5
I'm in a café, sitting outside under a striped awning that tints the light Chianti red—the same color swirling in my glass.
I don't usually drink that much.
I don't usually do a lot of things.
Like lie to my husband about where I'm going because it's easier than explaining Mara.
Or maybe that's just what I tell myself, since she's Ben's sister and I keep Ben sealed away.
Not just because I'm shady, but because I pretend—desperately and daily—that he isn't real so I can go on with my life.
Anyway...
Mara texted again this morning, threatening to drag me out if I ghost her, and knowing her? Yeah, I got scared.
She added that Ben's busy running errands, which is good.
I can't face him after that mural—the way it felt like the universe knew he was coming. I'm still shook about it.
I tear open a sugar packet, watching a few granules skid across the table.
Am I angry with him? Probably. Most definitely.
Not because I want him back. No. I'm married. Happily.
I mean, mostly. Sure, Richard and I argue, but every couple does, right?
Ah! And there's Mara, striding through the crowd like sheowns it, hair hacked into a sharp blonde bob now, pink mini, cat-eye shades.
She's stunning, always looking like a '00s pop star walking just off the set between the takes.
"Stranger danger!" She crashes into me, like she's both punishing me for the three-year drought and happy to see me and then takes off her shades with a flair.
She's got those Bellini-colored eyes—dark brown, gorgeous. Only hers are round, huge, deer-like; Ben's are half-lidded, dangerously magnetic.
"Love your hair like this," I say, pointing.
"Same!" she bells in her usual loud voice she apparently inherited from her mom, although I never met her. That and her Christian values you can see in the bedazzled small cross she always wears around her neck.
"Can't believe you cut yours to shoulder-blades, you had it so long!"
"I know." I run my fingers through my hair out of reflex. "Thought I needed some grounding, so I cut it."
That's partly a lie, which I'll explain later.
"Oh... okay." Mara casts me an amused glance, but the second she flips open the menu, her expression changes into a frown. "Damn. My friend recommended this place. It's pricey."
I gesture around the sunlit terrace I've been admiring the whole time. Cesca chairs, marble and Italian disco floating through the speakers. "Yeah, but cheap for something out of a Sorrentino movie?"
She hums, surveys the surroundings, then—approvingnod—she calls the waiter with her smile and a hand flick.
The same guy who took ten minutes with my water now rushes as if she gave an order.
"Hi." She beams at him, batting her eyes ridiculously the way only Mara knows how. "Two strawberry lemonades and two affogatos."
"I don't drink—" I start.
