He wrestled the loaded bar bell and won, raising it from his chest, then dumping it back on the rack. Panting, he sat up, heart thumping, head swimming. It was his fourth set, and he already regretted it, but putting his body on blast was the best alternative he had to fixating on his growing obsession with Mickey.
Growing obsession? Like it wasn’t sky high before?
Whatever. Benito moved to the leg press and inflicted the same punishment on his quads that he had on his upper body. Lactic acid screamed through his thighs, and he gritted his teeth, a quiet grunt escaping him. Don’t think about him.
Fuck.
Benito wasn’t sure he even knew how. Since Bletchley Park, they’d spent three more entire days together, wandering around, eating, talking. Mickey thought he was terrible at being ordinary, but despite the fact there was nothing ordinary about him, he was the best company Benito had ever had. He sucked up every mundane moment they shared like a sponge and bottled the feeling to soak in when they were apart, and he missed Mickey so much it hurt.
They hadn’t fucked again, though. Or even kissed. Not even after the late-night dinner they’d shared at the weekend. Benito didn’t know why. All he knew for certain was that Mickey had made no move to close the distance between them, and Benito hadn’t either. And that the heat between them still raged as hot as ever, so nothing about the impasse made any fucking sense.
Impasse. You learn that word from the history channel?
Of course. Benito didn’t even try to silence Mickey’s voice in his head. He liked it. It stopped his treacherous self-esteem wondering if Mickey was burning off steam in Freefall rather than the gym, because the rational human he could be when he really tried knew he wasn’t.
An hour later, Benito limped out of the gym and to his car with every intention of driving home for a nap. It was ten in the morning. He’d worked all night long, seen Gianna onto the bus, and hit the gym straight after. He was so tired he could barely focus, but hunger outweighed fatigue. Breakfast—and his last text from Mickey—seemed a long time ago.
Benito drove to Fenny Stratford and pulled up outside the Italian bakery Roberto’s family had once owned before he’d run it into the ground. A new family fronted it now, and they weren’t even Italian, but Benito didn’t care. The chicken, mushroom, and mozzarella paninis were too good for principled food choices. He bought two and picked up some cannoli for Gianna. He hadn’t planned on stopping by Rosetta’s place but somehow found himself outside Barnfield Court ten minutes later.
Twat. You were only here three hours ago.
Story of his fucking life.
Leaving his precious sandwiches behind, he took the stairs two at a time and knocked on Rosetta’s door as a courtesy before letting himself inside. “Mum? Where you at?”
Somewhere inside the flat, a door opened and closed. Assuming it was Rosetta locking herself away, Benito toed his trainers off and padded through the flat to the kitchen to put Gianna’s dessert away.
“Beni?”
“Jesus fuck.” Benito jumped and whirled around. Rosetta was behind him, still in her dressing gown. “Don’t sneak up on me.”
She offered him a wan smile. “I didn’t. You’re in my home. And don’t swear.”
Benito had forgotten that Rosetta had once been in on the running joke he shared with Gianna.
Sadness flared. He dampened it down and opened the fridge. “I brought Gianna cannoli from Pepe’s. Is there anything else you need? I’ve got time for a supermarket run.”
“We’re fine. How about you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, how are you, Benito? You look like you haven’t slept for a week.”
“What do you care?”
“That’s not fair.”
“Really? This again?”
Rosetta ventured further into the kitchen. She retrieved her favourite frying pan from the hook above the stove and the decanter of olive oil that was never out of reach. “I know I haven’t been the best mother to you, but I’m allowed to care. You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I’m not—fuck. You know what? Never mind. I’m leaving anyway.”
Benito moved to step around her.
Rosetta caught his arm in her cold, bony hand. “Wait.”
“Why?”
“Because you look hungry and I can help you with that.”
“Help me?”
“Yes. I have plenty of food now. My Universal Credit payments came through and the housing officer helped me set up a budget plan.”
“Mickey?”
“Yes.” Rosetta slid him a glance he couldn’t decipher. “You’ve met him. The northern boy with the nice eyes.”
“If you say so.” Benito felt faint. He gripped the peeling laminate counter behind him and leaned against it. “I should still go. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“You don’t,” Rosetta said shortly. “I do that all by myself. Did you know anxiety is ninety per cent worrying about worrying?”
“Um, no?” Am I even awake right now? “Who told you that? Doctor Google?”
“No. The counsellor that came round last week. We talked about you a lot.”
“Why?”
“Because I told her I wanted you around more, but every time I think about asking you to come, I panic about being anxious when you’re here.”
Why are you telling me this? Benito leaned harder against the counter and watched Rosetta move around the kitchen, retrieving eggs from the windowsill and a loaf of Italian bread from the cupboard.
She poured olive oil into her pan and fried eggs with oregano and chilli flakes. Then she dunked the sliced bread in the pan and fried that too, like she had when he was little.
The world seemed to stick its feet in treacle. Time stopped, then retreated, and Benito was six years old again. Gianna didn’t exist, and it was just him, Rosetta, and his dad eating breakfast on a Sunday morning—the only day of the week Victor Martell hadn’t got up at the crack of dawn and left for work before Benito was awake.
Numb, Benito sat at the same battered kitchen table and stared at the same plate of food.
Rosetta nudged him. “Eat. I can’t do much for you anymore, but I can do this.”
Benito ate, clearing his plate slower than his growling stomach wanted to, while he watched Rosetta flit around her kitchen. She seemed different, somehow, though he couldn’t say how. Christ, she wasn’t even dressed, let alone close to functioning like anyone’s mother, but for the first time in years, it felt like she was. “You’ll be offering to do my washing next.” In his head, he uttered the words flatly. Out loud, his tone was warm, surprising Rosetta as much as himself.
She brought him a mug of coffee. “I . . . I could do that for you, if you needed me to.”
“I was joking, Mum. I don’t need you to wash my clothes.”
“Oh well. Okay. I’m just saying that I could. Maybe if you left them outside?”
Benito pushed his plate away, a familiar frown replacing any semblance of good humour. “I don’t understand. If you don’t want me to come in anymore, just say so. I only have a key to keep Gianna safe.”
“It’s not that. I like that you have a key now. It’s—”