Chapter 10

 

 

 

Luke

 

 

I’ve been in my fair share of homes in New York City, but not one as unique as this.

My brother Rocco and his wife Dexie own a brownstone. It’s several stories with a basement filled with boxes, leftover construction materials, and a furnace.

The lower level of this place has been transformed into a bright and open living space complete with an exposed brick wall, wooden beams on the ceiling, and a fireplace. 

This is a step up from where I’ve been living. Rocco owns the apartment I’m renting. It has its positives, but privacy isn’t one of them.

I’m practically on top of my neighbors who live in the building next to mine.

“This is a great place to live,” I comment as Afton divides the large piece of lasagna between two light blue plates.

“Joel and my brother live upstairs.” She tilts her chin up. “When they decided to rent out this garden apartment, they asked me if I was interested.”

“You jumped at the chance?”

“How could I not?” She smiles. “It’s a little oasis in the middle of the city.”

I take a step closer to where she’s standing next to the kitchen island. “Should I take a seat here?”

“Sure.” Her gaze wanders to a dining room table set up near the corner. The top of it is covered in what looks like puzzle pieces.

Yanking on the back of a wrought iron stool, I set myself down on it. “What’s going on there? Are you in the middle of a puzzle?”

She pushes a plate of food toward me along with a tall glass filled with sparkling water and ice. “I’m trying.”

“Trying?”

“There’s a tradition in my family. We buy each other puzzles, dump the pieces on a table, and destroy the box.”

I laugh out loud. “Destroy the box? So you have no idea what the end result is supposed to look like?”

Rounding the island, she shrugs a shoulder. “Not a clue.”

“That’s fucking cruel.”

She nods her head. “You’re telling me. I’ve been stuck on this one for a few weeks.”

I wait until she’s sitting next to me before I take a drink from the glass. “I’m not half-bad at puzzles.”

It’s not a lie. My grandma had a crate full of puzzles she kept in a backroom of the restaurant when I was a kid. Whenever Dante and I ended up there at the same time during Calvetti family lunches, we’d have puzzle challenges. He has yet to beat me.

“You’re welcome to try.” She picks up the fork in front of her. “After we eat, that is.”

This feels comfortable in a way I didn’t expect it to. Afton hasn’t asked why I randomly showed up at her doorstep or how I even knew she lived here.

Instead, she welcomed me in, made me feel at home, and has kept the conversation easy and light.

“Dig in.” I point at the lasagna and garlic bread on the plate in front of her. “I guarantee it’s the best you’ll ever have.”

“Don’t I know it,” she says as she pierces a noodle with her fork. “I’ve been in love with your grandma’s food for years.”

 

***

 

Afton clears the plates, putting them into a sink under a window that overlooks what looks like a private garden.

When she turns back around to face me, her smile is gone. “How did you find me, Luke?”

I can’t say I tracked her down via her website because there wasn’t an address listed there. I was tempted to call the number she dialed from my phone the night we met, but that felt intrusive, so I dived into her socials as Dante and I ate lunch. I pulled up an image of her standing in front of this brownstone wearing a light pink blouse and jean cut-offs.

I stared at it for too long and not because I was trying to read the numbers on the house in the background. My gaze was locked on her.

Her hair was straight in the image. She had a pair of sunglasses perched on her head, and her smile was wide and open.

She’s a beautiful woman.

I clear my throat. “Would it creep you out if I told you I looked at your Instagram account?”

She gives her head a shake. “Did I post a picture that showed the front of this building?”

“You did.” I finish the water in my glass in one swallow. “It showed the last two digits of the address. I figured out the rest based on the exterior of the brownstone. I can pinpoint the location of almost any building in this part of the city by sight.”

Skepticism knits her brow. “You can?”

“Sure,” I answer. “It comes with the job.”

“What job?” she asks quickly.

I straighten my back and look her in the eye. “I’m a fireman.”

I’m damn proud of what I do. The desire to be a firefighter has always been an integral part of who I am. My dad tells me stories of when I was a kid and my relentless drive to own any toy fire truck I could get my hands on. It became a family joke of sorts. My aunts, uncles, and cousins would constantly drop by our house with fire trucks in hand.

I saved them all. They are packed in boxes in the closet in my bedroom.

“Really?” Her eyes widen. “I’ve never met a fireman before.”

For some reason, I like knowing that.

“So, you could tell where I lived based on a picture that didn’t show my entire address?” She grins. “Did you put out a fire near here recently?”

The question doesn’t come out as a joke, but there’s a definite teasing edge to it.

“I did,” I answer truthfully. “It was at an apartment around the corner from here three years ago.”

“Oh no.”

I hold out a hand to reassure her. “It was a kitchen fire. The damage was minimal, and no one was hurt.”

Her hand jumps to the middle of her chest. “Good.”

Empathy is a hard sell if you don’t naturally possess it. I sense she does.

It’s one of the reasons she didn’t abandon me the other day when I stormed into her wedding.

Our eyes lock for a few seconds.

Her lips part before she sucks in a deep breath. “I suppose you’re wondering why I left the church with you. I’m sure you have questions about that.”

I do. They brought me here, but now, they don’t seem as important anymore.

“If you feel like sharing, I’m all ears.” I move to stand. “If not, I’ll take a crack at that puzzle. Maybe I can lend a hand and get you on the right track.”

She glances at the table, and the hundreds of pieces of small jagged cardboard laid out waiting to be fit together. “You already have.”