Valentina’s mouth tips. “She did not.”
“Oh, she did. I offered her my car and she recovered miraculously.”
I almost smile.Almost.
“People are insane.”
“Yes,” Alessia says, grateful for the crack of light. “But entertaining.”
We sit in the small quiet that comes after a nearly-laugh. The city hums. A siren somewhere far enough away to ignore. A horn that gives up early. Heat ticks through the wall.
Valentina clears her throat. “You don’t have to pick anything today. You don’t have to pick anything at all until you want to.”
“I know.”
“We can slow this down,” she says, and there’s no performance in it. “Make it a series of small decisions that don’t feel like a cliff.”
“Or we can pick nothing and eat cake,” Alessia says. “I vote cake.”
“Cake is good,” I say.
Valentina waits a beat. “Are you sleeping?”
“Sometimes.”
“Nightmares?”
“Sometimes.”
She nods like I gave her a full medical history. Alessia watches me instead of the window. She’s always been better at the part where you see what someone won’t say.
“Tell me something boring,” I say. “Please.”
Valentina thinks. “I organized the spice drawer by cuisine.”
“Psychopath,” Alessia says. “Who does that?”
“Someone whose spouse put cinnamon in arrabbiata once.”
I let the corner of my mouth lift. “He didn’t.”
“Oh, he did,” Valentina says, hand to heart, affronted. “The betrayal.”
We stack small, safe stories between us like blocks a child won’t let fall. Twenty minutes pass. Maybe thirty. My shoulders drop half an inch. The air gets easier to breathe once it stops trying to be lovely.
From the table, my phone lights up. I don’t look. I don’t need to. If it’s who I want it to be…it wouldn’t be. If it’s who I expect, I don’t want it.
“Tomorrow, they’ll bring rings,” Valentina says carefully. “Just options. You can say no to every single one.”
“I probably will.”
“Good.”
Alessia tips her head. “Do you want to meet with the florist without Orlo’s mother there? I can make that happen.”
“Please.”
“Done.”
