Page 93 of The Woman on the Jury

Lauren was at work.

We were going to stuff our faces, and sort out my tangled web of emotions regarding Cosimo.

That was what we did.

We worked through things together.

It was stupid of me not to reach out to her sooner.

If I had, I probably wouldn’t have needed to concoct a plan to lose my guards, and run away to hide in her apartment.

I went to her wine rack, picking out a cab that we’d both agreed was the best of the best, despite it only being twelve dollars a bottle. I grabbed glasses, and uncorked it, letting it rest.

But when another hour passed, I went ahead and poured myself a glass, sipping it to ease my nerves.

“Finally,” I said when I heard a knock at the door.

I made my way across the apartment to open the door and help Lauren with the bags and bags of food she’d likely come home with.

I didn’t even think twice about it.

I just slid the lock.

Then pulled the door open.

I didn’t realize my mistake until it was too late…

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Cosimo

My ma still lived in the same condo my old man had owned when he was alive.

Why she wanted to stay in the place where she consistently got the shit beat out of her was completely beyond me. Especially since I knew both Silvano and myself had offered to buy her something else, somewhere that didn’t remind her of years of unhappiness.

She’d been stubborn about it, though.

She was staying, and that was that.

I had to admit that over the years, she’d completely changed the place. Back when he was alive, my old man refused to let her change shit around there. I’d once woken up to him screaming at her about hanging new curtains.

She’d told him that she just wanted the place to feel more homey.

He’d raged that she might be okay with raising a pussy, but he’d be damned if his son liked that girly shit. And, well, he’d gone off from there into really fucking homophobic territory, ranting and raving until Ma was crying and pulling down the curtains.

Now, though, every goddamn trace of my old man was gone. In their places were things that screamed my mom.

Lots of pinks and florals, too many throw pillows, curtains on the windows. She’d even gutted the kitchen and replaced all the appliances, every light fixture in each room, and the primary bathroom was practically a spa, complete with a towel warmer and a TV.

“Honey!” she called, rushing toward me with outstretched arms. “I’m so glad you could make it,” she said, grabbing both of my hands, and giving them a squeeze, very aware that, for the most part, I didn’t like being hugged, that I never easily accepted physical contact. She used to try to press it when I was still a kid, until a friend of hers told her that she needed to respect my boundaries.

To be fair, I wouldn’t call them my boundaries.

I’d called them the walls my father had forced me to build.

And I’d never really figured out how to break them down myself.

“Food smells great,” I told her, offering her the flowers I’d brought.

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