Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83776 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83776 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
“No, Davide’s not home.” Luckily for us since I’m not sure how my husband would’ve reacted. “What were you thinking, Giorgia?”
“I was worried about my best friend, okay! And honestly, I was feeling guilty as fuck after our last conversation, and this whole marriage thing is bizarre and so weird, and I just had to come out and make sure that you weren’t like kidnapped or abused or whatever. And I miss you.”
She’s blinking rapidly and about to cry, but I’m feeling a big old lump in my throat too.
Because she cared enough to drop everything. She flew out here armed with nothing more than a hunch and an address, all because she’s my best friend and she wanted to make sure I was okay. That’s a hell of a lot more than my family has done so far; I can’t even remember the last time any of them called.
I pull her into a tight hug. My homesickness comes back with a vengeance, and maybe this visit is going to undo some of the progress I’ve made recently, but to hell with that.
“I missed you too,” I say, squeezing her hard. “You’re so insane and I really don’t love the invasion of privacy, but I love you, okay?”
“I love you even more. I’m sorry I’m insane. I just had to know if you’re okay.” She wipes her eyes and leans back to look at me. “You’re okay, right?”
“I’m okay.” I smile so she knows I’m not faking it. “I’m really okay.”
“Good.” She lets out a breath. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.”
I laugh, grab her bag, and take her by the hand. “Come on, let me show you my house. Fair warning, it’s weird.” I tug her along, leading her down the block.
“Weird, how? Your husband’s into, like, sex dungeon shit?”
“Not that I know of. No, it’s more that we have an open floor plan. Like… extremely open.”
“Interesting.” Her eyebrows raise. “And intriguing.”
“Come on, crazy.” I slip my arm through hers. “We have a lot to discuss.”
Chapter 27
Stefania
Two bottles of prosecco and a grand tour of the house later, we’re sitting out back with our feet on the table talking like nothing’s changed. There’s a big old aching pit in my stomach now, a tugging and yearning for home, but it’s also a freaking miracle that she’s here.
“You’ve been dancing around it all night,” she says, and I can tell she’s drunk because her ears are red.
I can tell I’m drunk because I’ve had an entire bottle of prosecco to myself and I suddenly want to go to karaoke.
“Dancing around what exactly?”
She leans forward, eyebrows waggling, drink tilting back and forth dangerously. “How do you feel about him? I mean, really, how do you feel?”
Yep, that’s the question I’ve been dancing around.
I don’t respond right away because I’m not sure what to say. There are a million answers to that extremely simple, presumably very obvious question. It shouldn’t be something I’m unsure about.
Except I am beyond conflicted.
I have feelings for him. Very positive feelings. The sort of big, emotional feelings that act as the sturdy foundations of a long-lasting relationship. I also enjoy the sex. He is really good at sex.
But I’m also aware that we’re stuck in this marriage together and neither of us chose the other, and I don’t know if I feel this way because the sex is so good—seriously, the man can bone down—or if I’d feel this way regardless of whether we were humping like sex-starved rabbits on the nightly.
I stare into my glass and take a big, deep breath, really gathering all my air and mustering my courage, before saying, “He’s really almost nice to me and I like that.”
Giorgia stares. I stare back. Then she bursts out laughing. “He’s almost nice? What the fuck, Stef? You’re not supposed to use the word almost to modify nice. Like, that’s a big thing. He can be extremely nice, or super nice, or really, really nice, but not almost nice. What is the matter with you?”
My cheeks turn red, and I realize I just skipped about fifty hours of conversation and explanation, which is why that doesn’t make any sense. “He’s nice,” I say but Giorgia’s not buying it. “Seriously, he cares about my needs. I mean, he’s big and brooding and kind of moody, like there’s something eating at him that he won’t talk about—”
“Stefania!” she shrieks, her chair tipping back. She nearly falls over, she’s laughing so hard. “That doesn’t sound like a very positive description! Holy shit! It sounds like you’re a prison groupie trying to justify her marriage to a serial killer.”
I groan and put my face in my hands. “You’re just being cruel now.”
“No, no, I’m not, I swear,” she says, gasping for air and wiping her eyes. “No, girl, I’m so sorry, I’ll stop laughing. I’ll almost stop laughing.” Then she howls again.