The door rattles under the knock, and so does my chest.
"Wait!" I hiss. "You were supposed to wait until I told you!"
"She loved you at the wedding. Relax."
"No. She loved Emma, who didn't upend her family's values."
My eyes drop at the two doves on the Christian wreath, screaming judgment at the accidental heathen slut.
I yank my skirt lower over the crystal fishnets—yes, actualglittering fishnets. They're a punishment for losing a bet. I thought I could beat Ben by taking the subway to the library, but he caught me at the corner with that maddening smirk and coffees in hand.
"Can't believe you made me come here dressed like a hooker," I grumble.
"You're wearing your prude skirt over it," he says softly. "Something for Mom, something for me, underneath."
I roll my eyes.
I should be thinking about what I tell his mother. Instead, my mind keeps slipping back to those two incredible, breathless weeks in New York. To us sharing dripping slices of Sicilian pizza from the 79thas we sat in Central Park, then night walks around our neighborhood in our matching hoodie set.
Yup. We're officially one of those couples.
I'm Red Velvet For HerandFor Him.
It started as a joke in a printing shop, but we walked out of it wearing them. I guess it was inevitable.
Of course, bliss never stays untaxed. I got a lawyer on day two, papers filed, but Richard won't answer a single call about our divorce.
My mother staged her own opera after finding out. Storms of rage through messages and never-ending calls until Ben and I had a serious talk and I decided to block her number. At least until I come back and figure out my stuff.
Lu still reminds me I bailed on her exhibition. Another debt I'll have to pay later.
Now that we're allowed to have our feelings in public, we'rein that giddy stage of falling in love where no one else exists.
Multiply that by a million, add a dash of madness, throw in the occasional screaming match over where the bed should be, and there you go.
We fight, yes, but I don't want that part to change—fighting with him is still intimacy, meaning neither of us is walking away.
A few nights ago, Ben barged through the door like he'd just won the lottery. Before I could ask, he spun me until I was shrieking with laughter and borderline concussion.
The prize: his mother had invited us for Thanksgiving. Not him. Us. A we. A seat at her table. And I know in his world, that's more precious than gold.
So here we are and now I brace for real life to slap me.
Carmela's voice booms behind the door: "Mara,guarda la pasta!"
From deeper inside: "Mamma, I'm mopping! Whoever thought white tile was a good idea should rot in hell—"
"HEY! That was your father's idea! And no cursing in this house!"
The door swings open and the vibe is immediate: smell of roasted meat, red wine, there's Carmela in a lemon apron, hands on her hips. Mara's waving with a mop even though she looks like she stepped out of a catwalk. Dino is somewhere already yelling about tiramisu tasting like dirt. The chicory coffee—Mara's fault. Everyone's yelling over everyone else.
"How long you stand here?" Carmela aims straight at Ben. "I saw you sneaking when it was still daylight!"
"Hi, Mamma." He kisses her temple with incredible tenderness. "I was preparing Emma for the battle."
She glares. "You brat. I sweat like a mule cooking, and this is how you greet me?"
Her fury is staged, you can tell, but I'm still scared.
