“Bon-e—” I stop. Did I just say boner in Italian? I try again, “Bone DiGiorno, Marcello.”
“Your blouse—” He points to Jeff’s button-down that I scooped off the floor. I look down, realizing I skipped like six buttons.
“Oops,” I say, attempting a smile. My lips won’t stretch without cracking.
“Let me bring you some espresso,” he says, folding the Italian paper he was reading and laying it beside him.
“Marcello, do you think you could help me?”
I have to squint again to protect my eyes from the blinding smile he gives me as he nods emphatically. This man is the literal best.
“Certo. We are family soon, no?” He gestures with his hand for me to go on.
I exhale through my nose. Swallow my pride, nearly choking.
“Will you help me get out of here before Jeff and Tara wake up?”
His eyes twinkle like a Disney princess’s and his grin widens.
“I see. I see,” he says, nodding. “This is not a problem.”
This is definitely a problem. But his words ease my frantic thoughts. The plan was to wait for Jeff until after his interview, drive home together. Maybe have some breakfast with T while he’s off wooing a potential future employer. But the plan went out the window the moment I woke up in a negligée and not my “Who runs the world? Girls” t-shirt.
He continues, “You get the espresso. I will get your luggage. I will drive you to the station? When Tara awakens, I will explain.”
“Marcello, thank you. You have no idea?—”
He holds up his hand and waves me away.
“It is nothing. Niente,” he says, patting my shoulder as he passes.
It is everything. Facing Jeff right now—after whatever the hell happened last night—I wouldn’t be able to handle that and this hangover. I’m never drinking again—especially in his presence, if I’m ever in his presence again. Every time I think of him, my brain goes fuzzy and my stomach starts bouncing on a trampoline. I’m in way over my head and now I might have tied a brick to my ankle last night.
I pour as much espresso as I can into one of Tara’s travel mugs and head for the door, grateful to see Marcello already there with my suitcase and his gleaming white teeth.
“Pronto?” he asks.
I nod even though I have no idea what he said.
“Andiamo, bella sorrella,” he tells me, opening the door, and this one I know.
Andiamo, Marcello. Andiamo me the hell out of here—far, far away from the sleeping man-beauty.
Sister, Sister
Devon: I’m sorry I left. Did you get my note?
Tara: You mean the penis drawing you left on my mirror using shaving cream?
Devon: I folded your panties for you and put them under the sink.
Tara: Yeah, I found them when I went to get a tampon. Weird choice.
Why’d you bolt?
Devon: Um. It might be normal for you to wake up in a stranger’s bed wearing Agent Provacateur, but alas, I just wasn’t raised that way.
Tara: Ew. It’s La Perla.
