The smell of wood, I now realized, wafted from Angelo too, and the way he looked likeDirty Dancing’sJohnny Castle in those jeans and T-shirt made that touch and my reaction to it doubly confusing.
“Living room,” he said, waving an arm across the space. “Kitchen.” He gestured toward the small, adjoined, open-space kitchen. “And here, one bedroom and the bathroom,” he said, taking the few steps it took to get from the living room to the two rooms tucked behind a separating wall that had a few electric guitars hanging on it from hooks.
The place looked about the size of my studio apartment but with a different layout and a masculine touch that transpired in the darker colors of the furniture and only a few accessories. Sparks of color came only from the shiny guitars on the wall.
I peeked into the bedroom. It had only a sloppily-made bed, a closet, and a chair covered with clothes next to the window. I then peeked into the bathroom, which was both the toilet and the bathroom. It was a small, seventies-style, rather clean space. One toothbrush and toothpaste lay beside the sink. He didn’t even have a holder for those.
Going back to the living room, he stopped by a rectangular table padded in blue fleece. A red guitar rested on it, looking like it was going through open-heart surgery, surrounded by cables that were connected to all sorts of black and silver boxes with switches, buttons, and electronic thingies.
“My work,” Angelo said, the expression on his face looked like he was showing me his firstborn or the love of his life.
“I’ll need some details for—”
“I’m testing different sounds and effects for custom pre-amps and pedal boards.”
I didn’t know anything about it but memorized the words in case I’d be asked about it tomorrow.
Back in the living room, we began going over the points I had recorded, details that Jerry’s lawyer had asked us to cover, as well as things Angelo had thought of.
“Do you want coffee?” he asked.
“No, thanks. Do you happen to have herbal tea? Green tea, maybe?” I asked. No point in asking if he had matcha.
“Just regular tea,” he replied.
I watched his broad shoulders and the lean, athletic build of his body with the tattooed arms when he made me a cup in the kitchen. The tattoo on the back of his neck, as I had noticed before, was of the two hands touching from Michaelangelo’sThe Creation of Man.
“See what a beautiful husband I set you up with?” Jerry startled me.
I shifted my head toward him and realized he had been watching me and the way I was watching Angelo.
“It’s not funny, Jerry.” I cleared my throat. “I need to remember what this kitchen looks like, right?”
Jerry sniffed and looked away, back to the documents on the coffee table.
“Sugar?” Angelo called from the kitchen, his face veered toward me.
“She prefers you call her honey,” Jerry said, chuckling at his own joke.
I gave him another pointed look then turned to Angelo. “No, thanks.”
“Cream?”
“Nothing, thanks. I take it plain.”
He bit his lip and nodded, and just by that, I knew we were both thinking the same thing—these were things that we needed to know about each other if we wanted to convince anyone we were married.
Angelo handed me a steaming cup of black tea. “No green, I’m sorry.” It was as if realizing that we were in this together made him add a polite apology he hadn’t made before.
“Thanks.” I smiled.
He pointed at the pizza box that he had opened as soon as he’d sat down. Jerry had already eaten two slices while we were going over our lists before.
I smiled nervously again. “I don’t eat gluten or dairy,” I said, feeling Jerry’s eyes on me, too. For the first time, I wanted him gone, feeling like revealing the details of my daily life would be enough with just Angelo. After all, Jerry was just the guy who had gotten me a different payment plan in the shape of a fake marriage when I couldn’t afford to pay for the real estate I had bought from him. He had no real stakes in this.
“Oh.” That was all Angelo said for a moment. He ran his eyes over me from head to toe in a way that made me feel like he knew what I looked like under my organic, uncolored cotton pants and loose, buttoned blouse. “Do you want something else?” As if trying to recount what he had in the house, he added, “There’s vegetables in the fridge.” He seemed as lost as my sisters had been when they had first invited me for dinner years ago and realized I couldn’t eat most of what they had made. “We can order in something for you.”
“No, thanks. I’m not hungry.” My stomach was in knots, as were my throat and heart. I could get something from the shops next to the hotel I had booked, within walking distance from the offices we’d visit the next morning.
