Page 56 of Ricardo

“Very healthy boundaries.”

“We don't have those in my family, and Julia…” He waits until I meet his eyes. “You are my family.”

My breath catches.

For a second, I am back on my apartment floor with torn paper in my hands and no idea what to do with the mess I just made.

“Dante,” I whisper.

“I mean it.” His voice stays low and firm. “You don’t have to earn your way back or apologize. You’re already here.”

I look down at my plate and breathe through the ache in my chest.

“What if I don’t know how to be the old me anymore?” I ask.

Dante is quiet for a second.

“Then we’ll start with lunch,” he says. “And lemons. And one box at a time.”

I half-laugh.

“I fear I've opened more than one box,” I say. “My apartment's a disaster. I've got too many piles and don't know what to do with them.

“Then we’ll start there,” he says.

I look up.

“What?”

“With the piles.” He picks up his fork again, as if this is the simplest thing in the world. “After lunch, I’ll come over. You point. I carry things. We throw out whatever needs throwing out, hide whatever you’re not ready to deal with, and pretend the lemon print was a rational purchase.”

“It was a rational purchase.” I pause for a beat. “So was the red pillow.”

“Ugh,” he says, disgusted. “A red pillow and a lemon print? You and Tomasso are a match made in heaven. Do you know what monstrosity he brought to the house this week?”

“Can’t be nearly as bad as my red throw pillow, can it?” I joke.

“Just wait,” he says, rolling his eyes.

He launches into a description of Tomasso’s newest crime against furniture, complete with hand gestures, personal outrage, and a level of detail no lamp, no matter how ugly, deserves.

By the time lunch is over, I am laughing again.

And for a little while, that is enough.

Chapter Six

Ricardo

The ballroom is too bright.

That is my first thought when I step inside with Mario and Victoria beside me. Too much gold light spilling from chandeliers, too much polished silver, too many white flower centerpieces arranged at nonsensical heights that interfere with conversation.

The orchestra plays near the far wall, discreet enough that you know they're expensive. Servers move between clusters of people with champagne and practiced smiles. Every surface shines. Every laugh carries just a little too far.

Chicago society likes to pretend it has better manners than New York, less desperation than Los Angeles, more substance than Washington.

It is a charming lie.