Page 63 of Boyfriend of the Hour
I used to hate that look. Until it was gone. Which was probably why I’d begged her to teach me how to make Nonna’s spaghetti via FaceTime two weeks after moving into Nathan’s apartment. Homesickness appears in lots of different ways, and apparently, mine made me want to do more than make toast for the first time in my life.
Well, maybe homesickness wasn’t the right word.
I didn’t exactlymissBelmont per se, which surprised me. The people, definitely. But I was never getting my family back the way I wanted. Meanwhile, it was hard to miss a leaky house in need of cosmetic repairs and new windows when I was living in the lap of luxury with as much hot water as I could ever use. Since I could no longer hear the B60 bus through the night, I was also sleeping better than I ever had.
But there were certain things I wished were available. The amaretti from Gino’s. My favorite prosciutto from the market. And Nonna’s cooking. After weeks of grabbing cheap slices and microwave dinners, I needed some real food. And I knew just who I wanted to share it with.
“It’s a method of cutting them,” Marie said impatiently, then proceeded to describe how.
I frowned as her directions went in one ear and out the other. I never took oral directions well.
“How about I just do that?” I said, then whacked a carrot with one of Nathan’s expensive-looking knives. “You know, that’s probably why I moved in with a complete stranger. He wears glasses, and he looks at me just like that when I say something silly.”
“I didn’t look at you like anything,” Marie said as her dismay deepened while she watched me butcher the carrots. “Are you cleaning while you cook? It doesn’t look like it.”
I glanced around me at the kitchen, which was, admittedly, a disaster from my efforts. “Baby steps. Tonight, I learn to cook. Tomorrow, clean.” I tossed the carrots in olive oil as she had directed and put them into the toaster oven on the counter. I’d clean up the drips of oil later. “Okay, carrots are in. What’s next?”
“Check your sauce. If the tomatoes are cooked, you can take it off the heat and sprinkle the basil by hand.”
I nodded. “On it. So, how’s Paris?”
At first glance, Marie and I looked nothing alike despite sharing the same dark hair, green eyes, and olive skin as the rest of our siblings. In school, most people didn’t realize we were related until they saw our last names. I was the coquette at the center of every party, who constantly tested the limits of dress code and curfew and had a new boyfriend every week. Marie was the wallflower who skipped every school dance, preferred Nonna’s company to class friends, and had never met an ankle-length skirt she didn’t like.
But in the six months since she had moved to Paris, I could already see some subtle changes. Her waist-length hair, which was always tied back in a mumsy bun, had been layered a bit to flow nicely around her face. The wire-rimmed glasses had been traded for some sexy librarian specs, and IthoughtI could detect a swipe of mascara and some lip gloss. She’d even gotten her ears pierced.Finally.
The wallflower was fading. Or at least thriving in a totally new garden.
I was happy for her. Mostly.
Marie just sighed. “All right. My French is actually getting halfway conversational. Enough that I could actually go to a market outside of the city last weekend and people understood me.”
“Make any friends yet?” I dipped a finger into the sauce and tasted it. I didn’t know what I was tasting for, but it seemed all right. Maybe a little bland. I added more salt.
“Don’t put too much of that. And yes, I have some friends.”
“Lost your virginity yet?”
Marie’s face flushed. “I thought you weren’t going to make fun of me for that anymore.”
I sighed. “Sorry. Old habits.”
“Bad habits.”
“I’ll add it to the list of the others I’m trying to break,” I said. “But seriously, no guys? Or girls. Whatever floats your boat—I don’t judge.”
“Why does life have to be about them?”
I frowned as something occurred to me. “Mimi, you aren’t into girls, are you? Or pan or something? It would be okay with me if you were, you know. I wouldn’t care at all.”
Marie just huffed. “Joni, just because I haven’t slept with half of New York?—”
“Or Paris,” I added as I threw the mound of basil on the cutting board into the sauce.
“Or Paris?—”
“Or anyone,” I put in.
“Joni!”
