“Gelato?” she repeats, like she’s testing the word.
“Homemade,” I say. I brush my mouth against hers again, lightly.
Then I straighten and head back toward the kitchen before she can think on it any longer.
By the time I’m back on the couch, the kitchen is back to looking like it did before I walked into it—clean counters, dishes cleaned, containers stacked in the fridge for later.
I don’t feel any better.
I just feel like at least one more thing won’t be waiting to jump her later.
She’s still where I left her, tucked into the corner of the couch under the throw like she’s trying to disappear into it. The ice pack is in her lap now instead of on her face, and the remote is on the cushion beside her as if she forgot why she has it.
Her eyes track me when I come in.
They’re calmer.
Not calm.
Just not actively drowning.
I shift the throw and sit down beside her. Her shoulder tenses automatically, and I hate it, but I ignore it and just continue.
I set the paper bag on the coffee table, along with two spoons, and pull out the gelato.
Three containers.
Two I asked for. One Bianca decided I needed, whether I said so or not.
Pistachio.
Lemon.
And the third one—stracciatella—because she’s a menace and she knows I won’t say no to it.
I line them up and hand Erica a spoon.
She takes it without speaking, like she’s waiting for the next instruction. So I oblige her.
“Pick,” I tell her.
Her gaze drifts over the containers like it’s a bigger decision than it is.
“Vanilla,” she says finally, quietly.
“Stracciatella,” I correct, slowing down so she can hear the Italian pronunciation.
She blinks at me, then at the container.
“Stracci… what?” she asks.
“Stra-cha-TELL-a,” I say, slow and clipped.
Her brows knit. “Stra… cha… tell… a.” It comes out careful and a little wrong.
I tap my spoon against the rim of the container once. “Close,” I say. “Straht-chah-TELL-ah.” Then, softer, because she’s still raw under the throw. “You can just call it the good one.”
That gets a smile out of her. I realize with a start that it’s the first one I’ve seen since the fake smile she had plastered on her face on that damn stage when those men were shouting lewd comments at her. And the first real one I’ve seen since before then.
