dawns on both of us at the very same nanosecond, and my heart starts thrumming and drumming and omigod, he looks so, so, so, so help me FABULOUS.
“Gia,” he says, the muscles in his jaw pulsing.
“Michael,” I say, steadying myself by reaching out and grabbing his shoulder, pinning our bodies together.
He looks so different out of the blue cop uniform. More real, more present, more blood and guts sexual and alive and strong and gettable and electrifying—if that is possible. Jeans, black running shoes, a black fitted T-shirt that hugs his strong shoulders and tight chest, never mind the tattoo below the sleeve peeking out like a tease on the swell of his bicep, begging to be touched.
I am aware of the heat of his fingers and the pressure of his grip on my upper arm that remains for a few seconds more than it has to. I let go of his shoulder reluctantly and step back.
“What are you doing here?” I straighten up and pretend to breathe.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“Just slumming, you know.”
“You’re not old enough to be in a bar,” he says, his jaw tensing.
“The Dairy Queen was closed.”
“Get out of here or I’ll take you in for underage drinking.”
“Is that your idea of fun, Michael?”
He looks at me and doesn’t answer.
“I forgot, you’re the strong, silent type…anyway…I was just going. Want to walk me?”
“What are you doing up here?” he asks again. “Buying?”
“I’m not a goddamn junkie, if that’s what you mean.”
“Then what?”
“I came looking…for you.”
He looks at me in disbelief. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Why?”
“Stop it, Michael.”
“Go home,” he says dismissively.
“Will you call me?”
He closes his eyes and shakes his head.
“Well at least walk me to the door.” I go outside and he follows.
“So what,” I say, glancing at him over my shoulder, “you don’t like Italians?”
He looks at me with a steady stare and doesn’t answer.
“Or maybe you don’t like girls.”
A half smile. “Right.”
“At least you can kiss me good night then,” and before he can answer my lips are on his, and for maybe one or two real seconds, he stands there immobile and doesn’t kiss back but doesn’t resist either. But not only that, his mouth starts to open like his body is willing even if his cop brain isn’t, but a moment later he eases back and pushes me away.
“I can’t do this,” he says in a husky voice.
I step back, waiting, not knowing what to do. Score another point for Gia making a complete fool of herself. Not that this is the first time. Run, stupid. GO! my brain says. Only I can’t.
So he makes the decision and turns his back on me and heads for the street with one arm up to hail a cab. I didn’t have to worry because when you don’t want one, the cabs drop from the sky. It stops with a gut-wrenching screech, which kind of kills the mood.
“Go home,” he says, turning back to me.
I pull out a Chanel lipstick called Attitude then grab his arm.
“What the—” he says then falls silent watching me scrawl my cell in giant numbers from his wrist to his elbow.
He shakes his head in disbelief.
“Call me,” I say, getting into the cab.
“You’re crazy.”
The cab speeds downtown and I stare out the window.
Crazy, the operative word in our family. My dad is crazy—pazzo—too, so it’s in the genes.
Only his is a different crazy. It’s a there’s-so-much-shit-going-down crazy and I-have-to-keep-it-together-to-handle-it crazy, so he does things like turn on the water to make coffee and then walk off and leave it running. Or go to his closet and take out one tie after another because he’s suddenly blind as to what goes with what, even though his ginormous closet is set up by his tailor every season with each suit next to the shirts and ties that go with it. Then he’ll sit on the edge of the bed, lost, until my mom walks in.
“Gio,” she’ll say softly. Then she’ll pick out
“Gia,” he says, the muscles in his jaw pulsing.
“Michael,” I say, steadying myself by reaching out and grabbing his shoulder, pinning our bodies together.
He looks so different out of the blue cop uniform. More real, more present, more blood and guts sexual and alive and strong and gettable and electrifying—if that is possible. Jeans, black running shoes, a black fitted T-shirt that hugs his strong shoulders and tight chest, never mind the tattoo below the sleeve peeking out like a tease on the swell of his bicep, begging to be touched.
I am aware of the heat of his fingers and the pressure of his grip on my upper arm that remains for a few seconds more than it has to. I let go of his shoulder reluctantly and step back.
“What are you doing here?” I straighten up and pretend to breathe.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“Just slumming, you know.”
“You’re not old enough to be in a bar,” he says, his jaw tensing.
“The Dairy Queen was closed.”
“Get out of here or I’ll take you in for underage drinking.”
“Is that your idea of fun, Michael?”
He looks at me and doesn’t answer.
“I forgot, you’re the strong, silent type…anyway…I was just going. Want to walk me?”
“What are you doing up here?” he asks again. “Buying?”
“I’m not a goddamn junkie, if that’s what you mean.”
“Then what?”
“I came looking…for you.”
He looks at me in disbelief. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Why?”
“Stop it, Michael.”
“Go home,” he says dismissively.
“Will you call me?”
He closes his eyes and shakes his head.
“Well at least walk me to the door.” I go outside and he follows.
“So what,” I say, glancing at him over my shoulder, “you don’t like Italians?”
He looks at me with a steady stare and doesn’t answer.
“Or maybe you don’t like girls.”
A half smile. “Right.”
“At least you can kiss me good night then,” and before he can answer my lips are on his, and for maybe one or two real seconds, he stands there immobile and doesn’t kiss back but doesn’t resist either. But not only that, his mouth starts to open like his body is willing even if his cop brain isn’t, but a moment later he eases back and pushes me away.
“I can’t do this,” he says in a husky voice.
I step back, waiting, not knowing what to do. Score another point for Gia making a complete fool of herself. Not that this is the first time. Run, stupid. GO! my brain says. Only I can’t.
So he makes the decision and turns his back on me and heads for the street with one arm up to hail a cab. I didn’t have to worry because when you don’t want one, the cabs drop from the sky. It stops with a gut-wrenching screech, which kind of kills the mood.
“Go home,” he says, turning back to me.
I pull out a Chanel lipstick called Attitude then grab his arm.
“What the—” he says then falls silent watching me scrawl my cell in giant numbers from his wrist to his elbow.
He shakes his head in disbelief.
“Call me,” I say, getting into the cab.
“You’re crazy.”
The cab speeds downtown and I stare out the window.
Crazy, the operative word in our family. My dad is crazy—pazzo—too, so it’s in the genes.
Only his is a different crazy. It’s a there’s-so-much-shit-going-down crazy and I-have-to-keep-it-together-to-handle-it crazy, so he does things like turn on the water to make coffee and then walk off and leave it running. Or go to his closet and take out one tie after another because he’s suddenly blind as to what goes with what, even though his ginormous closet is set up by his tailor every season with each suit next to the shirts and ties that go with it. Then he’ll sit on the edge of the bed, lost, until my mom walks in.
“Gio,” she’ll say softly. Then she’ll pick out
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