“Except for her, I have everythingIneed. We’ll have to make sure it sounds like we have it all at the interview. Tell her not to worry. I’ll see you both tomorrow.” I knew June had to drive from Riviera View and couldn’t possibly be here before noon.
I took a deep breath after we hung up, my fingers automatically forming chords on the strings, playing of their own accord.
June Raine. Who the hell gave her that name?
My life was literally in her hands. However, knowing the risk and facing it wasn’t the same thing.
She needed this to work just as much as I did. Even more so.
A walk. I needed to walk out that nervous energy.
On my way downstairs, passing by apartment 2C, I was glad I hadn’t succumbed to the blonde’s repeated invitations. If they interviewed neighbors, I wouldn’t want anyone telling them that I was cheating on my wife.
Enough coffee invitations came my way. My accent did the work for me, though I could usually charm my way without even meaning to. Maybe it was the guitar, my humor, or looks, I had no idea. As a one-night-stand once said, “I don’t know what turns me on more—your face or your accent.” I needed caffeine in my bloodstream, but ever since I had married June, I’d soldiered through.
Out on the street, I walked past the vehicle I had bought soon after marrying her. A third-hand Maserati with quite a mileage on her; a car I could never have afforded in Italy, even in her used state. It was cheaper here, in this foreign land, than it was at Maserati’s and my homeland. Thanks to registering myself at June’s address, a loan and insurance were no longer an issue.
I walked past it, still enchanted by its deepMediterraneo Bluethat matched the color of my most cherished guitar. And incidentally, the color of my wife’s eyes.
7
June
I found a parking spot and looked up at the building. I tried to memorize what the street looked like, the buildings around me, the shops. If asked at the interview, I could say that the Starbucks over there was one of our frequent Sunday morning hangouts.
Driving for four hours, I’d had enough time to come up with all the points we had to align on. I made a voice memo list for myself, hoping I hadn’t forgotten anything and that we’d have enough time for it all. The pictures of my apartment that I sent to Angelo’s phone were joined by a text saying, “I miss you. See you soon. What do you think about the new furniture arrangement?”
Providing text messages as proof of our relationship was one of the things I had listed. Angelo probably understood it, too, because his reply wasn’t a confusedwhat the fuck, but a heart emoji. I even made sure that our framed picture would be clearly visible in the pictures I had taken.
Rio was surprised when I had texted I was sick and probably contagious. The best proof of my lifestyle’s efficacy was that I hardly ever got sick. Definitely not your common flu and viruses. My immune system was well vitaminized, herbed, and purified.
Sighing, I left my car and walked over to the building. On my way up, I passed by a pretty blonde who smiled at me.
3D.
Jerry answered the door. “Come on in. We just got pizza. Pepperoni,” he said as if it was of significance, given the reason I was here.
The first thing that hit me upon walking in was the warm smell of sawn wood—cedar, mahogany, something like that. The second was the apartment. I must have been expecting a lair because I was surprised that, for a single guy, it was in an okay state of order. There were way too many things lying around—guitars, cables, low wooden stools with guitar brands’ names printed on them, and a shirt was thrown over the back of the sofa. But generally, it wasn’t the worst I’d seen.
Angelo rose from the sofa. In a pair of worn-out black jeans and a black T-shirt with a V-neckline that exposed chest hair between his pecs and that silver figaro-style chain, he was as tall and extremely handsome as I remembered. “Hello, June.” The way my name sounded in that accent was mesmerizing even in this context.
“Hi.” I hesitated for a second then approached him with my hand outstretched. When my hand was in his, I noticed that he was wearing the wedding ring on his left hand. “I brought mine, too.” I released my hand and extracted the ring from my purse.
“I’m … getting used to it.” He looked uncomfortable, as if he had to explain this to me, of all people.
“I get that.” I huffed a dry chuckle and slipped my ring on, too.
Jerry brought over two closed boxes of pizza and placed them on the coffee table. “Esther will join us later. But remember, she doesn’t know, and as a lawyer, she can’t know that your marriage is not bona fide. She’ll just make sure we’ve got all the relevant documents and brief you for the interview.”
Angelo and I both nodded.
“Please, sit.” Angelo gestured at the single sofa.
“I thought you could show me the place first.”
“Yes, show your wife the apartment,” Jerry said, chuckling and looking relieved, as if his lame joke diffused the tension that hung like a gray cloud under the ceiling.
“Come with me.” Angelo stepped out from behind the coffee table, and as he passed by me, he put his hand on the small of my back for a brief moment, as if to reinforce the need for me to follow him. It was nothing, except that the sudden warmth of his hand seeped through the fabric of my blouse and sent a surprising wave that made me perk my back upright.
