“Yeah, I figured I’d get some air,” I say, motioning toward the front door. “You know, get out of your hair for a while.”
“Get out of my hair for a while.”
“Yep.”
“Pity,” he says. “I kind of like you in my hair.”
He walks away, disappearing into his library, leaving the door open behind him. I stand here for a moment, my gaze shifting between the hall and the front door, before following him, my black heels clicking against the wooden floor, so I know he hears me approaching.
He’s sitting in the chair, hands laced together on the top of his head, the sleeves of his shirt shoved up to his elbows. His legs are stretched out, crossed at the ankles. While he looks relaxed, I sense the tension. It rolls off of him like waves, written in his silence.
I stall there, mostly still in the hall, and lean against the doorframe as I regard him.
He stares at me for a moment before saying, “You can come in, you know.”
“I know.”
“Yet you’re standing there,” he says, “making shit weird.”
I smile softly. “I was just wondering if maybe you’d want to come along.”
“Come along.”
“Yes.”
“To get out of my hair.”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t say anything.
It’s still tense. And awkward. I can feel it. Can you? I mean, look, I know how stupid I’m probably sounding at the moment, but I’m so out of my element here. It’s not like I’m exactly fluent in relationships. I’ve got no friends... no family besides my daughter... never even had a boyfriend, if we’re being technical. Just a string of men who used me for my body and now I have him, and whatever this thing is, and it’s all just so foreign. But things feel weird, he’s right, and I don’t really know how to make it better.
“I mean, no offense, but you’re a bit of an asshole,” I say. “Figured you might want to get away from that dude for a while.”
Again, he says nothing.
“Or not,” I mumble, giving him a small smile that he doesn’t return before I push away from the doorframe, going back out into the hall. I head for the front door, opening it, and am about to walk out when I hear movement behind me.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see Lorenzo as he slips on his coat, coming toward me, moving past me, walking right outside without a word. I join him, shutting the front door as I eye him peculiarly. It’s seventy degrees out, yet he’s bundled up like it’s still winter.
“You hungry?” I ask as we start to walk away from the house, leaving his car parked in the driveway, since I figure the subway will suffice. He follows my lead, like he’s just tagging along.
“Depends,” he says. “You offering?”
“Of course,” I say. “You ever dine and dash?”
He laughs at that. “All the time.”
“Awesome.”
We head into the city, switching trains twice. It takes almost an hour before we finally get off around Broadway. I’m not sure where we’re going, or really even why, but somewhere along the way Lorenzo takes the lead like he’s got a destination in mind.
We end up at a restaurant near Central Park, one of those fancy ass billionaire call girl places, the wine and dine and sixty-nine kind of gals, where you treat her to champagne and caviar before turning her out at The Plaza until your Viagra gives out.
You get where I’m going with this?
Me, with my face all scraped up from the alleyway scuffle, and him being, well... him. We’re out of place here, but Lorenzo doesn’t seem to notice. He waltzes on in the door as if he owns the place, approaching the hostess and saying, “need a table for two,” as if barking that will negate the ‘by reservation only’ sign hanging up near us.
The hostess impatiently mutters the reservation policy before she looks up, silencing mid-sentence. She’s quiet for a second, caught of guard, before she says, “Sure thing, Mr. Gambini. Coming right up.”
Oh-kay.
She shows us to a small table in the back corner, dropping off two tiny one-page menus full of shit that’s foreign to me, like Miyazaki Wagyu (some fancy ass kind of steak, according to Lorenzo). I’m reading through it, making faces as I try to decipher it. “Have you eaten here before?”
“All the time,” he says.
Of course, makes sense, since they recognized him. “You know, dining and dashing only works if you’re able to get away, which doesn’t really bode well for us, since they know your fucking name.”
He laughs. “I know.”
“So why are we here?”
He doesn’t have to answer that, no, because the universe tells me exactly why we’re here when I glance up and come face-to-face with Leo. He’s wearing his tuxedo work uniform.
I realize right away that he’s our waiter. Oh boy.
“What do you want?” he grumbles, stalling beside the table, staring at his brother. He’s kind of adorable, with that little black bow tie, especially with him pouting at the moment.
Makes me want to pinch his cheeks.
“Is that how you greet all of your customers?” Lorenzo asks. “Because if so, I would’ve fired your ass long ago.”
“Look, it’s been a long day already, and I’m working a double, so can you cut me a break?” Leo asks. “I’m doing my best here.”
“I know,” Lorenzo says, snatching the menu from my hand, discarding it. “We’ll just take the tasting menu.”
I scowl. “You’re ordering for me?”
Lorenzo cuts his eyes my way. “Is that a problem?”
“Depends,” I say. “What did you order?”
“Tasting menu,” Leo chimes in. “It’s a little bit of everything, like a sampler or whatever.”
“Oh, well then...” I wave toward Lorenzo. “Not a problem.”
“You want some wine or something?” Lorenzo asks.
“Or something,” I mumble, picking up the drink menu, which is a hundred and fifty times bigger than the food one. Not even joking. A hundred and fifty pages of alcohol. I flip through it, scowling some more. Wine. Wine. Wine. Red. White. Locations and years and who the fuck knows what all the French means. My eyes skim along the price list. “Oh geez, who can afford to even smell half of these?”
“I can,” Lorenzo says.
“Does that mean you’re buying?”
He shrugs.
I take that as a yes.
“Well, in that case...” I close the drink menu, shoving it aside. “A bottle of your most expensive whatever the hell is on that menu, thanks.”
Leo laughs, while Lorenzo snatches the menu up. “Whoa, whoa, I’ll be goddamned... that’s like twenty-thousand dollars, Scarlet. Drop some fucking zeroes, woman.”
I roll my eyes, turning to Leo. “You got anything fruity, like the crap that comes with little umbrellas?”
Leo nods.
“Give me one of those,” I say. “Surprise me.”
Leo looks at his brother again. “What do you want?”
“Rum.”
Rum. Of course.
“Glass of our best rum,” Leo says.
“Cheapest rum,” Lorenzo says. “And the whole bottle will be nice.”
“Glass of our worst rum,” Leo mutters. “Whole bottle, my ass...”
Leo walks away, while Lorenzo glares at him.
My drink doesn’t come with a little umbrella, it turns out, but instead is decorated with some fancy orange peels in curly shapes. I pluck one out, looking at it peculiarly while I take a sip of the whatever-it-is. Sweet and fruity and strong.
“Those are my oranges,” Lorenzo points out as he takes a swig of his rum from the small glass Leo brought him. No bottle.
I eye the peel. “Straight off the Gambini groves?”
“Yes.”
“Huh, isn’t that something,” I say. “Must make you proud, having such a successful business.”
“It’s all right.”
“It’s all right,” I
say, repeating him. “Geez, man, contain your enthusiasm.”
He smiles slightly. “Forgive me for not squealing like a little bitch about it. It’s a lot of work for not much pay off. It’s kind of depressing, having spent over fifteen years working sun up to sun down, busting my ass to keep the family business going, and not banking even a fraction of what I’ve made since coming to New York. And I don’t even break a sweat here, you know. It pays to be a non-sentimental asshole.”
“But yet you keep the groves,” I point out.
“They’re my home.”
That response surprises me. Home. “You think of that as home?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Uh, I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe because of what you went through there, with your stepdad and your mom and—”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, cutting me off. “My father built the place and left it to me. Nothing they could do would ever ruin that. I refuse to let it.”
“So why are you here?”
“I already told you why,” he says. “Same reason as you... I saw a movie.”
I know he’s bullshitting. How do I know that? Because I was when I said that to him on the roof all those weeks ago, that I’d come to Manhattan because of the Muppets.
“There are, what... eight million people in New York City?” I ask.
“Something like that.”
“I just thought, you know, that many people, I was bound to find somebody to give a shit about me. So that’s why I came. I was young, and lonely, and sick of being ignored and overlooked. I wanted to matter to someone.”
Lorenzo stares at me, like maybe he doesn’t know what to say to that. It starts to get weird again, with him not speaking, so I’m damn grateful when the food starts to arrive. Thank god. Leo drops off two plates, and I make a face when he explains what it is—some kind of cream sauce with oysters and caviar.
It looks more like art than something to eat.
I try it, though, because fuck it. I don’t like letting food go to waste. It’s salty, and fishy, and ugh... no thanks. It gradually gets worse, with more fish and some artistic-looking artichokes, some funky beef in strong-tasting broth, before there’s even more seafood. And more. And more. And more. There’s a salad with dressing that tastes like sweet and sour sauce and a fucking celery and leek something that’s been grilled with truffles.
Truffles.
The only truffles I eat are the chocolate ones.
Lorenzo, though, devours it all.
We don’t talk.
The last course arrives, and I breathe a sigh of relief that the dessert looks like dessert and isn’t some weird fish shit. Cookies and ice cream and chocolate, oh my god... I shovel it all in, no hesitation at all. I’m still starving.
“I got bored,” Lorenzo says eventually, not touching his dessert.
I glance at him, brow furrowing. “What?”
“That’s why I’m here,” he says. “I know that sounds like bullshit, but it’s true. I got bored, and I wanted a change. Oranges weren’t my father’s only legacy. He grew up in the mob, ran these streets for years, until the Genova family drove him out of town... that’s how he ended up in Florida. But even then, they wouldn’t let him be. So I thought, you know, why not pick up where he left off? So I showed up, took them all out, and here I am, bored again... or at least I was.”
“Not bored anymore?”
“At the moment, no.”
“That’s good to know,” I say. “What happens when you get bored again?”
“I go back home.”
Leo shows up again before I can respond, dropping off the check, which I promptly pick up. It’s damn near eight-hundred bucks. For lunch. “Whoa, buddy...”
Lorenzo snatches it from my hand and tosses it back on the table before standing up. “Come on.”
He starts walking away, and I just gape at him, because he’s legitimately leaving, like we’re actually dining and dashing, because he’s not paying the check, and I certainly can’t do it. I don’t have that much money. I shove up out of the chair, following, keeping my head down and not making eye contact with anyone, while he looks people dead in the face.
He’s fucking insane.
The second he steps outside, he pulls out his tin and grabs a joint, flicking a match to light it, smoking it right here on the sidewalk as he looks around. “So, where to now?”
“Jail, probably,” I say, pausing beside him, scowling as he blows smoke in my face. “I don’t know how the hell you’ve evaded lockup so far, because you’re terrible at flying under the radar.”
“Who says I’m trying to fly under the radar?” he asks. “I mean, come on, baby... look at my face. There’s no point in me sneaking around.”
I look at him, not because he just told me to, but because of the word he used. Baby. It does the kind of thing to my chest that makes me feel uncomfortable—the squeezing, tightening, pitter-pattering bullshit. Ugh, knock it off, heart. You’ve got no business reacting to him.
I point at his face, waving my finger around. “Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean you have to flaunt it.”
Lorenzo grabs my hand, pulling it away from his face, still holding onto it as he says, “But that’s what makes it all so fun.”
I roll my eyes. “There’s something wrong with you.”
“I know,” he says. “So, where to?”
He’s looking at me like he wants an answer, but I just shrug, because I’m not sure. I didn’t really leave the house with a plan, you know?
Besides, he’s touching my hand. Holding my hand. Weird.
Lorenzo sighs, finally letting go and continuing to smoke, motioning with his head down the street before he starts to walk. I don’t know where he’s going, and he sure as hell doesn’t tell me, but I follow along regardless.
“So your Broadway story was bullshit?” he asks. “The Muppets didn’t make you want to join the chorus line?”
I smile. “It wasn’t bullshit, per se. I did fall in love with Broadway.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I wish I had that kind of talent... the kind where someone would pay me to dance around with my clothes on... but I don’t, so I leave it to the professionals.”
“What’s your favorite play... musical... whatever?”
“The Lion King.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He laughs, like he finds my answer funny. “I saw the cartoon a few times.”
“Me, too.” More than a few times. “Never actually saw the musical, though.”
His footsteps falter so much that I almost run right into him. “How is it your favorite if you’ve never seen it?”
“I’ve never really seen any of them,” I say, “but I heard it’s good, and I’ve seen clips.”
“You’ve seen clips.”
“Yes.”
“That’s just...”
“Pathetic?”
“I was going for more like bullshit.”
“It’s life,” I say, “which, contrary to what you seem to think, can’t always be fun.”
“See, now that is bullshit.”
He pulls his phone from his pocket and starts tinkering with it, like the conversation is over now, nothing else to say about it. We stroll along for who knows how long, wandering the streets until my feet start to hurt. I kick my shoes off and carry them, because fuck it, which earns me a peculiar look from Lorenzo. He shoves his phone away eventually, but we still don’t really talk.
I let him lead, and maybe it’s weird, but I’m kind of enjoying the silence. It’s peaceful in a sense and sets me at ease.
I needed that today.
Needed this.
Serenity.
We end up on Broadway in the middle of the afternoon, and I look up, gazing at the yellow The Lion King signs along Minskoff Theater. Lorenzo heads right for the place, getting closer... closer... closer, but I grab his arm to stop him as he nears a gathered crowd. “What are yo
u doing?”
“Going to see The Lion King.”
“I, uh... what?”
I start to argue, but he doesn’t stop to listen to a word of my complaint, heading right inside just as others filter in. The man working the door looks at Lorenzo, averting his eyes quickly in reaction.
I tense. It makes me sick to my stomach.
Lorenzo, though, doesn’t seem bothered.
The guy asks for our tickets, but Lorenzo talks his way right out of it, weaseling past two more workers and an usher inside, like they’re all just too afraid to say ‘no’ to him. We find some empty seats in the back, way up top, but I’m not going to complain a bit. I’m just too damn shocked I’m actually in the theater. Intermission is ending, the second act starting up. We missed the whole beginning, but fuck it... I never thought I’d see this much.
The music starts, and I’m entranced as we second-act the afternoon showing, ignoring the looks of people around us who know damn well we weren’t here earlier. The first few minutes, I’m on edge, waiting to be thrown out, but eventually, the draw of what’s happening on stage is just too much.
I watch, tears in my eyes that I struggle to hold back, pressure in my chest like my heart wants to explode. I’m bursting at the seams with feelings and I don’t know what to do about it. It’s like being swept up in a tornado and I’m just waiting for it to drop me somewhere.
And I land hard the second it’s over.
I’m up out of my stolen seat, cheering loudly, clapping and screeching and crying, because it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever witnessed outside of my daughter. Nothing will ever be more beautiful than her, but this moment is a close second, and all I can think as I stand here is how much she’d love this, how happy it would make her to see something so touching.
I turn to Lorenzo. He’s just staring straight ahead. He cuts his eyes at me, like he can sense my attention, and makes a face because I’m crying.
“Come on, fuddy-duddy,” I say, shoving against him. “Let’s get the heck out of here.”
He doesn’t have to be told twice. He’s out of the chair and heading through the crowd while the performers are still taking bows. I wipe my face as we go outside, knowing my makeup has to be a mess.