Page 76 of The Holiday Hate-Off
It’s only after the door shuts behind her that I look down at my phone screen. She’s listed her number with the name “Your Worst Nightmare.”
Fuck me, I can’t help but laugh.
CHAPTER 16
LUCY
Oh, I hate him.
What a manipulative jerk.
What a talented tongue.
What lovely, perfectly-shaped fingers.
What a nice, hard dick.
What a good sense of humor.
I march away from Hidden Italy, determined to silence any appreciation of Enzo, but I don’t go home. I find myself walking toward the Wishing Bridge, where it feels like all of this began.
I pick my way toward the bridge, greeting a couple of people I recognize as I wrap the scarf more tightly around my neck. It smells incredibly delicious, of course—spicy and manly and just like the side of Enzo’s neck. He probably wears an expensive cologne. He’s exactly the kind of man who would, and he’d take great pleasure in knowing it drives me crazy.
A pulse of remembered pleasure works through me, and I squeeze my legs together for a second before continuing onward.
He let me in tonight, telling me about his family. I felt amoment of fierce connection with him then—we were just two caregivers who understood the toll and also the joy. I nearly told him why I’m taking the programming classes. But thank God I didn’t, because now I have to wonder if it was all a ruse to get what he wanted.
But he didn’t get what he wanted.
No, I left him with a rock-hard dick. Is he taking care of it now? Is he thinking of me while he does it?
I push down an image of Enzo with his hand wrapped around his dick, his other hand resting on the wall to prop himself up, his muscles rippling, because he wouldn’t be easy on himself.
Okay, fine. I’m attracted to Lorenzo Cafiero.Viciouslyattracted to him. In the spirit of total honesty, I’ll admit that I’ve been attracted to him from the first moment I saw him.
But sexual attraction means nothing. I’m attracted to dozens of famous actors, and they’ll never know I exist. The important consideration is that I don’tlikeEnzo, and I will continue to not like him. He’s domineering and manipulative, and sure, he has a sharp, witty sense of humor, but I can watch a sitcom if I want to laugh. I’ll just have to find someone else to be attracted to. Maybe even my sweet neighbor…if he’s the rareGolden Girls-loving young guy.
I keep walking, my mind circling around and around but staying on an Enzo track. Enzo’s lips. The brush of his fingers against mine as he reached for a french fry. The way he cleared that table with a single sweep of his arm in his desperation for me. Enzo on his knees in front of me…
He should have looked ridiculous with that red mustache, but if the marker couldn’t make the photo of him less attractive, what hope did it have of marring the real thing?
Still, I take some pleasure from the thought that I used a real Sharpie, not a dry-erase marker. He’ll still have traces of it on his face tomorrow, at work.
Something brushes against my hand, making me jerk to attention. I look down and see Skippy, who wags his tail. I smile at the jingle bell collar someone gifted him and give his head a rub. I’d love to have a pet, someone to keep me company and make the apartment feel less empty and alone, but my lease agreement insists I’m not allowed to have a cat or dog. At least there’s Skippy, who has sweetness enough to share with all of us. I give him a kiss and another nuzzle before moving on. A few minutes later, I reach the bridge.
It’s cold tonight, and the bridge is empty except for those locks lined up on its spokes.
I’m not sure why I’m here, other than that I need a moment to think. My mind wasn’t working clearly—or at all—in Hidden Italy. It was so focused on Enzo, I couldn’t see anything else.
I sit on the bridge, letting my legs dangle through the spokes and over the edge, and cautiously look down. No one’s getting busy beneath it, thankfully.
Now that I’m here, ready to make a wish, I feel self-conscious, but I press a hand to my chest. I’m not even fully aware of what I’m doing, what I intend, until I say in a small voice, “I’m in over my head, Mom.”
I rub a little more with my fingertips, feeling the cold press of the stone under my stockings. Feeling the grief surging against my rib cage.
“Youdefinitelywouldn’t approve of him, and you’d be right not to. Your advice was always good.Great.I’ve read your letter so many times, and I’m going to find a man just like the one you described to me. I’m not going to get hung up on some jerk.”
That’s why I’m here, I realize. That’s the wish I should be whispering on the bridge tonight.
