After.I sent back.
A girl’s shopping trip and then to Donato and Chiara’s.
A second later my phone lit up again.
Are you worried, mio marito? Don’t be. I’m a rough shopper, too. I know how to throw elbows.
My screen lit up before I could even respond.
By the way, your cufflinks are in the black jewelry box. So is your signet ring. I love you.
You think we have too much sex?I sent to her.
NO!
Her response seemed to scream across the screen. She’d told me all caps meant yelling. Her second response came as fast as lightning.Why? Do you think we have too much sex?
Being connected to you is like air to me,I typed back. Never enough. But you’re tired. You should be sleeping more.
How do you do it?she asked.
Tell me.
“Nephew,” Tito called.
I happened to look up and catch his eye. He nodded toward the waitress. Pad and pen ready, she stared expectantly at me. My phone lit and buzzed.
“Steak—rare—and eggs over easy. Water is fine.”
“Got it.” She winked at me.
Still make me melt.The message said when I checked my phone.
I realized I was smiling at the phone like a dumbass. Still. She hadn’t responded to what I had said about too much sex—she was stalling.
Answer me,I typed back.
I could hear her blowing out a frustrated breath, calling me impatient or something along those fucking lines while she responded.
I was going to, came the reply.It’s not that.I need to be connected to you just as much as you need to be connected to me.A second later another buzz came and the screen lit up.The tiredness doesn’t feel entirely physical.
We’re not discussing this over text anymore.
Agreed.Her response came just as quickly as the others.
Keep in touch with me. I love you more, Ballerina Girl.
Not possible. I will.
The end of our conversation only made things worse. She couldn’t shake her feelings, and neither could I.
I set my phone on the table, joining in the conversation every once in a while, then eating when it was time. Afterward, we hung around, the chatter still loud. The men were all going to a boxing match that night, and they were high on just the thought of it.
Romeo leaned over, glancing at Rocco who was in deep discussion with Mitch about which of his fleets of cars we should use as transportation to the match, before he pressed a button on his phone. A picture appeared on the screen. All of our women were in front of Barb Salon, the place Lourdes Maria Goretti owned, smiling for the camera.
My girls, Juliette had captioned the photo. It was her page. Scarlett stood among them, Ray-Bans on and a megawatt smile. She wore a light gray sweater, a darker gray skirt, black stockings, boots, and my (her) leather jacket.
We had argued over the skirt. Apparently, she wore it anyway.
