Page 29 of Friends Who Fake It

“And she looked awful,” he admitted. “She told me to fuck off. Serves me right—she obviously wants to be alone, after everything she’s been through.”

“Been through?” Raf repeated, finishing his beer, slamming the glass to the table then lifting his fingers in the air, to call over a waiter.

“Well, yeah. I mean, losing a pregnancy is devastating for both parents, but for a woman, I imagine?—,”

“You cannot imagine anything about Marcia.”

Francesco’s gaze narrowed. “Raf, man, you’re not actually pissed at her about this?”

A muscle jerked in his brother’s jaw, beneath what looked to be about ten-day old stubble.

A waitress appeared, big smile in place an incongruity, given the tone of their conversation. “Would you like to see some menus?”

“Do you have Macallan?”

“Um, I think so.”

“Bring us a bottle.”

“A bottle?” She looked to Francesco, as if for confirmation.

He dipped his head, once, in confirmation, but added, for good measure, “And some burgers.”

“I’m not hungry,” Raf partially slurred, as the waitress left.

“You’ll eat something if you want to stay here.”

“I thought I told you; I don’t need a saviour.”

“You’ve got a brother. And a friend. But if you think either of those is going to let you drink yourself into a stupor, think again. You need to eat.”

Raf grunted.

“Raf, listen,” Francesco leaned forward, trying to find the right words. But this version of Raf was so completely unfamiliar to him. So angry. So furious. Just like their father. It stole his breath. And for the first time in days, he wasn’t thinking about Willow; he was fully focused on the predicament in front of him. “It’s probably not what you want to think about right now, but you and Marcia will get past this. One day, you’ll try again. You’ll have another baby. And probably another one. This is just?—,”

“No,” Raf interrupted, as the waitress returned, with a bottle of scotch and two glasses.

She hesitated though, eyeing Francesco, before announcing the cost of the entire bottle.

He nodded once, pulled out his wallet and slid over a card. “Start a tab.”

She stared down at the black card before lifting it up and walking away, leaving the whiskey between them. Raf snatched it up, unscrewed the lid like it had done him some great wrong, then poured two full glasses.

“I know you’re upset,” Francesco tried again. “But don’t you think you should be going through this with Marcia? She must be devastated too.”

Raf made a snorting noise.

“For God’s sake, what’s going on with the two of you? She lost a baby—there’s no way you can be angry about that.”

“She didn’t lose the baby,” Raf snapped, his eyes boring into Francesco’s now. His hand trembled as he lifted the whiskey towards his lips, then slammed it back down on the table, so half of it spilled out, over his hand, and across the surface.

“What?” Francesco frowned. “But Gianni and Maria said?—,”

“They were misinformed.”

“By who?”

“Me.”

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