Page 87 of Love Him Like Water

“That’s not warm enough,” Elian said, frowning at it.

“Oh, ah, my coat zipper was ruined when, well, you know,” I said. “I haven’t gotten around to getting another. Oh, don’t give me that look. It’s a couple of minutes. I’ll be fine.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, then walking through the apartment and into Renzo’s study.

I’d been in there a few times. Once out of curiosity. Then the other times to clean. It was a simple space with a desk and a big monitor, a couch, and, well, not much else.

Lately, I’d been avoiding the space, not liking the way it smelled like him, and how some sad, pathetic part of me wanted to curl up on the couch and breathe him in.

“Here,” Elian said, coming back out with a lined leather jacket, the leather worn, cracked, and soft from age, and holding it out to me. “Put this on.”

And smell Renzo on me the entire trip out? I’d rather be cold.

But Elian wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so I slipped my arms in, surprised by the weight of it as it settled on my shoulders.

“It’s huge,” I said, seeing my hands disappear in the sleeves. “Do I look ridiculous?”

“Kind of,” Elian admitted, making us both laugh. “But you’ll be warm,” he added.

“Thanks,” I said, following him out the door. “Twenty minutes. And then you’re going to have the happiest tastebuds ever,” I promised him.

“Looking forward to it,” he agreed as I walked to the elevator.

It was every bit as cold outside as I thought, despite the sun casting off of the windows. The hot dog cart on the corner kept puffing steam into the air and the woman who passed by me, chatting with someone on a video call was trailing her breath behind her.

Fall had taken a sharp right turn toward winter, and I felt an ache in my core, knowing the holidays would be right around the corner.

Thanksgiving not sitting at one of my aunts’ tables.

Christmas without my brothers’ big forms swallowing up all the space on the couches, making me sit crosslegged on the floor like a little girl in front of the tree as our father passed out gifts.

Would there even be a Thanksgiving with the Lombardi family?

Aside from Cinna, I had yet to meet a Lombardi woman. And she certainly wasn’t the type to stand in the kitchen from dawn until dinnertime where she would fill the table with food and sit with her loved ones to say grace and share a meal.

But maybe there were other Lombardi women who were more like the Costa women.

Or, maybe, that was now my place, I thought as I walked down the street.

I mean, I was—as crazy as it felt, given my age—now the Lombardi matriarch. And wasn’t it my place to plan a dinner, to shop for it, to invite people, to make the meal, and serve it to the family?

By the time I closed in on the coffee shop, I already had a menu in my mind.

A turkey, of course.

Creamy mashed potatoes. Green bean casserole. Sweet potatoes, with or without the marshmallows. Broccoli. Salad. Rolls. Maybe a couple trays of baked ziti. We were Italian, after all.

Pumpkin and apple pies for dessert went without saying.

I had it all planned out by the time I finally got through the long line and made it to the counter, ordering two large mocha frappes with whipped cream and extra drizzle.

I wondered if I could ask Elian about Thanksgiving, or if this was something I should talk to Renzo about first.

If I ever saw him.

No.

No, damnit.

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