said--”
“I’ll call Father Grihalva now.” Uncle Enzo, who knows what he’d said to Lita. Something to make her not want to look him in the eyes. But he knew arguing with her would only put him further from her.
The fulfillment of his desires seemed less likely as the next few days passed. Uncle Enzo stayed with him and Lita like a bouncer tracking a suspicious drunk. Lita did her part and kept her distance, as if he was a customer at the old club, able to look but not touch. Then he was simultaneously aroused and disgusted, thinking of Lita that way. A few goodnight kisses and snuggling on the couch wasn’t enough and she wouldn’t talk to him about anything important. She chatted with him about her favorite Christmas movies or if he thought they could get tickets for “The Nutcracker” as if they weren’t in love, as if they were just friends.
“I thought you and Celeste were seeing each other,” he asked Uncle Enzo as they waited for Lita to join them in the living room one evening.
“I don’t think that’s your business.”
“You’re making it my concern.” Lorenzo crossed his arms.
“This is my house--”
“And Lita’s.”
“Yes, and she shows me the proper respect.” Uncle Enzo leaned forward.
“Respect? Why don’t you--”
“Lorenzo,” Lita said when she entered.
“What?” he snapped and stood.
“What’s going on?” She pursed her lips, his least favorite expression.
“Absolutely nothing.” He kissed her cheek and wished them goodnight.
Two nights later, two days and nights without Lita, he sat at the bar in Nick’s with Vincente while Nick cleaned and restocked behind the bar.
“Is Lita out of town?” Nick asked.
“No.”
“What are you doing here?” Vincente said.
“What does it look like?” Lorenzo rubbed a finger along the cool surface of his glass of vodka.
“Like she’s mad at you. Flowers and candy work.” Vincente clapped his shoulder.
Lorenzo supposed Vincente would know, having been married for eight years before his wife died of cancer. “You coming to dinner tomorrow?”
“I’ll be there. Grandpop’s away for the weekend.”
“Lucky him.” Lorenzo took a swig of his drink.
“Do I need to remind you how long you’ve waited for Lita,” Nick asked. “Don’t forget you chose that, not her.”
Like he chose to avoid her the last two days. “I tried to do the right thing.”
“Are you now?”
“Goodnight,” he said, sliding off the barstool. He strode out and upstairs to his deserted apartment.
He arrived the next evening at Uncle Enzo’s early, or so he thought. Sophia, Carlo, and Joe were there. Carlo and Uncle Enzo sat at the kitchen table while Sophia washed greens at the sink and Lita and Joe worked together at the pasta machine, cranking out fresh fettuccine. Lita laughed and bumped Joe’s hip. Lorenzo squeezed the roses in his hand so hard a thorn pierced his finger. Everyone greeted him, except Lita, who continued bundling the pasta. Sophia shot Carlo a look.
“Lita, Carlo can take over for a bit,” Sophia said. “Lorenzo, let me put those in water.”
Lorenzo handed her the flowers. Blood trickled down his hand.
“You’re bleeding,” Lita said. A tiny crease appeared between her brows.
He splayed his fingers and viewed the cut. “Just a scratch.”
She took his other hand and pulled him into the half bath next to Uncle Enzo’s study. Her hand was small and warm, still a bit tacky from the pasta dough, but her slight touch made him tremble a moment. She let go and got out a first aid kit. She cleaned the tiny wound, dabbed it with Neosporin, and covered it with a band-aid.
“Okay?” Now her mouth pursed, like the expression she’d had a few nights before.
“A kiss would’ve been better,” he said.
She turned and washed her hands. “Two days. That’s almost half the time we’ve been engaged. When you don’t get what you want, is this what I should expect?”
“What do you want from
“I’ll call Father Grihalva now.” Uncle Enzo, who knows what he’d said to Lita. Something to make her not want to look him in the eyes. But he knew arguing with her would only put him further from her.
The fulfillment of his desires seemed less likely as the next few days passed. Uncle Enzo stayed with him and Lita like a bouncer tracking a suspicious drunk. Lita did her part and kept her distance, as if he was a customer at the old club, able to look but not touch. Then he was simultaneously aroused and disgusted, thinking of Lita that way. A few goodnight kisses and snuggling on the couch wasn’t enough and she wouldn’t talk to him about anything important. She chatted with him about her favorite Christmas movies or if he thought they could get tickets for “The Nutcracker” as if they weren’t in love, as if they were just friends.
“I thought you and Celeste were seeing each other,” he asked Uncle Enzo as they waited for Lita to join them in the living room one evening.
“I don’t think that’s your business.”
“You’re making it my concern.” Lorenzo crossed his arms.
“This is my house--”
“And Lita’s.”
“Yes, and she shows me the proper respect.” Uncle Enzo leaned forward.
“Respect? Why don’t you--”
“Lorenzo,” Lita said when she entered.
“What?” he snapped and stood.
“What’s going on?” She pursed her lips, his least favorite expression.
“Absolutely nothing.” He kissed her cheek and wished them goodnight.
Two nights later, two days and nights without Lita, he sat at the bar in Nick’s with Vincente while Nick cleaned and restocked behind the bar.
“Is Lita out of town?” Nick asked.
“No.”
“What are you doing here?” Vincente said.
“What does it look like?” Lorenzo rubbed a finger along the cool surface of his glass of vodka.
“Like she’s mad at you. Flowers and candy work.” Vincente clapped his shoulder.
Lorenzo supposed Vincente would know, having been married for eight years before his wife died of cancer. “You coming to dinner tomorrow?”
“I’ll be there. Grandpop’s away for the weekend.”
“Lucky him.” Lorenzo took a swig of his drink.
“Do I need to remind you how long you’ve waited for Lita,” Nick asked. “Don’t forget you chose that, not her.”
Like he chose to avoid her the last two days. “I tried to do the right thing.”
“Are you now?”
“Goodnight,” he said, sliding off the barstool. He strode out and upstairs to his deserted apartment.
He arrived the next evening at Uncle Enzo’s early, or so he thought. Sophia, Carlo, and Joe were there. Carlo and Uncle Enzo sat at the kitchen table while Sophia washed greens at the sink and Lita and Joe worked together at the pasta machine, cranking out fresh fettuccine. Lita laughed and bumped Joe’s hip. Lorenzo squeezed the roses in his hand so hard a thorn pierced his finger. Everyone greeted him, except Lita, who continued bundling the pasta. Sophia shot Carlo a look.
“Lita, Carlo can take over for a bit,” Sophia said. “Lorenzo, let me put those in water.”
Lorenzo handed her the flowers. Blood trickled down his hand.
“You’re bleeding,” Lita said. A tiny crease appeared between her brows.
He splayed his fingers and viewed the cut. “Just a scratch.”
She took his other hand and pulled him into the half bath next to Uncle Enzo’s study. Her hand was small and warm, still a bit tacky from the pasta dough, but her slight touch made him tremble a moment. She let go and got out a first aid kit. She cleaned the tiny wound, dabbed it with Neosporin, and covered it with a band-aid.
“Okay?” Now her mouth pursed, like the expression she’d had a few nights before.
“A kiss would’ve been better,” he said.
She turned and washed her hands. “Two days. That’s almost half the time we’ve been engaged. When you don’t get what you want, is this what I should expect?”
“What do you want from
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