Page 71 of His Passerotta

“You’ve never been in love?” he asks.

I snort. “Have you?”

He looks off while he seems to consider that. “I don’t know,” he says at last. “Maybe. I’ve had a few long-term relationships.”

“Didn’t quite pan out, though, did they?”

He spins to turn off the burner the chicken pan rests on and walks to a rack to grab a plate. “Nope.”

“See?” I splay my hands as if the answer is right in front of him. It is. I don’t know how more people don’t see it. “You thought you loved them, but it wasn’t real. It was lust. Love isn’t just there when it’s convenient for you. It’s supposed to be permanent.”

“It can be permanent,” he says, his amused tone telling me he isn’t taking me seriously. “I believe it’s called marriage.”

“No.” I shake my head. “Fifty percent of marriages end in divorce, and the other fifty percent is either unhappy or hasn’t had enough stress to fracture it yet.”

“Jesus.” He plates pasta and chicken, drizzling sauce over the top. “You are so passionately cynical about this.” Carrying the plate to me, he smiles. “Who hurt you, passerotta?”

I hold up a hand. “Think about it for a second. Would you ever even consider cutting ties with Settimo or Lorenzo? Can you think of a single thing they could do to make you stop loving them?”

He hands me the plate, sending the delicious scent of the lemon sauce curling into my nostrils. I breathe it in and lick my lips while looking down at the food. It looks really fucking good.

“No, I can’t.”

“See?” I cut a piece of chicken and twirl pasta around my fork. “That’s love.”

“It’s a different kind of love. I’d take a bullet for Settimo, but I wouldn’t want to spend more than an afternoon with him. And Lorenzo? Shit, there’s no one I’m more stiff around. I’m constantly trying to think through every word I say or hiding my thoughts from him. Same thing with my mother. I’m always lying or hiding something and always disappointing someone.

They’re my family, and I love them with a fierceness that could never be tamed. But I like to think there’s someone out there I can finally relax with. Not worry how I’m perceived. I’d know I was truly wanted and bound by something more elegant than blood.”

I look down at my food and focus on it while giving myself time to think through a response. When I put the bite of chicken and pasta in my mouth, my tastebuds nearly explode. He’s an even better cook than I pegged him as based on his spice rack.

“Do you have that with your brother?” he asks.

I meet his eyes as I swallow. “What?”

Anthony leans against the counter, his forearms resting on metal. “Are you capable of being your true, vulnerable self with him? Or are you always having to be the big sister?”

“I…” I blink, unsure of what I want to say.

“Do you cry in front of him?” Anthony asks.

I shift on the table and take another bite of food. Maybe if I ignore him, he’ll shut up.

“Have you ever cried in front of him?”

Ever?

I search my memory, not for Anthony, but for myself. Not that I plan on answering him. I don’t think he even wants an answer. He already knows it.

No. I can’t think of a time I cried in front of my little brother. Not when our mother died. Not when I got arrested. Not when I visited him for the first time in the group home. Never. I always waited until I was alone.

I’m starting to see Anthony’s point.

“Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone you could be vulnerable with? Someone who wanted to hold you while you cried, make you soup when you’re sick, listen to you bitch, whatever else you’re not getting from the supposed one person you’ll ever love?”

“I could get all that from a friend.”

He scoffs, but there’s no derision to it. He thinks I’m kidding myself. He’s right. “Friends can be there for you, sure, but never the same way. At least for me.” He shrugs. “I’m not going to ask my friends to make me soup.”

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