to say my damn piece.
I think he’s going to argue, act like I’m mistaken about seeing him, but he doesn’t deny that he’s been following me.
Instead, his eyes flick to the chair across from him at the table. I don’t think he means it as an invitation, but I take it as one anyway.
I turn the chair around backward and straddle it, glad it’s a narrow seat so my little legs still reach the ground. I just want more between us, need to be able to make a fast escape if it’s warranted. And having my toes dangling off the ground like a little kid is not in those plans.
This is stupid, Carly. So fucking stupid. Should’ve run while you had the chance because this is a game you’re not prepared to play.
The voice in my head isn’t wrong. I like to think I’m strong, independent, maybe even a tiny bit badass, but the monster in front of me is like nothing I’ve ever seen.
Still, if he’d wanted to hurt me, he’s had ample opportunities and ones much better than sitting in the middle of Strega’s. I’m not one of those girls who thinks that because she had one godawful boyfriend, her radar is off. Especially since I didn’t pick Robert—my dad did. Nope, my guy-dar is still doing okay, so I’m trusting my instincts here because I’m inclined to poke the bear and see what happens.
“What’d you think of the show?” I ask, genuinely curious but also to let him know that I saw him there. It’s a calculated first move, less angrily impulsive and more strategic.
He grunts, not answering for a beat too long but finally sharing, “It was good.”
It’s the smallest morsel of conversation, barely a compliment, but it feels huge. Like he just gave in on something internal that was holding him back. I’m not sure what it is, but I can feel it all the same. But poking is one thing. Scaring him off is another. Though the idea of my scaring him is laughable, I play it safe.
“Thank you.”
Silence reigns between us, his eyes ping-ponging from me to his coffee to the laptop. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I make him nervous.
Needing to fill the space, I ramble on. “I started karate when I was eight and did it all the way through high school. It gave me something to do to channel all my energy and pissed my parents off more than a little that I was this messy, sweaty beast of a girl, not the demure princess they wanted me to be.”
I can feel the smile stretching my face as I think back to the multitude of times my mother would beg me to do dance instead, saying how it would be so much more useful to know how to do a foxtrot or a waltz or a tango. And of course, all young ladies did ballet. It taught ‘poise’.
Honestly, I took glee in her confusion over how I could be so coordinated on a mat but so klutzy on a wood floor. Never mind that even then, the clumsiness had been exaggerated, my own small rebellion to get me kicked out of ballet class and back to the karate I loved. But Mother had never known that.
“I did a choreographed piece a few times and loved it, so when I needed cashflow to subsidize my Euro-vacay, I tried doing the numbers on the sidewalk. Now, I perform several nights a week and love it because it’s mine, you know? Plus, I get days to sightsee and hit up all the tourist traps, and I keep in good shape. Best of all worlds. Routine but no strings, independent but still get to connect with the audience. Plus Europe, of course!” I finish with a gleeful proclamation.
He blinks at the onslaught of words I just flung his way, and I can’t decide if he’s really wishing I would shut up or if he wants me to keep talking. He tilts his head, speaking in a low voice.
“I can’t decide about you. You saw me damn near kill a man, and you understandably freaked. But now you sit here, talking like we’re old friends. What’s your play?”
I blanch, surprised that he’s being so blunt. “No play. Just making conversation. Adding a touch of humanity to the boogeyman who’s stalking me through the streets of Italy, you know?”
“That what you think I am? The boogeyman?” His chuckle is dark with violent promises. “Little