Page 38 of A Winter in New York

“Monday night, then?”

“That’s tonight, Iris.”

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll bring popcorn.”

16.

Iduck into a bodega onMulberry Street to grab popcorn and red wine en route to Belotti’s. I’ve spent the afternoon alone, some much needed me-time to drink tea and keep my own counsel. How can something feel so right and so wrong all in the same breath? I lay on the couch this afternoon and considered cancelling, but my fingers refused to type the message. I submerged myself under bathwater and willed myself to float away to a new, easier version of my life, but then found myself relieved when I broke the surface and saw the cat sitting on the sink observing me in my cubbyhole bathroom. I pored over my mother’s scrapbook at my small kitchen table, wondering what advice she’d offer me. It saddened me greatly that I couldn’t find her voice in my head. The only advice I have to draw on is Bobby’s, so I’m making my way to the closed-up gelateria to drink wine with Gio Belotti and let what happens happen.

“I bought butter flavor and Cheddar.”

I hold up the popcorn bags and realize how Baby Houseman felt when she said she carried a watermelon.

Gio looks from the popcorn to me and nods, leading me through the gelateria to the door at the back of the kitchensmarkedprivate. I haven’t been upstairs to Gio’s home before, and it feels strange after so many mornings spent around the kitchen workbench. I glance over my shoulder toward my gelato machine sitting forlornly in the darkness, and then follow him up the stairs.

“Have you always lived here?” I wish I could suck the question back in when his face falls.

“No. Bella and I moved up here after Penny died. Too many reminders in our old apartment, you know?”

I nod, not trusting myself to reply. I moved continents to get away from reminders of Adam.

“You look nice,” he says, taking my coat.

I did that classic thing earlier, pulled out the entire contents of my wardrobe before settling for jeans and the black sweater Bobby and Robin gave me for my birthday. It’s the kind of expensive that clings in all the right places and slides off my shoulder. I’ve not had occasion to wear it before tonight, as it’s definitely not something to toss noodles in.

Gio looks uncharacteristically nervous. “I wasn’t sure whether I should cook?”

“Oh. No, I’ve eaten,” I lie, because I was too nervous to face food earlier. “Is Bella here?”

He shakes his head. “Mamma’s making far too much of a fuss over her for her to bother coming home tonight. My guess is she’ll be there three days, at least. Maybe even a week.”

“Those pancakes did sound amazing.”

He digs in a kitchen cupboard for a popcorn bowl. “It’s a win-win. Mamma gets someone to feed while Papa’s away, and Bella’s more than happy to be waited on hand and foot.”

“Sounds like a good gig, to be fair.”

We’re doing that thing again, avoiding the elephant in the room. But even though I hate terrible small talk, I’m okay with it right now because unreasonable things happen in my head and body whenever he touches me.

“This place is super cool,” I say, looking around, taking in his home. I don’t know what I expected—more of what’s downstairs, I suppose. Classic, traditional, a mini version of Maria and Santo’s Brooklyn brownstone. It’s not like that at all. Gio’s apartment would probably be described on Zillow as rustic-luxe, bare brick walls and exposed beams, stripped floors and industrial furniture softened with battered leather sofas and warm-toned rugs. For all of that, it still feels welcoming and unpretentious, scattered with the hallmarks of a family home—Bella’s sneakers by the door, schoolbooks on the coffee table, photos pinned to the fridge. Gio suits his home. He has the same established, comfortable-in-his-own-skin vibe about him tonight. Worn-in jeans, dark T-shirt with faded band graphics, yet another new version of him from the guy who works downstairs and the guy attending his family dinner. I would imagine this is as close to who he really is as it gets.

“It’s an ongoing labor of love,” he says. “Keeps me busy, anyway. Less time to think about stuff when you’re sanding floors or knocking down walls.”

An unbidden image of Gio in overalls saunters through my head, and I turn the mental hose on him and scoosh him away.

“So this movie,” he says, reaching two wineglasses down from a shelf. “Tell me what I’m in for.”

I shake my head. “Uh-uh. The joy is in not knowing. Besides, I wouldn’t do it justice.”

He cracks the wine seal. “You did a pretty good Nicolas Cage impression earlier.”

“You’ll know just how good when you see it,” I laugh.

I follow him to the sofa and perch on one end, accepting the glass of wine he hands me. He takes the other end, puts the popcorn on the empty seat between us, then clicks the TV remote.

“Already cued up,” I say as the movie graphic fills the screen. “Impressive.”

“Did you think I’d try to get out of it?”

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