Page 64 of The Wrong Vintage
“So this woman’s in the confessional, and she says”—Alba drops her voice to a husky whisper—“‘Daddy, I’ve been a bad girl.’” She pauses dramatically. “Then the camera pans to the priest, and he goes, ‘For the last time, it’s Father—forgive me, for I have sinned.’”
We dissolve into laughter.
“You know what,” Alba adds thoughtfully, “maybe I should rereadThe Thorn Birds.”
I drink some water, still chuckling at Toni’s joke. “I don’t think that aged well.”
“And neither didLolita,” Alba sighs. “And I love Nabokov.”
Toni says something else, but my phone buzzes in my hand.
Nico:Are you free tomorrow night? I want to take you to dinner.
I straighten.
Me:Okay. You want me to cook or?—
Nico:Read my message again, dolcezza.
I do. My smile spreads, slow and wide.
Me:You want to take me out.
Nico:Yes.
Me:Where?
Nico:Osteria Magona.
My heart skips.
Me:Nice.
Nico:Have you been?
Of course I have. Michelin-starred. Close to Pietra Alta. Our wines are on their list. I know the chef and the sommelier.
Me:Never with you.
Nico:Be ready by six. I’ll pick you up.
I lower the phone slowly.
“Well?” Alba asks. “Is he sexting?”
“Dick pic?” Toni presses.
“No.” I roll my eyes. “He’s taking me to dinner. Tomorrow. To Magona.”
Toni squeals.
Alba claps.
“So,” Alba says briskly, already shifting into command mode, “what are we wearing?”
“I just got invited,” I say helplessly. “I haven’t thought that far.”
I can’t stop smiling.
