one palm, he lifted the lid off the
smallest plate to reveal a slab of sourdough bread slathered in herb butter.
If he’d hoped to
distract her, he’d failed. “Oh, for God’s sake, who died and made you my
mother?” she snapped.
“ You did,” he replied, his tone blander than paste. “When you called me to come get
you from the hospital.” After placing the tray on her lap, he lifted the second
cover: pesto chicken with fresh zucchini and parmesan shavings.
She inhaled the
aroma and let the bad humors melt away. “I only came here for the food, you
know.”
“You came here
because you had nowhere else to go.” He whipped the tray away before she could
lift the fork. “And if you’re eating my food, you’ll follow my rules.”
Her traitorous
stomach growled, and she folded her arms over her abdomen to mask any
additional commentary elicited by her hunger. She glared up at Justin, who gave
the stink-eye back. “You suck.”
“Only for Tony,”
he replied sweetly.
“Eeeww!” She
slapped her hands over her face. “I so did not need to know that.”
Both men
laughed—Justin’s high-pitched, Tony’s deeper.
“How about we
settle for a sitcom rerun?” Tony suggested.
“Goody. Maybe we
can find an episode of ‘Shipp Shape,’ huh? Maybe the one where Rick shows up in
Bethany’s room in his underwear.”
The barb struck
its intended target. Justin winced, as she knew he would. Any reminders of his
fifteen minutes of awkward fame gave him the cold sweats.
On a defeated
sigh, he replaced the tray in her lap. “Fine. You can watch those cockroaches
nibble at your soul. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She gave Tony
the nod, and he clicked the remote back in time for her to see footage of her
apartment building. Paramedics carried a blanket-covered lump on a stretcher
out the front door and into the open ambulance while the white lights of
television news cameras lit up the darkness.
“...Ms. Fichetti
was found by a family friend who called 911. She was rushed to an undisclosed
hospital and released sometime late this afternoon. Details of her condition
were unavailable. Phone calls to Ms. Fichetti’s representatives went
unanswered.”
Isabelle stared
at the screen. “My representatives? What representatives? My answering
machine?”
“Probably,”
Justin remarked. “You know how this works. It doesn’t matter if they get a busy
signal, a voicemail, or a hangup. Anything but an exclusive statement
translates into ‘unanswered.’”
“We did manage
to reach Ms. Fichetti’s estranged husband, Carlo Romanelli,” the talking head
on T.V. continued, “who had this to say.”
Carlo. That
bastard. The blood drained from her head. These vultures had tracked down Carlo
to talk about her? Great! Now he knew about her attempted suicide. It would
have been okay if she’d succeeded. But to have this become another failure for
him to hold over her head? She cringed.
The studio scene
cut to a rainy street in Manhattan, where her not-soon-enough-ex huddled with
his latest blond bimbo under a black umbrella as he spoke into a microphone
held by an off-camera reporter. “Well, of course, I’m dismayed to hear of
Belle’s situation. I care very deeply about her, despite our pending divorce—”
“Fucking liar!”
She scooped up the hunk of bread from her plate and flung it at the image of
her smarmy ex on the seventy-two inch screen, smearing fancy herb butter across
his weak chin.
“That does it.”
At her sudden outburst, Justin grabbed the remote and turned off the television.
“You’ve seen enough.” He gave a curt nod toward her tray as he bent to pick up
her makeshift missile. “Now, eat.”
Rage sparked her
nerve endings, but she picked up her fork and speared a piece of chicken with
complete composure. “Yes, Mama. I’m sorry. You were right.”
“Of course I’m
right.” He used a blue cloth to wipe the grease off the television screen
before moving closer to
smallest plate to reveal a slab of sourdough bread slathered in herb butter.
If he’d hoped to
distract her, he’d failed. “Oh, for God’s sake, who died and made you my
mother?” she snapped.
“ You did,” he replied, his tone blander than paste. “When you called me to come get
you from the hospital.” After placing the tray on her lap, he lifted the second
cover: pesto chicken with fresh zucchini and parmesan shavings.
She inhaled the
aroma and let the bad humors melt away. “I only came here for the food, you
know.”
“You came here
because you had nowhere else to go.” He whipped the tray away before she could
lift the fork. “And if you’re eating my food, you’ll follow my rules.”
Her traitorous
stomach growled, and she folded her arms over her abdomen to mask any
additional commentary elicited by her hunger. She glared up at Justin, who gave
the stink-eye back. “You suck.”
“Only for Tony,”
he replied sweetly.
“Eeeww!” She
slapped her hands over her face. “I so did not need to know that.”
Both men
laughed—Justin’s high-pitched, Tony’s deeper.
“How about we
settle for a sitcom rerun?” Tony suggested.
“Goody. Maybe we
can find an episode of ‘Shipp Shape,’ huh? Maybe the one where Rick shows up in
Bethany’s room in his underwear.”
The barb struck
its intended target. Justin winced, as she knew he would. Any reminders of his
fifteen minutes of awkward fame gave him the cold sweats.
On a defeated
sigh, he replaced the tray in her lap. “Fine. You can watch those cockroaches
nibble at your soul. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She gave Tony
the nod, and he clicked the remote back in time for her to see footage of her
apartment building. Paramedics carried a blanket-covered lump on a stretcher
out the front door and into the open ambulance while the white lights of
television news cameras lit up the darkness.
“...Ms. Fichetti
was found by a family friend who called 911. She was rushed to an undisclosed
hospital and released sometime late this afternoon. Details of her condition
were unavailable. Phone calls to Ms. Fichetti’s representatives went
unanswered.”
Isabelle stared
at the screen. “My representatives? What representatives? My answering
machine?”
“Probably,”
Justin remarked. “You know how this works. It doesn’t matter if they get a busy
signal, a voicemail, or a hangup. Anything but an exclusive statement
translates into ‘unanswered.’”
“We did manage
to reach Ms. Fichetti’s estranged husband, Carlo Romanelli,” the talking head
on T.V. continued, “who had this to say.”
Carlo. That
bastard. The blood drained from her head. These vultures had tracked down Carlo
to talk about her? Great! Now he knew about her attempted suicide. It would
have been okay if she’d succeeded. But to have this become another failure for
him to hold over her head? She cringed.
The studio scene
cut to a rainy street in Manhattan, where her not-soon-enough-ex huddled with
his latest blond bimbo under a black umbrella as he spoke into a microphone
held by an off-camera reporter. “Well, of course, I’m dismayed to hear of
Belle’s situation. I care very deeply about her, despite our pending divorce—”
“Fucking liar!”
She scooped up the hunk of bread from her plate and flung it at the image of
her smarmy ex on the seventy-two inch screen, smearing fancy herb butter across
his weak chin.
“That does it.”
At her sudden outburst, Justin grabbed the remote and turned off the television.
“You’ve seen enough.” He gave a curt nod toward her tray as he bent to pick up
her makeshift missile. “Now, eat.”
Rage sparked her
nerve endings, but she picked up her fork and speared a piece of chicken with
complete composure. “Yes, Mama. I’m sorry. You were right.”
“Of course I’m
right.” He used a blue cloth to wipe the grease off the television screen
before moving closer to
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