“I have no idea what she said, but I get the feeling I was just insulted.”
“Everything in French sounds like an insult to you,” I said, starting to gain control of my breathing again.
“Don’t keep me in suspense.” Brando turned around, taking me in his arms again, determined to finish the dance.
“No.” I shook my head. “It was the tone of voice she used. She’s upset. What she said was ‘he tries’.”
“Too late to fucking try,” he said, finality to his voice that left no room for doubt on his feelings on the matter. “He should’vetriedbefore he put his hands on you.”
“We would have both died.” I moved even closer to him. His warmth, his strength, was my shield.
“I could forgive, if what he had done was just out of survival. But not—where.” His teeth were clenched, and his jaw was tight.
For the most part, Brando’s ticking vein had long ago retired, but I could see it tonight, pulsating underneath the skin along his temple.
“Let’s just dance,” I said, but I knew it was a waste of time. He was on edge, too caught up in the last couple of minutes to enjoy the party. “How about we get a drink instead? I could use something cool.”
Brando took my hand and led me through the crowd to a few seats close to the dance floor. I took one, sighing, enjoying the view.
Dancers were swinging, and in the center of it all, though the music was fast, were Romeo and Juliette, moving slowly. She had her hands on his face, and he kept stealing kisses from her. The sight of them made me smile.
Brando looked around for a waiter, but finding none, decided to head to the bar inside. “I’ll be right back.”
In passing, he touched Rocco’s shoulder and said something to Rocco, Dario, Donato, and Guido, who were in deep conversation with some of their cousins. Their heads bent lower to hear him better, and then the entire group turned to glance at me.
I waved.
The men who knew me well laughed. They moved closer to where I sat, carrying on their conversation as though it had never been interrupted.
Two of Juliette’s cousins took the empty seats next to me. One had a baby girl in her arms, drooling and slapping at the air; the other cousin had a drink and was laughing at nothing.
I started to play with the baby, making her coo and laugh, drooling even more. She was delightful, with a head full of dark hair.
“What’s her name?” I asked.
I had only spoken to them briefly, when Juliette had introduced us, but she had an expansive family.
“Jolie.”
“Ah, Jolie!” I said with a French twist. “Sweetbébé,” I crooned at her, reaching out a few fingers to tickle her belly.
She threw back her head and laughed, a whole lot of gum glistening. Her cheeks were as soft as petals. She reached out her hands for me, making anoohhhhsound as she did.
“Oh,” her mother said. “Would you take her? I need to use the restroom!”
I was afraid that Jolie would cry, throw a fit for her mother, after she handed her over to find the bathroom, but she was content with getting bounced on my knee and me singing “Alouetté” to her.
She seemed hypnotized by my mouth. Every so often she would stick her chubby little pointer finger in and then burst into fits of giggles when I’d pretend to bite it.
“Jolie never takes to anyone new,” Erma—that was the drunk cousin’s name—said, leaning over, placing her glass on the ground. “Are you expecting one of your own?”
“Me?” I almost scoffed. Jolie pulled up, balancing on my knees with my hands under her warm armpits. “Nooo.”
Erma scoffed. “Could’ve fooled me. There’s an old wives tale—if a baby goes to you the way she did, that’s what you’ll have. Prepare for a girl. And you have the magical flush to your cheeks.”
To drive the point home, and make me short of breath, Jolie put her drool-soaked hands to my cheeks. “Gar, goooo, garrrr,” she said.
“No,” I said, moving my face to avoid Jolie’s fingers from going in my mouth. “I was dancing and drinking. That’s all.”
