The Next Mrs Russo

“She has her own life,” Warren replies as we enter the mansion. “Runs her own errands. We can’t presume to know—”

“I’m free, actually,” I butt in, slightly distracted by the fact that he didn’t correct her when she said “live-in girlfriend.” Warren looks at me and I shrug. “I mean, I was planning some intense agility training for Gary, but I can always do that later.”

“Yay!” Bethany squeals. “This is going to be so fun.”

I blush. I have never, not in all my life, had a teenager want to be around me. Except Miller, but he’s a forty-seven-year-old man trapped in a teenage body. It’s exhilarating. They should bottle this, actually. It’s better than any drug I’ve ever tried.

“We should go out,” Bethany says.

“Chinese?” I suggest immediately.

“Chinese!” Bethany confirms. All before Warren has had a chance to interject or cast a vote.

Sorta fitting.

“So we’re going out?” Warren confirms, looking a bit befuddled by our enthusiasm over food. “I’ll need to take a shower,” he says, looking down at his somewhat dusty clothing.

Men.

“Off you go then,” I tell him, gesturing towards the stairs. “Quick like a bunny.”

“Oh, my God,” Bethany says. “I love you.”

Well. That’s one Russo, at least. Two if you count Duke.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, we find ourselves at a table at the Golden Dragon, a.k.a. the best-kept secret in all of Albany. As soon as we walk in, they go wild. Governor Russo might be able to win over a crowd everywhere else, but here, I’m the celebrity. Also Warren is out and about enough in Albany that most people don’t think it’s that big of a deal to see him in ordinary places.

“There’s my favorite customer,” the waiter says, waving us in. “And you brought guests!”

“You must come here a lot,” Warren says, as we sit and examine the menu. “For you to be their favorite.”

“I do know my way around a takeout menu,” I explain. “And also, I’m pretty sure they say that to everyone.”

“So, what’s it been like living with my dad?” Bethany jumps in, and I nearly choke on my water.

“Well,” I reply slowly, trying to buy time, waiting for Warren to interject and handle this question.

He doesn’t.

Instead he stares at me, as if he too is waiting for the answer. His eyes drop to my lips as his gaze flickers over my face.

“You saw the state of my plumbing,” I finally answer Bethany. “So I appreciate your dad letting me stay for a while. Showering isn’t nearly as overrated as one would think.”

“Right,” she says with a little deadpan nod. “Your plumbing.”

“My bedroom’s nice, too,” I add. “I really appreciate the vintage wallpaper,” I offer, because honestly I’m not quite sure what to say about the mansion décor.

“Stop it,” Bethany gasps as she holds her hand up as if that will put an end to this information. “You guys have separate bedrooms? Oh, my God, you are so tragic.” She drops her head into her hand.

“Bethany,” Warren warns.

“What?” Her head snaps up. “I don’t want to be an only child forever, you know.”

I choke again, and Warren glares. He opens his mouth to respond to her, but before he can answer, Warren’s phone rings.

“Order me the moo shu,” he says. “And Bethany, behave.”

He leaves, and Bethany looks at me conspiratorially. My anxiety spikes in a way only a looming teenage interrogation can cause. Big no.

“Do you want to hear a secret?” I ask, preemptively.

“Oh, yes.” She nods eagerly. She even puts her elbow on the table, chin in palm in expectation.

“I’ve always had a fantasy of coming here and getting a table for six, and then ordering six entrées, one for every seat. But just for myself. Like my own private buffet. Because who can decide what to order when it comes to Chinese food? It’s impossible to narrow it down.”

Bethany grins, a slow smile covering her face as her eyes light up at my ridiculousness. “That. Is. Genius,” she says, punctuating the words.

“String beans and orange chicken and beef with broccoli and—”

“Let’s do it,” Bethany declares. “Let’s just do it.”

Could we do it? I mean, why the hell not? In terms of crazy, this is on the light end of the spectrum.

“Waiter!”

Bethany and I are nearly beside ourselves trying to stifle our giggles when Warren returns as we wait for the waiters to start delivering all the food. He’s suspicious, but we’re tight-lipped.

It starts when they need to slide another two-seat table over to our four-top to make room for everything we ordered. It’s actually pretty comical, the way they add a couple of placemats for empty seats, but Bethany and I manage to contain ourselves, just barely.

We keep it cool when the egg rolls arrive. They don’t count towards our six entrées. Nor do the pot stickers. Of course not.

But when it takes two waiters to bring six entrées to the table, we lose it. Warren doesn’t even have to ask if there’s been some kind of mistake because it’s clear by our reactions that we ordered all of this food, and that we’re delighted with ourselves.