Page 21 of Bittersweet

“Maybe he’s been burnt badly before,” Emma suggests. “Have you looked him up online? Checked him out on socialmedia?”

“I don’t even know his last name,” Ilament.

“You don’t?” Her voice is shocked. “Romy, he’s the only man I’ve heard you talk about in a year and you don’t know that one basicdetail?”

“No,” I mutterquietly.

“So I can’t stalkhim?”

“Afraid not. Besides, those kinds of things never mattered with us before.” And they haven’t. I’ve been so busy falling for the way he makes me laugh, the way he makes me smile, and the way he makes me coffee that I haven’t worried about the past, or last names, or anything aside from how I feel when we’retogether.

I pause by the gates at my parents’ place, dialing in the code on the keypad, then head on up to the turning circle driveway out front of theirhouse.

“What if there’s a Jeremy in his past stopping him from taking that next step?” she presses, but something about that idea just doesn’t seemright.

“I don’tknow. . .”

“Well, I think you need to get kissing, ASAP. If you don’t take a chance soon, you’re going to wind up spending the next few years enduring dinners at your parents’ placealone.”

A fork of lightning pierces the sky behind the house.Creepy. “Speaking of, I’ve arrived. Call youlater?”

“Sounds good. I have to get my son off the boobs, give them a few minutes rest before the husband comes home and I have to get them out again,” she says, pausing. “Unless you want me to wait until you can come around andwatch. . .”

“Shut up!” I roll my eyes, laughing. “Have a goodnight.”

“Bye.” She ends the call on a giggle, and I pull the car into park, my mood considerably lighter thanbefore.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe all I need to do is have an open and honest discussion with Elio, one where I tell him the truth about my feelings—that he’s more than just a guy who makes the most delicious cakes and life-sustaining coffee. To me, he’s the things in between, too. He’s talking and laughing and feeling at ease. Do I really want to let that opportunity slip through myfingers?

I get out of the car and head inside the house. My keys jangle as I place them along with my handbag on the hall table, and the rush of feet padding softly over tiles greetsme.

“Miss Romy, I’m so sorry. I should have been here to get the door.” My parents’ housekeeper bites her lip, taking my keys and handbag and placing them in the visitor closet directly opposite theentrance.

“Maria, this is my childhood home. I don’t need toknock.”

Worried eyes are my only reply as my heels click over the black-and-white art deco tiles toward the parlor, straight for the drink cart. My mother stands beside it, a wine glass held elegantly in her hand. Her long red talons gleam around the stem as her steel blue eyes look me up and down and find me wanting. I saw her parents do it to her when they were still alive, and it looks like Mom’s following tradition. Old money can be like that—judgment’s soexpensive.

“You didn’t knock?” sheasks.

“You didn’t greet me with hello?” I ask, forcing a smile as she proffers a cheek for the customary kiss on eitherside.

“Darling, you know how much I hate it when you just waltz in. I could have thought you were a burglar and called thepolice.”

“If I was a burglar, I wouldn’t come into your house and stop to make myself a martini.”Mom just sighs, then calls down the hall, “Beau! Beau! Come and visit with your daughter, the alcoholicthief.”

I take the vermouth and gin and pour some into a crystal-stemmedglass.

A bigglass.

The biggest I canfind.

After adding a lemon twist, I fill a small crystal bowl with nuts from an unopened packet I spot underneath the top shelf, then sink onto a sofa. Mom relaxes on the lounge opposite. Above her head, the clock on the wall ticks over toseven.

Two hours togo.

Just one hundred and twenty minutes until this monthly obligation isdone.

I crunch on the peanuts, the salty taste filling my mouth. “Nut?”

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