Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“Burgers from The Cesars? They deliver now.”
“Add bacon, no onion,” she says. “Can I SocialCash you some money?”
I grab my phone from under a pillow beside me and pull up the app. “No, I got it. They screwed up my order last time and gave me a gift card, so it’s basically free tonight.”
“Love that for us.” She chews on the edge of her nail, glancing around the room. My chaotic lifestyle has always made her a little itchy. That apparently hasn’t changed. “So what’s with the buttons?”
“Some of those were Grandma’s, and some were Mom’s. I forgot that I had them until I moved.”
“Why are they on the floor?”
I add fries to our order and submit it. “Because I wanted to do something with them besides filling a cookie jar.”
“So … you tossed them on the floor?”
“No, smart-ass. I was going to affix them to the canvas with a hot glue gun and try to recreate the fruit bowl painting that hung in Grandma’s kitchen. But then I thought it would be super cool to cover the canvas with fabric and sew the buttons on instead of using glue, which would take forever. So I figured I’d work on it while I watched Dancing with Famous People, but there’s no table in here.” I shrug. “And that’s how they wound up on the floor.”
My sister smiles lovingly at the mess. “I forgot about that painting. I always thought it was so beautiful.”
“Well, I did spend more time sitting at the table in time-out growing up than you did.”
Together, we cackle, because, yes, I really did spend a lot more time in time-out than my beautifully behaved sister.
The final beams of light drift from the room, and darkness covers the windows. Lucia’s shoulders relax, and she falls deeper into the couch cushions. I know the feeling. It’s impossible not to relax when you feel so insulated from the world.
“I love this house,” she says. Her voice is soft, the words floating through the air. “I’ve never experienced a place so quiet.”
“I love it, too.”
She turns her face to mine and smiles. “It’s so funny to think of you, of all people, thriving in this environment. But you really seem to be happy.”
“It’s my little retreat. I can go into the world and set off fireworks—wreaking havoc and anarchy wherever I go—and then I slink back here and shut the door and leave all of that out there.”
We exchange a look, an understanding that requires no words. Lucia has done the same thing in her own way.
As daughters born to two highly successful and respected professionals, my sister and I were expected to follow suit. Behave like little ladies. Dress appropriately. Take piano and violin lessons and, for the love of God, don’t embarrass the family.
I was never great at any of that.
“How are things in your world?” I ask. “Are you still seeing the fireman?”
Her eyes light up. “We’re going out Saturday night. Our schedules are at odds most of the time, so we don’t really see each other during the week. But we’ve gone out at least once a week for the past six weeks, so I think that’s a good sign.”
“That’s a great sign. How’s the sex? Still hot?”
“Oh, Gianna,” she says, shrinking like she’s melting down at the thought of her fireman. “I’ve never been so thoroughly fucked. I didn’t even know you could fuck in so many different positions. He’s had me on top, on bottom, bent over every surface in my house—twisted into a pretzel.” She giggles. “He must sit around the fire station reading the Kama Sutra or something.”
“Does he have any friends?”
She lifts a brow. “What about Matthew?”
I wrinkle my nose and shrug noncommittally.
“Let me guess,” she says, “you’re over him.”
“Well, if I wasn’t before you went in-depth about the fireman, I would be now.” I laugh. “He’s … fine, I guess. I don’t know. The last time we fucked, I had to get myself off, if that says anything.”
“But I thought you liked him? Didn’t you have good conversation? I swear that you told me that the two of you stayed up talking all night.”
I roll my eyes. “What good is conversation if he can’t fuck?”
“Oh, Gianna …”
I shrug, uncertain what she wants from me. She knows me well enough to know that Matthew didn’t have great odds at longevity. I can’t think of a man who has made it more than two months.
Lucia and I are a lot alike, but we have a few significant differences—one of those being how we view relationships. Strangely, her take on them mirrors most of the women who call into my podcast. Our thoughts are so far apart that it’s comical we share the same DNA.
My sister believes with all her heart in romance. Flowers, dates, and handwritten letters professing one’s undying love—the girl thinks that falling in love is something that happens to you. I, on the other, very opposite hand, understand that romance is performative at best. At worst, it’s manipulation in the most heartbreaking way. Love exists, for sure. But falling in love is irresponsible. It’s reckless. It’s a situation in which you’re without control, relying on emotions that can mask red flags and hoping that an unreliable chemical explosion inside your body isn’t misguiding you.