Back in the Burbs by Tracy Wolff
Chapter Thirty-Two
Bella Bella’s is a neighborhood Italian restaurant that has white tablecloths, votive candles floating in a bowl surrounded by fresh flowers, and a hostess dressed in all black who never smiles when she seats you. In other words, it is the fancy date-night place that stays on the right side of too expensive but has great food and no one brings their kids.
Mikey and I have gone through all the small talk by the time my chicken Parm and his lasagna arrive. The weather. The way Sutton changed but still stayed the same. Angela’s kids, the amazing renovation he’s working on for the Jhaveris a few blocks over from my place. Now I’m chewing each bite a million times to keep my mouth full so I don’t have to come up with any more chitchat. I mean, honestly, my mind is still going a million miles an hour about the whole “secret sister” thing anyway.
It sucks because he’s so nice and hot and an absolute gem of a guy—but for someone else. There’s no way to avoid it; I’m just not ready for dating. I might never be.
“So,” I say, drawing out the word. “Talk to me about dumpsters.”
Mikey wriggles his eyebrows and gives me an exaggerated leer. “You wanna talk dirty, huh?”
I let out a squawk of amusement that has several other diners turning to stare. Oops.
“Well, I actually already got approval from the HOA, and I can afford it, so what do I need to know?”
“You want to consider a lot of things. Placement. Size. What you can’t put in there. Exactly how much you can put in. Oh, and how much it’s gonna weigh when you’re done filling it. Landfills are gonna weigh that sucker before you can empty it, and that bill can be a shock.”
Great. Just what I need—another bill.
“Did you save room for dessert?”
Always. Who doesn’t save room for cannoli? Too bad I just can’t do another half hour of dumpster talk, and I’ve exhausted everything else.
“I wish; that chicken Parm was too good not to eat it all.”
“I understand.”
I’m pretty sure he does. In addition to being a fantastic guy, he’s smart as hell.
He stands up. “Shall we?”
I nod. I insist on leaving the tip when he won’t let me split the check, and after he pays the bill, we walk out into the parking lot. He doesn’t try to hold my hand or even walk so close that we’re almost touching. I spend most of the ride home asking questions about the renovations Aunt Maggie’s house needs.
The running convo in my head, though, is all about what a sweetheart of a guy he is. Really, he deserves someone better than a woman with enough baggage to start her own luggage company. No. What I need—when the time is right—is a guy with as much baggage as I have. Then we’ll be equals, at least.
Nick probably has baggage. Why else would he be so uptight? He might even own his own luggage line full of more emotional BS than I have.
“So that’s when I switched my lifelong allegiance from the Yankees to the Mets.”
I jerk my head around and stare at him. “What?”
He snort-laughs. “I figured that would get your attention. I almost went from being a Devils fan to a Rangers fan, but I can’t even kid about that.”
Way to go, Mallory. You are such a keeper.
“I’m sorry, Mikey. It was a long day clearing out another room of Aunt Maggie’s stuff, and I’m about to drop.” Not a total lie.
“Sure,” he says, keeping his tone light even as I see the truth in his eyes. “That makes sense.”
He pulls to a stop in front of the house, and I’m opening the door before he’s even turned off the ignition.
“Thanks so much for everything,” I say as I do the short-people maneuvering it takes to get out of a big truck. “Next time, though, I’m picking up the bill.”
“You got it.” He glances over at the other side of the driveway. “That’s where I’d recommend putting the dumpster. Enough room to get your car in and out of the garage but easy for the truck to drop off and pick up.”
“Then that’s where we’ll put it.” I step down from the runner under the passenger door. “Night, Mikey.”
He nods, an easy smile on his lips. “Night.”
I shut the passenger door and take the path around the back to the sliding patio door. The lights in the family room are dim as I walk inside, but there is no missing Nick. He’s half lying, half hanging off the couch that’s barely long enough for me and definitely not for his long legs.
“Hey there,” I say, keeping my voice soft so I don’t startle him.
Sleepy-eyed, he smiles up at me, his usual firm lines and determined set to his square jaw softer now. “Sarah crashed about half an hour ago after we finished Kill Bill. I told her to take your bed, figured that’s what you’d want.” He sits up and rolls his neck. “She really liked that movie.”
A movie about a betrayed bride out for revenge? Yeah, that definitely tracks. “With our family’s history, when it comes to men, wouldn’t you? And yes, I’ll definitely take the couch. Poor girl. She needs sleep.”
Nick nods. “She’s coming by the office tomorrow. I’m going to help her get palimony and child support arrangements made.”
Awwww. That hits me right in the soft and vulnerable spots. “Always looking out for the Martin sisters, huh?”
“Someone has to, because it seems like you two look out for everyone else but yourselves.”
I want to argue, but I can’t. Instead, I plop down on the couch next to him. “Apparently, it’s our fatal flaw.”
We sit there for a few minutes in silence but, unlike during my date earlier, this is comfortable. Neither of us seems to feel the need to fill the quiet space. My eyes, though, are getting heavy. I wasn’t lying about being exhausted. They’re half closed when Nick moves beside me, getting off the couch and holding me by the shoulders as he maneuvers me so I’m lying down. He tugs the afghan blanket from where it’s draped across the back of the couch and lays it over me, tucking the edge under my chin.
“Night, Mallory.”
My eyes flutter shut. “Night, Nick.”
Then he’s gone and I’m alone on the couch, exactly like I want to be, need to be. But for some reason, it feels lonelier than ever before.