“Marie. Comeon. ‘If you give a mouse a cookie’…sheneedsto eat the whole damn thing instead of running away from it,” I recited, remembering our favorite book when we were little. “That man was making a play, Mimi. ‘Can I help you with something?’ means he wants to help you find his dick.”
Two eleven-shaped lines appeared between Marie’s brows. “What?”
“Don’t do that,” I said. “You’re going to look like Nonna before you’re thirty.”
“But—he—what—no—I—” She was sputtering more than the boiling water cooking my pasta.
I smirked. “Try again, Mimi.”
“Lucas Lyons wasnotmaking a move on me!” she erupted.
I snorted. “He was moving so hard, he was a movingtruck. Eighteen-wheeler, sis. Ready to go cross country.”
Marie just shook her head. “You’re nuts.”
“No, I’m right. It’s too bad you’re in love with his brother. You could have popped that cherry then and there.”
Okay, fine, I was being obnoxious. But just like I missed Marie’s face and her smudged glasses and her nun-like getups, I missed riling her up.
She was just another part of home I had a feeling I’d never get back. Not really.
“I think we should talk aboutyourlove life.” Marie pulled me out of that line of thinking. “I hear your new roommate is a dish. Lea thinks he’s going to break your heart, and Kate wants him to model for her shop.”
“Lea can mind her own business. And Kate’s mothball suits are too good for him.”
“Is this dinner for him?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. I thought it might be nice. He’s kind of throwing me a lifeline over here.”
“That’s a first. You giving back to someone like that, I mean.”
I made a face at her, but I didn’t argue. She wasn’t wrong. Okay, so maybe my siblings were right. Maybe I was a little spoiled, though maybe it wasn’t my fault. It was easier in a family of eight for the older kids to do stuff for Marie and me rather than waiting for their baby sisters to make it through small tasks at a painfully slow rate. It was why I didn’t learn to tie my shoes until I was ten. Or why I’d never done dishes untilMatthew, Lea,andKate had all moved out. And it was why, yes, I barely knew how to make anything in the kitchen.
But I was a Zola, after all. Food was our love language. I could understand it just fine, even if I was just starting to speak it.
I didn’t ask myselfwhyI wanted to put in the effort all of a sudden. It wasn’t because Nathan had been doing small things like this for me since I’d moved in two weeks ago. Every morning, I found a cup of espresso waiting for me in the fridge, ready to be poured over ice or a cappuccino on the days I managed to get up before eight. Which had been happening a lot more often.
It wasn’t just coffee, either. Two days ago, I’d discovered that my shampoo, which had been down to watery remains, had been replaced. When I mentioned the fact that I struggled to sleep in the mornings after my late shifts, I came home the next day to find that blackout curtains had been installed in my bedroom.
I was being taken care ofas an individualfor the first time in my life. Rather than large sweeping moves meant to take care of six kids or help the youngers keep up, these small gestures were just for me. From Nathan.
“For what it’s worth, Lea said Mike actually likes the guy,” Marie said.
I nodded. “Yeah, Mike told me that too. Well, he sent me a three-word text. ‘He’s all right’ is basically an essay in Scarrone.”
Marie chuckled. “For sure. Lea’s still worried, though.”
“Lea’s always worried.”
“Promise me something?”
“What’s that?” I looked up from where I was stirring the pasta. Had it been in the pot for ten minutes already? I’d forgotten to start the timer.
“Don’t sleep with him.”
I set down the spoon and glared at her.
Marie, however, didn’t shy away. “Jo, I mean it. Don’t mess up a good thing.”
