Page 5 of Already His

It seemed the punishment really did fit the crime if the monster hangover that descended on me the next day was anything to go by. While my best friend and ex-partner in crime was jetting off to Sweden for a luxury spa break, before going on to Macau, I was hanging with my head in a bucket over the side of my bed.

In the spirit of all truly great hangovers, I couldn’t even think about Elliot Winter and the car journey back to my apartment. The cringe was too high. Sloppy drunk is not a good look ever, never mind in front of the most handsome and intimidating man, who happens to have been a complete jerk all day. I saw scenes of our kiss in my head, at the touch of his mouth, how I’d hungered for it. How I’d moaned at his touch, and rubbed myself all over his lap. I could only be grateful for the small mercies that we had arrived in my neighborhood at just the right time. Looking back, I wasn’t even sure Elliot had been drinking, which only made my drunken desperation worse.

Of course, though, being Sunday, I wasn’t able to die in peace from dehydration and humiliation. I had to get dressed and drag myself to Bensonhurst for church, lunch, and shame.

I dressed in a dress that had minimal creases and clean enough and scraped my greasy hair back. No amount of dry shampoo was going to save this situation. I slapped some makeup on, and called it a day. The bus ride was fraught, as I sat at the front, stared out the windscreen, and willed myself not to throw up.

Finally expelled in a pathetic heap nearby St Dominic’s, I limped along the street.

“Carina! You almost missed the start of mass, you know Father Giovanni doesn’t approve of lateness,” my father’s loud, booming voice carried across the street to me. I went gladly into his warm, familiar embrace. He stroked my hair.

“You look tired, Mia? Maybe you should stay at home tonight?” My father’s dream of my deciding to move back home to my childhood bedroom was an enduring one.

“I’m fine, dad, just tired after the wedding,” I told him. My father nodded, his face smoothing as he was reminded of Angel’s wedding. He knew Angel, of course, she had been my friend forever, and my roommate. He was relieved that she was setting a good example for me by getting married and settling down.

“I hope she got our gift,” he said gruffly, as we walked toward the church. I didn’t want to tell him that his $50 in an envelope was a drop in the bucket compared to the newly minted Angel St. Vincent’s net worth, but huge amounts of money were not something my father could ever really get his head around. To him being rich meant paying off your mortgage before the final term or buying an Alfa Romeo car without a loan.

“She did and she was touched. She wants to bring West for Sunday lunch once she’s back from her honeymoon,” I told him.

“Certo, they can come to church with us before,” he said, with the zealous smile of one who feels genuine pleasure in strong-arming people into doing things out of their comfort zone.

“We’ll see,” I said, patting his hand. I didn’t see West St Vincent coming to church because Vittorio Rossi asked him to, but hey, if Angel asked him to, he’d be there. Love was like that.

* * *

My hangover was just easing after mass when something happened to make it return tenfold.

We were filing out the pews and my father was looking around, shaking hands, exclaiming over babies, and new brides, the usual for a big figure in a small close-knit community. Vittorio Rossi wasn’t mayor or anything, but he was the local butcher and therefore presided over a holy house where every single Italian came to worship several times a week.

“Who are you looking for?” I asked finally. Vittorio’s eyes were fixed on the front of the church, and a broad smile spread over his features, as he raised an arm to wave someone over.

“Here he is,” he muttered, taking out a handkerchief to swab his forehead, “Simone, come, come.” My hangover pressed on me as I recognized the name. Taking a deep breath, I turned slowly to see a familiar figure approaching.

Simone Masteiri approached, smiling widely. He was wearing a suit that seemed slightly too small for him, the buttons strained around his thick middle. It was uncharitable of me to notice, but given that fitting menswear was my job, impossible not to.

“Vitto, Mia, how good to see you,” he said, taking my hand, and to my horror, pressing a kiss to the back.

He was at least ten years older than me and had a used car showroom in the neighborhood. My father knew his father, my mother had been friends with his mother. He was a good, old-fashioned family man, and it was no secret he was looking to settle down.

“Mia, don’t be rude,” My father nudged me. I pushed my champagne nausea to the side and forced a smile.

“I’m sorry, hi Simone, you look well,” I said. He held my hand longer than necessary, and his fingers were clammy. I pulled them free and resisted the urge to wipe his residue off my skin.

“As do you, Mia, I mean, of course, you always do,” he said with a nervous smile.

“Say, Simone, we were just about to go home for lunch, if you wanted to join us?” My father had the audacity to pretend that this was a new idea, and not something planned. Simone’s eyes widened and he shrugged his meaty shoulders.

“I mean, that would be nice, if Mia doesn’t object,” he said. His bad acting rivaled my father’s.

“Of course, the more the merrier,” I said through gritted teeth.

* * *

When I got off the bus hours later in Navy Hills, I was done. Lunch had dragged on endlessly, and part of my father’s scheme to impress me with Simone had been to talk him up insistently. I had heard about his family in Italy, his business, his church attendance, and his wish to have four kids. All boys. I had narrowly escaped being driven home in Simone’s second-hand Lancia, a little titbit he felt compelled to tell me multiple times.

I walked toward my apartment, feeling lower than the lowest scrap of gutter trash. Not only was I still hungover, but an afternoon of being reminded that my father’s dreams for me were so far from my own, was truly upsetting.

Inside my apartment, I stripped my church dress off and stepped out of it, leaving it on the floor, feeling like I was stripping off the pretense of being the good girl my father wished I was. The one I pretended to be every Sunday.

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