The Sweetest Oblivion (Made 1)

I shook my head, agitated. “You puke tonight, I’m not holding your hair. I don’t do that shit.”

“My sister will,” she said, like she was planning on throwing up. “Are we done getting to know each other then?”

“For now.”

“Thank God,” she muttered, getting to her feet and drunkenly drifting away to join one of her loud cousins. The girl had already introduced herself to me. Well, she’d come up and said, “Mamma was right. David don’t got a thing on you,” before winking and then disappearing. Strange fucking family.

I accepted another glass of whiskey from a server’s tray, ignoring my cousin Lorenzo who came to sit next to me. He pushed his jacket open and shoved his hands in his pockets. Who the hell knew where he’d been, but I’d rather he be anywhere but staring at Elena Abelli. Just the idea itched beneath my skin.

In a moment of silence, Lorenzo’s gaze followed some Abelli jailbait’s ass as she walked across the lawn. “What’d he do to you?” He nodded toward the blond prick I guessed I hadn’t been secretive about wanting to put a bullet in.

“Pissed me off,” was all I said, swirling my glass of whiskey.

“Must have been bad, then. Takes a lot to piss you off. Let me guess, he insulted your mamma?”

“No.”

“Papà?”

“No.”

“Your most handsome cousin? Six-two, dark-haired, big cock—”

“Lorenzo?” I said dryly.

“Yeah?”

“Fuck off.”

Lorenzo laughed, slapped my shoulder hard enough to slosh some whiskey over the rim of my glass, and then left.

Told you, fucking idiot cousins.

“Whether we fall by ambition, blood, or lust, like diamonds we are cut with our own dust.”

—John Webster

IT WAS SILVER, TINY, AND reflective. I could almost see my face in it. Gianna’s dress, of course. Long feather earrings, green heels, with her hair piled on the top of her head and no makeup but red lipstick made up her ensemble tonight.

“ . . . If you’re going to do it, do it with a male stripper. Trust me on this one.” She was talking to my fifteen-year-old cousin Emma, who sat at the kitchen island sipping punch through a straw while looking bored.

All my aunts conversed about Adriana’s bachelorette party as I sat off to the side and across from Nonna at the table, with a cup of coffee in front of her. We’d only heard that tiny bit of Gianna’s conversation before my family’s noise drowned out the rest.

I shook my head, slightly amused, but more unsettled. The words Oscar Perez had whispered in my ear earlier sank to the pit of my stomach. He’d pulled me aside once more to tell me to smile, that it would complement my belleza—whatever that meant. I didn’t speak Spanish and I never wanted to. The beautiful language sounded harsh and invasive from his lips. I hated when someone told me to smile, as if a smile of mine belonged to them and not me.

He never had clarified why he’d be upset that I ran away and slept with a man, but there was only one reason I could ascertain: He thought he was going to marry me. It was hard to imagine Papà would agree to it considering Oscar wasn’t even Italian, but why else would I have sat next to him at dinner when I never had to before?

“You are unhappy.”

My gaze coasted from the scratches in the wooden table to Nonna’s brown eyes. I shook my head. “No, I’m not.” I would never let a man like Oscar Perez steal my happiness.

“You are not a good liar, cara mia.”

I didn’t respond, uncertain of what to say.

“The littlest problems seem so great to those who are young,” she lamented. “I used to worry like you, you know. Do you know what it got me? Not a thing. Do not waste your time on things you cannot change.” She stood up, bracing a hand on the table. “I’m going to bed.”

“Goodnight, Nonna.”