My mouth snaps shut.
He points to the glass in my hand.
“Rye. Sweet vermouth.
Splash of Averna.
“Amarena cherry at the bottom.”
His jaw flexes once when he saysAmarena.
As if the taste is still in his mouth.
Or maybe I am.
“Tastes even better after midnight.”
Every syllable taps my pulse,
as if he spoke every word
straight into my bloodstream.
My eyes slip away,
my lip catching between my teeth.
“You gonna translate the names, or is that how you sayfuck around and find outin fluent Andrew?”
He smiles behind his fingers,
tilting his head a little,
debating whether to give it to me.
“Amara Mezzanotte means bitter midnight. Mezzanotte Amata means beloved midnight.”
The words hit my lips before my ears,
and a stupid smile slides out of me.
Stupid. So stupid. As if he didn’t just spend five days not giving a shit.
I nod.
Then scoff at myself.
Then shake it off.
I thought coming here,
I’d see the end in his face.
I thought I’d see
two slammed doors in his eyes.
I thought I burned the bridge
