“Nah, it’s the cookies.” She tore the cellophane open. “Do you have any milk?”
“Sorry, love. Milk is for children. And Americans.”
They turned the movie back on and ate the Oreos. Nev agreed they were disgusting and had almost as many as she did. The cookies on top of dinner on top of whiskey made her stomach sort of bloaty, and the movie suffused her with a helpless, desperate love for humankind. Holding Nev’s hand in the flickering dark gave her an anchor.
When all the citizens of Bedford Falls rushed to George’s house to help in his hour of need, she cried. She always did. But this time, she couldn’t stop. Something about seeing George surrounded by his wife and children, his family and friends—everybody who loved him singing “Auld Lang Syne” together at Christmas—hit her like a punch in the gut.
Before her dad died, she’d known what it felt like to be part of a family like that, to be embedded in a place, surrounded by people who knew her and loved her. She’d had uncles and cousins and manicotti after mass on Sunday. Storytelling and good-natured joking, church shoes and a Christmas stocking with her name on it.
It had been a million years since she belonged anywhere, or to anyone.
Nev drew her onto his lap and rubbed her back. She burrowed against him, letting his familiar male smell smooth over the rough edges and the thud of his heartbeat against her cheek dull her pain. When she ran out of tears, he wiped her face with the flat of his hand and kissed her.
“Want to tell me what that was all about?” he asked.
She did want to. No surprise there. The surprise was that she was going to.
Screw the rules. If she was doomed to get her heart broken by Nev—and she absolutely was—what was the point of trying to protect it with a flimsy little fence? She wouldn’t do it anymore. She’d trust him the way he deserved to be trusted. When he inevitably figured out she was no good and kicked her to the curb, it would give her one more thing to regret. But until then, she wanted to know what it felt like to belong to him.
“My parents are dead,” she said. “And I have a horrible family.”
He smoothed his palm over her hair. “What sort of horrible?”
“Too big, too loud, too nosy. Too mobbed-up.”
“Mobbed-up?”
“Mafia,” she explained. “We’re pretty well-known in Chicago. Good for getting a table at a restaurant. Not so good if you have moral objections to racketeering.”
“I see.” His mouth flattened out, and he seemed to be searching for something neutral to say.
Cath smiled. “Don’t worry, it’s not as bad as it sounds. It’s my great-uncle Pete who’s the real criminal mastermind. My dad was squeaky-clean. He was a lawyer, and he mostly did really boring stuff—contracts and divorces and whatnot—I think because he wanted to avoid being asked to defend his brothers and uncles and cousins when they got into trouble. He loved his family, though, so we were all close. Except Mom. She wasn’t so fond of the Talaricos. Honestly, I don’t know how she ever ended up with Dad. They were so different. She liked her life quiet and neat. I think he must have seemed exciting when they first met, but then after a while she wanted the excitement to die down, so she had a baby, and I turned out just like him.” She paused, then added, “I drove her up the wall.”
“You must miss him.” He traced the shape of her ear with his finger. She rose a bit so her cheek brushed against his scratchy throat, then nestled closer, appreciating the heat of his skin against hers and the way he breathed, steady and slow.
“I do. But I’m kind of used to that. What gets to me is that I miss all of them.” She looked up at him. “When I left Chicago, I was sure I’d never go back. I burned every possible bridge.”
Very funny, Cath. What she’d actually done was set her own house on fire—technically Jimmy’s house, but what was his was hers. It had sort of been an accident, but she’d gotten herself a
rrested for arson. Uncle Pete had come to the rescue, and she’d acted about as grateful as a pit viper. Tattoo number two.
She didn’t have to tell Nev everything at once, though.
“And now you’d like to go back?”
She ran her hand across his chest. He was wearing an old T-shirt, dark blue, the slogan so faded it was illegible. Soft fabric over hard muscle. She didn’t want to go anywhere. She wanted to stay here with him.
“Nah. But I wouldn’t mind a do-over.”
He gave her a sad smile. “We don’t get do-overs, love.”
It was a shame. There were so many things to fix. If she had another shot at her youth, she’d make more of an effort to get along with her mother. Keep herself from getting knocked up by Jimmy, or at least refuse to marry him. Or maybe pick up the story later and do better after she went out on her own. She’d take back those lost years when she’d drifted around Europe, chasing after musicians and artists and dreams, and she’d spend them in college instead.
But then, there was the butterfly-effect thing. If she had changed anything, her life would have taken a different path, and she wouldn’t be here with Nev.
“No, we don’t. That’s okay, though. This is pretty good.”
Shifting so that she straddled his lap, she took Nev’s head in her hands and looked at him. The familiar planes of his handsome face. Those eyes, nearly black in the dim light, but still as warm and caring as ever. She kissed him once on the lips. Then she kissed his cheekbones and the space between his eyebrows. His closed eyes and the bridge of his nose. His scratchy chin and the spot right next to his ear that made his breath hitch. She’d never allowed herself to touch him like this before, not without sullying it with sex. Never told him with her lips and her fingers what she felt about him when she allowed herself to feel. Hopeful. Fragile. Joyful.