Page 88 of Mafia King
“Yes.” I drop the bag between my feet. “And yes.”
“How does that husband of yours feel about it?”
When I walked in here, my only intention was to get away from Anette before my day was sucked into a party-supply vortex where I’d have to avoid questions and meaningful looks about the pregnancy test. I never intended to tell Scarlett anything about my situation, but I’ve caught her at some weird moment. She’s not talking about herself but leaning forward in silence, waiting for me to fill her in.
“I haven’t told him,” I say.
“Are you keeping it?” Another question that would only be asked on this side of the river.
“Yes.”
“So why do you look like you want to throw yourself over a cliff?” Her eyes scan mine. “Is he all right with you?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t be mad I’m telling you this, but if you need somewhere to go and you forgot the helpline numbers, I have them. Or you can stay with me. Whatever you want.”
“You’re a good friend.”
“So do you need help?”
Our order comes. I send the extra espresso to Armando. He waves to me when he gets it. Then I face Scarlett.
“He is good to me.” I sip my coffee from the tiny paper cup. “And I love him.”
“Good.” She relaxes so much I realize how tense she was. “Really, that’s good, because as soon as I saw that guy, I was worried.”
“You didn’t seem worried. You sent me a text that he was hot.”
“Yeah, well, he is. But he had a gun on him, same as that bodyguard you have.” She shrugs. “And all of us from school? We all know you, but honestly…” She blows on her tea. “We also know what goes on over the river.”
“What goes on?”
She sips her tea with an abundance of caution. “Like, the mob and shit? And police jurisdiction stops at the bridge. Supposedly, it’s like this other whole world on the other side.”
“How come I didn’t know you felt that way?”
“Why bring that up? So you can get hurt?” She tries to sip again and does a little better. “Not interested. You seemed okay. You never said anything. But then you obviously didn’t go on your trip, and Signore Hotstuff showed up, and I thought, ‘Oh, yeah, that’s a thing that happens over there.’ So I just filed it. Figured I’d see you in September.”
My future education is a big fat question mark, but I don’t tell her that. She’s seen the pregnancy test. She knows it already.
“It’s everything you say,” I tell her, realizing—as the words come out—how silent I’ve been on the subject. “Everyone’s in everyone’s business, unless it’s real business… and you’re a woman. Then it’s definitely notyourbusiness. But there’s peace. Zero crime. I mean… except the stuff that’s against the law.”
Scarlett chuckles.
“Everyone agrees on how things should be, more or less,” I add.
“Even you?”
Stalling, I finish my coffee.
“Espresso’s thicker from a Moka pot.” I put down the ridiculous, toy-sized mug. “And the rim should be rubbed with lemon, which you can’t do with a fucking Dixie cup… but when there’s a world war on and you don’t have enough water? The citrus sanitizes it so you don’t drink… basically sewage. And if you have to drink chicory because the fascists raised the coffee tariffs? A drop of sambuca corrects the bitterness.”
“I take it you don’t like the espresso.” She looks at me over the rim of her green tea.
“Sambuca ruins good coffee. It’s not necessary anymore. The war isover. And that’s how I feel about a lot of what goes on where I grew up. We’re correcting things that don’t need it anymore. We have solutions for problems that were already solved in other ways, and now we’re calling them traditions we have to live by. And all I’m saying, all I think with my whole heart, is that if you like sambuca in your coffee, drink it. But don’t tell me I have to correct something that’s fine already, then call it tradition and act like it’s normal.”
She sits back, cradling her cup at her chest, and shakes her head. “You lost me at the war being over.”
