Page 51 of Ricardo

A server appears with water and says, “The usual?”

Dante points at me. “For her too. She needs carbs and possibly an exorcism.”

“Dante.”

“What? You do.”

The server laughs and leaves before I can defend myself.

I take a drink of water. “You are very comfortable ordering for me.”

“I have known you since you thought boxed wine was sophisticated because you drank it in Europe.”

“I was a student.”

“You were a menace.”

“You encouraged me.”

“I encourage many bad decisions. It’s one of my gifts.”

I smile despite myself.

Dante leans back, satisfied. “There she is.”

The words are light, but they do something to my insides.

He sees it. He sees everything. His expression softens, but he does not apologize. He does not rush to cover the moment with noise.

That is one of the reasons I called him.

Dante can be loud, careless, reckless, and infuriating. But when it matters, he knows when to be still.

“I opened boxes today,” I say.

His brows rise. “Ah. Casualties?”

“Physically or emotionally?”

“Either?”

“Some picture of us at some event. Several programs. Our sample wedding invitation.”

The humor leaves his face.

“Or rather, his sample wedding invitation,” I correct.

“How are you doing?” he asks.

I look down at the table.

There is already bread there, because Dante must have arrived hungry enough to flirt with the kitchen.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

He does not say anything.

I pick at the corner of my napkin. “Better than I expected. Worse than I wanted.”