The Real

“Great,” I said, showing him all my teeth.

He chuckled and kissed my forehead. “It’s fine.”

I looked up at him. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I just want to hang out with you. This is what you two Golden Girls do, right?”

“Very funny,” I said, nudging him in the gut with my elbow before I walked in.

Jenny’s place was completely renovated and modern, save the décor. I couldn’t help but laugh inwardly at the way she’d taken a completely post-century pad and rewound time. Her furniture was old, and she had a plant on every available surface.

I shook off the cold and walked toward her with Cameron on my heels. In her quilted robe and slippers, Mrs. Zingaro was holding a spatula over a boiling stovetop and appeared to be stuck in one of her crippled, dead states.

I nudged Cameron. “Why don’t you go ask her if she needs any help.”

Cameron obliged and walked into the kitchen casually. When he approached her and spoke, she startled and slapped him in the chest with a spoonful of tomato sauce.

I howled as he looked over at me and narrowed his eyes while Jenny apologized profusely. Cameron told her not to fuss as she reached under her kitchen cabinet and took out a bottle of 409, instead of the clearly marked stain remover, and began to spray his chest with it.

Cameron looked over at me, helpless.

“Yep, this is how we do it.”

“This is delicious,” Cameron said as he piled more spaghetti onto his plate.

“I loved to cook for my Roberto.”

“Italian?” Cameron asked.

“Yes. I was raised here, but Roberto was raised in Italy. I learned to speak Italian for our son, Michael. Roberto was a true Italian man, loved the language and the culture. Kept many of his ways even when he moved to America. He never wanted anything but the same staples for dinner. His mother taught me all of his favorite recipes before she passed,” she said, pausing to do the Holy Trinity. “I have to admit, I used to sneak in hot dogs and French fries during our marriage.”

Reluctantly, Cameron posed the question. “When did Roberto pass?”

Jenny sighed, the light blue in her eyes dimming a little. “Twelve years ago. We spent sixty together. Can you believe it? I can’t.”

Cameron’s eyes softened as he looked over at her. Her hair was thin and tied up in a knot on top of her head. She looked a little paler when she spoke of her deceased husband.

“He was on security detail the day Kennedy got shot,” I told Cameron. “He was one of the men walking alongside the car.”

“Really?” Cameron said. “Wow.”

“Yeah, not so wow,” Jenny said. “It ruined his life for a number of years. He ducked out after that and moved us from DC to Chicago. His next profession was a lot less desirable,” she mumbled.

“What was it?”

“Laundry,” I said with a wink toward Cameron, who was wearing a knit sweater two sizes too small that read “Ho Ho Ho”.

I sat, picking at my food, thinking about the taste of his skin and the feel of him inside me. He seemed to be thinking along the same lines as he winked at me before he took a bite of his pasta.

“I have some videos of my Roberto,” Jenny offered. “Maybe we can watch one after dinner.”

“Sounds perfect,” Cameron said as he turned my way. “Okay?”

I shrugged contentedly as I cut into my pasta, hungry, tired, sated, and happier than I could ever remember being.

Half an hour later, we were sitting on the couch when Bree texted.

Bree: What the hell is going on? You didn’t call me when you got in last night. Are you still mad at me?