Gina earned a degree in behavioral science. Her long-term career path may not have been clear at the time, but no one in the family anticipated that she’d earn a living posting content about fashion and fitness on social media.
She monetizes her accounts and so far, it’s paying her bills.
“We weren’t talking about me.” Gina reaches for Marti’s hand. “We were talking about Rocco’s new business partner.”
“Another n
ew one?” Marti’s brows pop. “How many partners do you need before you have enough money?”
“This one is extra special,” Gina interjects before I can answer the question.
“How so?” Marti’s attention is squared on me.
“She has a brilliant mind for design,” I say.
“And a beautiful face,” Gina adds.
Marti’s face lights up. “You’ll bring this new partner in for lunch one day, Rocco.”
It’s not a question, but a demand.
“We’ll see.” My mouth curves. “I need to make the deal first.”
“It’s always dollars first.” She pats my shoulder. “I’ll check on your linguine.”
“We ordered the minestrone,” Gina whispers as Marti starts toward the kitchen.
“She made the linguine herself.” I laugh. “We’ll eat it.”
***
Darkness is all that greets me when I enter my apartment an hour later.
I don’t switch on any of the lights in the main living space. There’s no reason to.
Dexie’s not there to see me.
I stand next to the window and gaze into her place. The sky is overcast tonight, so the moon is shrouded behind clouds.
The only light that dots the near horizon is from the apartment above Dexie’s.
I have no idea who lives there. I don’t pay attention. I’ve never bothered to glance into their lives and what happens behind the sheer curtains that are meant to separate their movements from the curiosity seekers who live in my building.
I don’t care about any of them.
It’s Dexie that I long to see. I want to see her.
I look down at my phone, scrolling through my contact list until I land on her name.
I saved the phone number that was included on the pitch sheet Lenore handed to me before Dexie walked into the conference room.
I can text her or call her.
I can interrupt her evening to tell her that I want to talk business, but it’s a lie.
I want to talk about the way she dances near her kitchen sink when she thinks no one’s watching her or the softness of her movements when she slides out of bed each morning.
I pocket my phone and curse under my breath.