole?”
“Jesus.” I want to be angry, but I chuckle instead. “No, jag-off, she….” She what? I feel like I’ve got to start at the beginning, you know, with the shit show in the dance studio.
I do it, even though Ben and I don’t ordinarily have heart-to-hearts. I tell him the story, from start to finish. He needs context, and frankly, so do I.
ChapterSixteen
Matilda
“You got another letter?”
I’m at the stove cooking up some breakfast for Dad, Bobby, and me. Looking back over my shoulder, I give my dad the look—you know, the one that tells him to shut his pie-hole in front of my brother.
“Whatever do you mean?”
Okay, that probably wasn’t the best way to end that discussion. All that statement did was open it up for more.
“Muffin, I saw the letter when I brought the mail in yesterday.”
“What letter?” Bobby asks, chewing on the toast I already made. He slathered it with butter, peanut butter, and honey.
Ick.
“She’s got a thing going with one of those Marchesani boys.”
