13
Mariposa
“What do you think, Vera II? Should we add more rosemary? More basil? Or how about thyme?” I lifted it to my nose and sniffed too hard. Then I sneezed and coughed. “A little of that will go a long way. But rosemary? I love the smell of it.” This time, I didn’t put the bottle up so close.
Vera II looked exactly like Vera I, except her pot was different. After Capo had shown me around, and I started to get comfortable, I noticed Vera II sitting on the table next to my side of the bed, right next to the watch. The original Vera’s leaves were skimpy, and the same was true for Vera II. I could’ve sworn they were the same plant, but I knew better.
How could he have given me the same plant?
It just seemed odd, how alike they were. And I would’ve thought that he would’ve bought a plant with more aloe to it.
This time around, I swore to bulk Vera II up. She already had a dose of plant food for succulents. Every once in a while I moved her around so she’d have equal amounts of light and rest.
During one of my doctor’s appointments—that was a term during our meeting, I had to see a few of them since I hadn’t in years—I read while in the waiting room. The magazine stated that talking to your plants makes them grow faster. It also said that plants seemed to react to female voices better than they did male ones. So whenever I was home alone, Vera II and I had conversations.
Since I was making dinner and home alone, she got an earful. I could’ve called Keely, but I decided not to.
I’d been married for two weeks, and even though I talked to Kee, it wasn’t often, and our conversations seemed…short. I knew she still loved me, but she was struggling with Harrison’s romantic feelings and my platonic ones after he confessed to me how he felt. We were on unsteady ground. We usually talked about everything—mostly how we were going to survive—but since everything had been turned upside down, we traded what we once called “poor people’s problems” for “rich people’s problems.”
It was an entirely new world to me, and I was still playing catch up. So many things that I’d written in my journal were happening all at once. And somewhere deep down, a dark fear ate at me. I kept waiting for the shoes that fit to disappear, and the ones that were too tight (and used to make me bleed) to reappear.
I looked down at my feet. They were bare. I loved the way the floors in the fire station felt beneath them. Cool. Clean. And in some rooms, so soft I wanted to cry.
This place. It smelled like home to me. It felt like home. I never wanted to leave, and since I’d arrived, I’d only gone out to meet with the wedding planners at Rocco’s office, have the fittings for my second wedding gown, and buy groceries. I had a sleek black card that my husband insisted that I use. It had my name on it, Mariposa Macchiavello, and no limit.
The black card was nothing compared to my new I.D. and passport, though. My eyes welled at that one.
“How about this, Vera II? Does this consistency look right to you?” I lifted the bowl, showing my plant the mixture I’d made to go between the layers of the pasta boiling on the stove. I was trying to make lasagne al forno. When Capo brought me here after the wedding, a full tray of it had been in the fridge. It was the best thing I’d ever tasted, so I looked in one of my many cookbooks and found a recipe for it.
As of yet, I hadn’t made a meal that truly tasted good, but since I had nothing but time on my hands, I was determined to get it right at some point. Setting the bowl down, I decided to get the ingredients I’d need for an Italian cream cake. It was sort of like trying to touch the tops of two mountains in one day, but go big or go home. Either way, win or lose, I was square.
“Fucka me,” I breathed out. The monstrous size of the pantry always shocked me. It was bigger than the apartment I’d rented from Merv the dead perv (Kee’s new nickname for him). And rat free.
While rummaging around looking for things, a popping sound rang out from kitchen, and at first, I thought someone was shooting at me. I clutched the sugar to my chest, wondering what was going on. Then the smell of smoke assaulted my nose and a loud alarm rang out. “Shit! The pasta!”
Still holding the bag of sugar to my chest, I ran so fast that when I entered the kitchen, I slid on the shiny, sleek hardwood floor. Capo had beaten me to it, though, taking the pan off the stove and running it under cold water. The pan sizzled and popped, truly pissed off, and more smoke thickened the air.
He nodded toward the stove. “Turn the fan on.”
I set the sugar down on the counter and did what he said. It took a few minutes, but the air started to clear, only swirls of white highlighted by the sun lingering. And the smell. It was a mixture between burning plastic and something I didn’t even have a name for, except for gross.
After he set the ruined pan in the sink, he turned to face me. “Maybe I should have kept this place as is. A fire house.”
I couldn’t answer. He was shirtless, only a towel wrapped around his slim waist. His skin was smooth and tight, slick from a hot shower. His hair was combed back—true black when it was wet—and droplets ran down his shoulders and chest.
His eyes were even more electric. They were such a stunning blue, I wondered if the color was stolen from a hidden ocean. Even though the rancid smell still lingered, the shower had made his scent stronger. It was like he had just walked off a beach, but ten times better.
This was the first time I’d seen him like this, with hardly anything on. His shoulders were broad. His muscular chest and stomach seemed carved out of stone. He probably had seven packs instead of six. The towel rode low, showing two deep indentions on either side of his hips, making a V. A thick patch of black hair peeked out. His arms looked like they belonged in one of those fitness magazines. His legs were long and lean. They seemed strong, but not too bulky.
The thing about my husband—something I’d learned during our short time together—was, even when a situation became awkward, he didn’t care. He seemed to eat it up. My eyes were glued to him, no shame, and his were glued to me. He wouldn’t try to distract me or pretend like he didn’t know what had come over me. He wouldn’t wave the ruined pan and say dinner, remember? He’d say, you’re not wearing red, and you’re not in my bed, so I know what that means. You’re not ready to fuck me yet.
Then we’d either explore each other some more, or we’d do something else. We’d watch movies or listen to music or talk about places we could travel or things we could do to the house later. He wanted me to add my own touch to it once I figured out what I wanted. Thing was, it was perfect as is. Even the clothes, shoes, and jewelry he had chosen for me in the closet. It was all such a dream come true.
Maybe he was, too—on the surface. He hadn’t pulled me into the deep end yet.
Finally, I made sense of the words dying to shoot out of my mouth. “When did you get home?”
“About the time you were reading the recipe for lasagne al forno to—” he looked at the plant on the counter and then at me again “—Vera II. She’s not much of a talker.”
“No,” I said, leaning against the counter. My eyes kept flickering to his towel every other second. He wasn’t hard, but there was a gigantic bulge. I couldn’t pretend that I wasn’t curious to know what it looked like. What he looked like. Naked. I took a breath in and released it slowly. “She’s a good listener, but not much of a gossiper.”