crackling, casting a warm, golden glow
as if everything’s fine.
This whole place wraps around me, making me want to believe in happy endings and safe places and fictional bullshit.
And I hate how much I crave it.
Paola shuts the door with her hip.
It’s open-concept, kitchen bleeding into the living room with nothing but a big-ass island to hold the line between food and chaos.
I step in fully, rounding the corner,
then—bam!—whole damn living room is full.
At least eight of them. All staring.
But none of them is Andrew.
“Well holy shit—who’s this?”
“Lisa, you know her?”
A petite woman?—
red hair, long nails, leopard-print heels?—
drags her eyes over me.
“Why? ‘Cause she wearin’ a mini skirt?”
“She’s gorgeous. You modelin’, sweetheart?”
An elderly woman, smeared lipstick,
gold cross swinging off her neck?—
“Sei italiana? Eh? Hai sangue italiano?”
Turns to another woman beside her?—
“Ma guardala! Non sembra italiana?”
Someone’s reaching for my coat.
A glass of wine flashes past my face.
The couch is full, two recliners rocking.
A kid's screaming from the dining room.
“Jamie! Get your ass out from under the table!”
“You lost, honey?”
“Maybe she’s a neighbor.”
Another woman,
