“You got on two different sides of shoes,” I told her, pointing at her feet, trying my best to hide my amusement. I wanted to burst out laughing so bad.
“I only just noticed that in the elevator on my way up here,” Dior said, flicking a strand of unruly hair out of her eyes. Lifting her chin in a proud manner, knowing damn well she was embarrassed.
“Can I help you?” I asked, knowing that would only piss her off further. The way her head snapped back, as if I’d just slapped her, made the situation even funnier.
“Buddha, are you trying to piss me off?” Dior asked, her eyes wild and crazy as she tried to see inside the hotel room behind me. I purposely adjusted my stance, obscuring her view.
Narrowing her eyes at me, Dior seemed to take in my attire for the first time. Seeing me standing in the doorway in just a pair of black boxers apparently set off a blaring horn in her head.
“Where the hell are your clothes? Why aren’t you inviting me into your room?” Dior asked, going on her tiptoes, trying once again to see inside my room.
“I’m kind of busy. I’ll see you when I get home,” I said, standing straight as I got ready to close the door on her. Dior slammed the palm of her right hand on the door, forcing me to leave it open.
“Do you have somebody in there? Is Catalina in there?” She said, trying to force her way inside the room. I held her back easily, refusing to let her in.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked, folding my arms, looking down at her. She was big mad, her chest heaving up and down, upset that she wasn’t strong enough to get by me.
“Who do you have in that room with you, Buddha. I promise that I’ll get violent and beat you and that woman,” Dior said, putting both her hands against my chest and giving a huge push. Even though she wasn’t a match for my strength, I decided to humor her and move backward, granting her access to the room.
Closing the door, I watched the comedy show before me as Dior marched around, searching for the imaginary woman she believed was in here. Picking up the coffee cup, I sipped my brew unbothered as Dior scanned the room like a fucking FBI agent.
Eventually, she stopped and looked over at me, folding her arms and glaring at how calm and collected I was.
“Are you done being an idiot?” I asked her, sipping away from the cup.
“Why didn’t you come home last night?” She demanded, placing a hand on her hip.
“Why did you tell my mother about Catalina when I told you not to?” I answered her question with a question, which I could tell infuriated her.
“Because you kept choosing Catalina over me. You sent me away in Italy, and then you refused to tell me anything. Yo–you made me feel like you wanted her and not me. I did not like that.” I listened and fully understood that I had hurt Dior’s feelings with my actions.
“I told you that I needed time to sort that Catalina shit out. You couldn’t let me deal with my affairs and trust that I wouldlet you know as soon as I figured it out. Instead, you do the one thing I told you not to and run to my mother.
“Then what does my mother do? She invites Catalina and fucks you over by not giving you so much as a warning about what she was planning. Didn’t I tell you about my mother? You have no idea how fucking vindictive she can be. So you wanted to do your own thing, so I did mine and came here,” I could see her face relax, and she looked away before looking at me again.
“I’m sorry for not listening to you and telling your mother about Catalina.” Dior’s face looked as though it hurt like a mothafucka to apologize to me. She barely opened her mouth when she spoke.
“I’m not sure if I believe you,” I said, looking at her over the rim of my coffee cup. Dior snorted in the back of her throat as she rolled her eyes at me.
“Now you’re just being a stranza,” I laughed softly at her terrible Italian pronunciation.
“The word isstronzo(asshole).”
“Whatever the fuck the word is, you’re being it,” she pointed at me, obviously irritated. Shaking my head, I finished my coffee and set the cup down.
“Go sit down on the bed, Dior,” I said, walking over to her and pointing at it.
“Why?” She asked, giving me an attitude because simply doing as asked would obviously cause her to self-combust. Exhaling loudly because I wasn’t in the mood, I walked over, grabbed both her shoulders, and led her over to the bed, forcing her to sit.
“Because I fucking said so.” I bent to get into her face so she could see I wasn’t fucking around. I took a seat next to her and looked down at my bare feet, trying to find the right words.
“What’s wrong? Did you find out about Enzo? Is he your son?” Dior asked in a tone that suggested she was afraid of what my answer would be.
“Enzo isn’t my son,” I said after a few seconds of silence. I looked at Dior and saw shock before relief.
“He’s Edwardo’s?” She asked softly.
“Yeah, he is,” I nodded as I answered her question.
