He thinks for a moment. “The one who was always eating handfuls of dirt?”
“That was her sister, Lizzie.”
“So all these years—as an adult—you’ve never been in—”
“No,” I say curtly before he can continue. I couldn’t bear it if he said it out loud. “I came close once. But she belonged to someone else. This one…”
I drag a hand through my hair, struggling for the words to describe it. “This one is different. I feel like I’ve been electrocuted. Like I’ve been set on fire. Like I’ve got cancer and only have a few weeks left to live. I’m terminal. I’m fucking desperate. It’s the worst.”
“It sounds like the worst,” says Liam, chuckling.
“And I haven’t even kissed her yet.”
In a conversation made up of many different types of pauses and silences, this one is the longest. It’s long and loud and echoes with incredulity. Then Liam says, “Have you recently had a fall? Hit your head on a sharp object?”
“No,” I say through gritted teeth. I turn around and pace in the other direction, savagely kicking a rock out of my path as I go.
“Because I’m concerned about your brain. It doesn’t seem to be working right.”
“It isn’t! Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”
“This isn’t like you.”
“Jesus Christ on a crutch, I know!”
“You’re this worked up over a woman who stole from you, who doesn’t like you, and whom you’ve never even kissed?”
I say flatly, “This from the man who stalked his wife for a year before he mustered the courage to speak to her. And then kidnapped her, because that’s high on every woman’s list of most romantic gestures.”
“At least her father hasn’t tried to kill me six times.”
“He’s only tried to kill me twice.”
“I was talking about me. I ran things before you got there, remember?”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.”
“So between the two of us, Antonio Moretti has racked up eight assassination attempts.” Liam pauses. “Guess you won’t be inviting him to the wedding.”
He’s laughing at me. I can hear it in his voice. “Remind me to punch you in the nose the next time we see each other.”
“Oh, don’t sound so depressed. This is good for you!”
“How is it good for me?”
He stifles a laugh. “Pain builds character.”
I growl, “Piss off, wanker.”
“Don’t hang up on me yet, I have something helpful to tell you.”
Finally. “I’m listening.”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned about women since meeting Tru, it’s that they hate—and I mean hate—to feel controlled.”
I furrow my brow in confusion. “How is that helpful?”
He muses, “How do I put this delicately?” After a beat: “You’re the most controlling arsehole who’s ever lived.”
“I’m commanding, not controlling. Like the captain of a ship.”
“I hate to break it to you, but women aren’t sailors. They don’t enjoy having orders barked at them while they’re swabbing the deck.”
I think of how many times since meeting Juliet that I’ve demanded this or that from her, and feel a faint flush of dismay.
“They also hate it when you’re overly dominating. Strong and confident is one thing, but caveman-like domination is another. Except in bed. Dominance is allowed in bed. Outside the bedroom, it’s a no-no. Oh, and don’t be condescending. That will make a woman want to set fire to your face and put it out with a hammer. Let’s see, what else?”
“It doesn’t matter what else. I’m already doomed.”
He ignores me and continues. “Don’t explain something to her unless she specifically asks for an explanation.”
“Like what, for instance?”
“Like anything. Economics. Parallel parking. How to correctly load the dishwasher.”
“Why is an explanation bad?”
“Who knows? It just is. They even have a word for it: mansplaining. It drives them crazy.”
I mutter, “This is why blowup dolls were invented.”
“I’m only getting started. We could be on the phone all night.” He pauses. “Maybe I should just email you a list.”
“What I’m hearing you say is, in a nutshell, don’t be me.”
“Exactly. Be anyone else but you. Be…Ryan Reynolds. Women seem to like him. He’s funny, charming, and self-deprecating.” Snicker. “I know those words are unfamiliar to you, but you can Google them to see what they mean.”
I stop pacing long enough to drag a hand over my face and sigh. “I’m so glad I called.”
“Me, too. I thought I’d never see the day when my hardass brother exposed his soft underbelly.”
I say flatly, “I don’t have a soft fucking underbelly. Good night.”
As I’m disconnecting, he’s saying loudly, “Remember—Ryan Reynolds!”
It must be so nice to be an only child.
15
Jules
I wake when it’s still dark out. My first instinct is to go to the window, but I take a shower and eat breakfast instead.
Then I sit at the kitchen table and do something I rarely allow myself to do.
I think about my father.
My mother was twenty-five when she married him. The same age I am now. He was already notorious, the youngest of four sons and by far the most ambitious. And the most violent. According to the stories, when my grandfather wanted to send a message to a rival family that wouldn’t be ignored, it was Antonio he’d send to do the job.
My grandfather was a mafioso, too. Capo dei capi, boss of all bosses. Just like my father.
This shit runs in my veins.
When the bomb meant for my father took my mother instead, I was twelve years old. I had just gotten my first period. I had no friends outside of the family, no female I could talk to who wasn’t a cousin or aunt. My grandmother was still alive—my father’s mother—but she was a dour old woman, frighteningly religious, always dressed in black even in the deadening heat of summer. The only two pleasures in her life were cooking and god.
Intensely introverted, I lived my life inside the safety of books. The trifecta of homeschooling, security training, and the closed circle of my family made me extraordinarily distrustful of strangers and awkward to the extreme. I had no idea how to operate in the “real” world.
Then my mother was killed, and the real world came knocking on my door. I was sent away to a boarding school in another state.
At the time, my father explained that it was for my own safety. Now, I think that with my mother gone, he simply didn’t know what to do with me. His only child. A pre-teen girl.
So off I went to a private school for rich kids in Vermont.
It was the best thing that ever happened to me. I met Fin and Max and had friends for the first time in my life.
My mother didn’t have any friends. She wasn’t allowed to have them. Originally from California, she met my father during a vacation to Manhattan. After knowing him only a week, she gave up her entire life to go live in New York with him. That’s how in love she was.