“I think we drive down Sunday to pay tua madre a visit, no?” Marcello asks and Tara gives him a look that tells me this isn’t the first time they’ve discussed this.
“My therapist says if we continue to enable her, she will have no incentive to step outside of her comfort zone,” Tara explains.
“Is your mother agoraphobic?” Jeff asks and I feel my sister tense a little beside me. We haven’t used the a-word since Tara confronted my mom two years ago and was thrown out of the house and told not to come back with her “psycho-babble and bullshit.” My mother refused treatment in any form, which meant we had to continue to skirt around the obvious while coming up with creative ways to get her outside. Chickens enter stage left.
“Undiagnosed,” I tell Jeff who narrows his eyes at me and takes another tentative sip of his mule. The way he’s studying me for information makes me want to hide in the couch cushions. We don’t talk often about my mom’s “issues,” mostly because Tara and I can’t seem to agree on what to do. I know she needs help, but I refuse to starve her and not buy groceries to try to lureher out into the open. I stand when the weight of Jeff’s stare gets to be too much and the Earth tilts right. I sit back down, ignoring Tara’s giggle.
“I think it’s time for il dolce,” Marcello says wisely, winking my way. “The espresso will burn.”
“I’ll help!” Tara pats my leg and grins at Jeff as she follows her fiancé into the kitchen.
I need to pee.
This time I move slowly, ignoring Dr. Dick’s attempt not to laugh.
“Can I help you?” he asks, trying to extricate himself from the egg.
“No!” He freezes. Shakes his head with a breathy laugh. “You cannot help. Sit. Stay.”
Good boy.
“Devon, this is absurd. You’re—tipsy—and if you hurt that tendon again I’m gonna?—”
“Do what? What are you gonna do, you big meathead?” I puff out my chest and he puts both hands up, smiling.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been called that,” he says to himself. “Text me when you make it safely to the toilet.”
I ignore him and focus on taking my leave slowly. Gracefully. I keep my eyes on Jeff, making sure he doesn’t follow, until I hit the hallway wall, literally, and nearly knock a framed drawing of one of Tara’s early designs off the mount.
“You ok?” Jeff asks.
“Yup. Just checking for studs.”
I’ve stopped like I always do in front of the sketch of my prom dress. It never ceases to amaze me how talented she was—and is—as I stare at the sleek lines of champagne-colored satin that she created especially for me. She spent hours over my grandmother’s old Singer, me reading in bed while she sang along to Black Eyed Peas, moving that gorgeous fabric with herdeft, manicured fingers. The gown made me feel like a princess mermaid in a sea of prosecco. The thought of prosecco makes me a little queasy.
I smile through a yawn, reaching out to touch the orange smudgy fingerprint peeking out from the top right corner of the barnwood frame. I was eating hot wings when she showed me, and her outrage at the stain was the first time I remember thinking, “Oh shit, she’s going to seriously kill it in fashion.” And here we are, nearly a decade of fashion weeks in Paris later, with my little sister taking life (and a hot Milanese man) by the balls just as I’d always known she would.
I glance into Tara’s room and take in the heaven that is her bed. It’s a cloud backlit by the lights of the city stretching across the windows on the far wall. A puffy, glorious marshmallow that occupies the majority of the master and calls to me like a siren to a sailor. I’m just gonna bounce a little, stroke the silk pillows that keep sis lookin’ so fine in the am. I glance behind me like a shoplifter, then sneak inside her boudoir, giving the mattress my best plop. I sink into the quilted comforter and let my cheek cool against the smooth silk. This is magnificent. I don’t even have to pee anymore. I’m just going to lay here for a bit. Just to sober up. Shit, is that mascarpone I smell? Mmmmmm. I’ll just shut my eyes for a sec?—
My mind wakes me and points to my bladder. It’s pitch black in my room and I run my hand to my left to find my touch lamp, but instead I feel a lump beneath the blankets. Why am I on the wrong side of my bed? My fingers search some more through the softness, expecting to find the big stuffed llama, Obama, that my dad gave me for my twelfth birthday, but instead they hit something warm, firm, muscular, and smooth—oh shiz.
I sit up too fast. My brain shrivels and shrinks inside my head and I lift my hand away from what I hope was Tara’s arm on steroids and press my fingers to my throbbing temples. I’m not home. I’m at Tara’s. And what the hell am I wearing? I reach my right hand out into the darkness and come into contact with something cold and gooey. I bring my finger to my nose and sniff. Espresso and—I lick it. Yassss! Tiramisu. I force myself to focus while I lick my hand. I find my phone on the nightstand and press it alive with my wet thumb.
5:15 am. The exact time I get up for school every day. I turn on my flashlight and direct it down at my chest. Black silk tank top that I know isn’t mine. I lift the comforter—Tara’s comforter, I realize now. Matching black silk shorts with a trim of lace. Fuuuuuck. Slowly I turn the phone light to my left, it fans out like a light house around the room, spinning toward the exact person that I don’t want to see.
He’s on his stomach, his bare shoulders peeking out from the nine million thread count sheets Tara gifted herself. His hair looks so soft and shiny against the silk pillowcase. The silk worked its magic on him, too. Because he looks fine. He stirs a little when my light hits his insanely thick lashes and I quickly turn it and press it against my braless chest. What—the hell—have I done?
There’s no way I slept with him. I wasn’t that drunk. I had like three glasses of champagne. Maybe four. I’d remember. I’d definitely remember. And my lady parts don’t feel any different. They aren’t rejoicing with a chorus or whispering Hallelujah to the sky. I rack my already racked brain for memories of post primi piatti. Shit. I don’t remember.
I scurry around the room like a three-footed mouse, grabbing any clothes I can find on the floor, tripping over throw pillows as I go. I’ve got like three items in my grip, so I snatch up the tiramisu from the nightstand, tiptoe into the hall, and shut thedoor softly behind me. With the clothes pressed to my chest and the plate of orgasm between my fingers, I walk silently toward the bathroom, my bladder screaming louder than the base drum pounding in my head.
I drop the clothes on the floor, flick on the light switch, squint my eyes enough to survive the onslaught of light, and drop onto the porcelain throne like it might disappear at any moment. As I take care of business and nibble on a ladyfinger drenched in espresso, I force my aching brain to concoct an exit plan. I had one gosh-darned job. Stay away from Jeff Harrison. Yet, somehow, I failed. So, there is only one thing left to do. The mature thing. Run.
When I’m dressed and there is no evidence that the tiramisu ever existed, I make my way down the hall toward the soft orange glow that streams through the wall of glass in Tara’s living room. The rising sun turns the skyline black like?—
“Buongiorno, bella sorella.”
Shit.
