“What do you mean?”
“You’re planning to spend the night on an uncomfortable-looking couch without so much as a blanket or pillow, instead of taking yourself home to your bed.”
“It’s not that bad.” My stomach rumbled loudly just then, and I muttered, “Wow, embarrassing.”
Tory’s brow instantly creased with concern. “Did you eat dinner tonight?”
“I had a sandwich and a Coke while I was driving.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Six hours, maybe.”
Now he looked frustrated. “You’re in a restaurant. There must be food there, so go find something to eat.”
“There are ingredients in the walk-in, but the kitchen’s spotless and everything’s shut down for the night.”
“How far is your apartment from the diner?”
“About three miles.”
“Please go home, eat something, and sleep in an actual bed.”
I asked, “Why does this matter to you?”
“Because I like you, Armando, and I want to know you’re taking care of yourself.”
That was actually very sweet. “Fine, I’m going.” I sat up and asked, “Want me to text you when I get there?”
“I’d like it if you video called me.”
“To prove I didn’t just stay on the couch in my office?”
He grinned and said, “Maybe.”
I grinned too and told him, “I’ll talk to you soon.”
It didn’t take long to drive to my apartment. I brought my things inside and found the second stuffed eggplant in the tote bag. Then I changed into pajama pants and a clean T-shirt and looked in my refrigerator. It was pretty empty, but I found the end of a block of cheese and brought it with me to the bedroom.
After I got in bed, I placed a video call to Tory and pointed the phone at the eggplant, which I’d tucked in beside me. He chuckled when he answered the call, and I turned the screen toward me and said, “I’m home and in bed. Happy?”
“Yes. Did you find something to eat?” I held up the plastic bag, and he asked, “What is that?”
“A half-inch-thick slab of pepper jack.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“It’s a piece of cheese, and the best I could do.” I propped up the phone with a fold of the blanket and unwrapped my makeshift dinner. “Since you’re here, tell me a bedtime story.”
I’d been joking, but he said, “Okay. What kind of story would you like?”
“Tell me about growing up in Italy. It can be real or a lie, either way.”
“I guess I’ll start at the beginning.” He took a sip of red wine before saying, “My mom grew up in a small town in Sicily, but then she fell in love with my father, who was an artist and a musician. Against the objections of her family, they got married and moved to Rome. He was hoping for his big break, but he ended up playing the piano in tiny supper clubs, and selling his paintings to tourists for a fraction of what they were worth.”
Tory shifted around and continued, “I was born two years into their marriage. They were so young, just twenty-two and twenty-four, but they were wonderful parents. There was always music in our home, and love, and laughter. We lived in a tiny, decaying apartment in Monti. Back then, it was a fairly run-down neighborhood. Now, it’s become posh and trendy. But itwas always crowded with tourists, because it’s a stone’s throw from the Colosseum.”
“Wow,” I said, “it must have been so cool to live someplace like that.”
