Page 63 of Married With Malice

All the big fake trees are gone but that’s fine. The small silver foil tree in a battered box is just as good as any other. A collection of ornaments shaped like fish heads will look spectacular dangling from the sparkly tree branches.

Dumping it all into the trunk of my car, the aesthetic effect has the look of a post-holiday landfill but my husband didn’t elaborate on what kind of festive decorations he wanted to see. Luca just said, ‘Decorate’ and that’s what I’m doing. I’m decorating.

Scattered flurries fall out of the grey sky as I squeeze the trunk closed and ferry all of my new holiday cheer home. I regret wearing a skirt today and resort to blasting the heater in order to warm my bare legs.

Naturally, Luca is gone, whereabouts unknown. It takes me five trips to the car to haul all this crap inside, where it gets dumped in the middle of the living room to sort out.

Except for the giant pink nutcracker. He gets to stand in a barren patch of frozen dirt in front of the kitchen window where his creepy plastic leer can radiate Christmas joy to the whole neighborhood.

Half an hour later, I’m draping purple tinsel garland on the fish-themed foil Christmas tree when the garage door rumbles open. Luca walks into the living room and stops short to stare at the madcap way I’ve decked the halls.

His face mutates into an eye-rolling‘Can’t deal with this crazy bitch’look. He retreats to his quiet office to escape the tinsel and snow globe horror show without making a comment.

Though I’ve festooned an impressive amount of territory, there’s still a large supply of clearance rack Christmas accessories lying on the living room floor. I could start carrying the shit upstairs to inflict the chaos on the bedrooms but I feel like I ought to cover all bases on the ground floor first.

Luca’s office seems like the next logical place to wreak holiday havoc. Located at the back of the house and overlooking the backyard, the room is neat and simply furnished. He doesn’t spend much time in there because his uncle keeps him running around the New York metro area doing gangster shit.

For a moment, I quit pawing through the mess of decorations and stare in the direction of his office. From here, I can’t see if the office door is open or closed.

Daisy called yesterday, which is nothing unusual. One way or another, I communicate with my sisters nearly every day. But this time she wanted to talk about Luca and that was odd.

Daisy isn’t the anxious type. My sister inhabits a happy-go-lucky neverland far above the fray where the rest of us ordinary mortals are stewing in our drama. That’s why it was strange to hear a worried note sneak in when she spoke his name.

Earlier in the week, she ran into him while he was hanging out with those two Castelli pricks. They had a short conversation.

“Luca looks different and he doesn’t laugh anymore, does he, Anni?”

The question bothered me. It still bothers me today.

The changes in Luca have been subtle, creeping up slowly. It’s only when I think back to our honeymoon, a mere two months ago, that I’m startled by the contrast between the handsome, extroverted rascal who constantly flirted with witty banter and the brooding man down the hall with his scowls and calculated silences. Luca doesn’t shave for days at a stretch and looks seductively disheveled, like he’s perpetually recovering from a rough and wild night.

But that’s just what I see. Luca tells me nothing.

He caught me off guard the other day. I wasn’t expecting him to walk in through the kitchen door while I was watching hockey game highlights. There wasn’t anything furtive going on. I’d started out searching for old figure skating clips from my competition days. There weren’t many, and the app kept suggesting hockey videos.

Luca used to play hockey. Often our practice times would run into each other at the rink. This is what was on my mind when I idly clicked on a few hockey links. I wasn’t thinking about a certain hockey-playing ex at all.

So why did I feel the need to guiltily hide?

I have the right to look at whatever I want, whenever I want, whether Matthew Pentone happens to be on the screen or not. Besides, if I ever see that coward again I’d be more likely to flip him off than to say hello.

That was the day Luca asked if I wanted to go to the city for the evening.

And for a minute, my heart soared.

I adore the city at Christmas. I love the lights and the tree and the excited bustle. Aside from obligatory family dinners, Luca and I haven’t gone out anywhere together since the honeymoon. The idea of having a real date with my husband filled me with an instant happy glow.

Then Luca’s phone rang and he decided he had better things to do.

I’ve tried pretending this didn’t sting. I’m not very good at pretending.

Now, as I squat in the middle of a tangled pile of disordered decorations, I can’t think of a better place to impose my holiday makeover than Luca’s pristine office.

I’m not at all selective about collecting an armful of crap before marching down the hall. The door is halfway open. Luca sits behind his desk and looks like he’s plotting the quickest path to world domination. He glowers out the window while rolling a fountain pen through his fingers.

As I drop a big mess of brightly colored junk on his floor, he raises an eyebrow but says nothing. I pluck out a ceramic Santa clad in beachwear and add it to the bookcase beside Luca’s leather bound law volumes. A long strand of pinecones is strung across the top of the bookcase. After swift consideration, a pink tinsel garland is thrown on top of the pinecones. A bright green Grinch coffee mug is placed on his desk.

All the while, I feel his eyes watching every move, raking nonstop over my body. The steam factor in the room jumped a thousand percent the second I walked in. A telltale warmth tugs low in my belly and rapidly heats my skin.

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