“Huh?” her husband Nick says.
I try not to laugh as they bicker. It’s the same argument they always have. She tells him that he needs hearing aids. He tells her he can hear her just fine.
“You can’t hear me at all.”
“Exactly. Just like I like it.”
She curses at him in Italian, and then the sound of the TV cuts out.
Shit. Now that the building is silent, I have to tiptoe by their door.I’ve almost made it to the next set of stairs, the floorboards barely creaking, when the door swings open and I’m yanked inside their cozy apartment.
“Have you eaten?” Rosalie asks. “You don’t look like you’ve eaten. Nick, doesn’t Savannah look hungry? Go get her a drink while I make her a plate.”
Her hair is so blond it’s nearly white, but her eyebrows are thick and dark. As she surveys me, they rise in excitement. She’s always excited. Sometimes it’s from anger, sometimes because she’s been given the opportunity to feed another person. Either way, her energy is always high. I absolutely love it. Even the anger. This woman’s ire is rarely mean-spirited. Or maybe I just like the sound of her voice when she rants in Italian.
Nick grumbles from the couch. Then he heaves himself forward. It takes him three tries to stand up, but when he does, he breaks into a face-splitting smile. His hair is black with streaks of silver. His mustache too. He wears suspenders, a button-down shirt, and pressed pants every day. He also reeks of cheap cologne and garlic. Always.
“Chianti?” He shuffles to the bar where he’s always got a jug of red wine.
“I’m really not hungry or thirsty,” I tell them. All I want is to climb into my bed and prepare for tomorrow’s meeting with Sienna.
But turning them down is pointless. I’ve never made it out of their apartment without indulging. Not that it’s a hardship. No one makes a meatball like Rosalie. Or a zeppole. Zeppole are my ultimate indulgence. The powdered sugar. The fried dough. The ricotta custard filling.
Just thinking about them makes my mouth water. I search her kitchen, looking for evidence of a fresh batch. I have to do it covertly, though, because if she catches me and she doesn’t have any on hand, she’ll insist on making a batch, and I’ll be here all night.
“None of that.” She waves a hand and scurries to the stove, where a pot of red sauce is still simmering. She doesn’t microwave food. Hell, she doesn’t even own a microwave. While I live on frozen food.
Within seconds of entering the apartment, I’ve been shooed into a kitchen chair that’s covered in plastic that scrunches as I settle, and aheaping plate of pasta, meatballs, and ricotta, along with a piece of bread is placed in front of me.
Nick slides a glass of wine across the table and settles opposite me. Then the two of them watch me, eagerly waiting for me to take my first bite.
I know the drill. I pick up my silverware and cut into a meatball, savoring the flavor. When I plaster on a smile, telling them how delicious it is—it really is, despite my lack of excitement—they launch into their usual line of questioning, talking over one another.
“How was your day, amore?” Rosalie asks as Nick says, “Did you take that car service again?”
That car service is Uber, and even though it’s been around for decades and every driver is vetted and tracked by their app, he still swears taxis are safer.
“Yes, I took an Uber home?—”
Nick tsks at that.
“And my day was good. I spent it with the girls.”
Rosalie nods, her nearly white curls held in place by a ridiculous amount of hairspray. “What about that boy you went out with last week?” She looks at Nick. “The mechanic you set her up with. What’s his name?”
“Alfonso.” Nick angles forward, scrutinizing me. “He says you canceled.”
“I’m not dating.” I shovel another bite of food into my mouth, cursing myself for hesitating at their door. I should have rushed up to my apartment before they figured out I was home.
By “not dating,” what I mean is I’m not dating Rosalie’s cousin’s nephew or their godson’s grandson or Nick’s barber’s best friend’s son. The Donadios mean well, but none of those men are my type.
I’m sure there are good men out there. Men like John Donovan on the first floor. Some might even be related to the Donadios or one of their acquaintances. But I’m not meant for that kind of relationship. I wouldn’t know what to do with it if I found it.
I like my quiet life upstairs. My girls’ nights. My vibrators.
I’m far less likely to be disappointed by others if I stick to relying only on myself.
“She’s not dating,” Rosalie parrots, shaking her head.
