single,” she says, grinning. “Life’s too short. There’s an ice cream smorgasbord of eligible bachelors out there all dying to show me a good time, and I want to try all the flavors before I die.”
“What flavor was this last one?”
Topaz lifts a finger to the side of her mouth, staring to the left. “Vanilla. No question.”
We come to the familiar street corner where I turn south and she turns north, and I throw my arms around her.
“I’m going to feel like the biggest dweeb if he doesn’t call. You know that, right?” I say into her ear.
She squeezes me, hard, and laughs. “He’ll call.”
“I don’t even know if I’ll say yes. He’s not really my type.”
“You will.”
14
Ace
I can’t remember the last time I asked a woman out on a date. My memory fogs the further back I try to go, and for the longest time, there was only ever Kerenza. Everything before Kerenza is static and noise, and everything since her is darkness and void.
I allowed her to break me.
It isn’t something I’m proud of.
Clutching my phone and hunched over in my leather chair Saturday night, I swipe my thumb across the screen and recall my conversation with Topaz in the makeup chair this morning. Topaz is unusually bubbly for a native Brooklynite. She’s the kind of person I can only handle in small doses because she’s just . . . too much. But in the midst of one of our many conversations earlier, she mentioned Aidy, and I’ve found myself thinking about her ever since.
I’ve been around enough women in my day to know that they rarely speak kindly of each other, especially when men are concerned, but Topaz rambled on about how kind and beautiful Aidy was, inside and out, and then she caught me off guard, telling me I should ask her on a date. Not wanting to be rude, I told her I’d consider it.
But I know damn well I’m not dating material. Not in the condition I’m in.
Aidy’s a beautiful woman. She seems bright and content. Someone like me would only weigh her down, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t make the best impression on her this past week. She’d have every right to turn me down if I asked.
Thumbing through my contacts, I pull up her name in my phone and re-read her last and only text to me. I barely have a chance to read the words, “Fuck off” when a call comes through and turns my screen black.
Matteo, one of my four younger brothers, is calling, and I haven’t heard from him in months.
“Alessio,” he says when I answer. He’s one of the select few who never quite adapted to calling me by my nickname, but for him, I’ll allow it. “How goes it, fratello maggiore? You around tonight?”
“I am.” I lean back in my chair, crossing my legs wide. My elbow props me up on the arm, and I rake my hand through my beard.
Not only have I not spoken with Matteo in months, but he hasn’t seen me since shortly after the accident.
“I’m in the city for work,” he says, and I can hear the smile residing on his pretty boy face. Matteo’s an aspiring actor living in Los Angeles, taking bit parts and small jobs whenever he can get them. “Only for a few days. You want to meet up? There’s a group of us from this commercial I shot earlier, and one of them has the hook up at this club. We can get in.”
I snort through my nose, shaking my head. There was a day not too long ago that my name opened doors and busted through VIP list barricades. There was a day when everyone wanted me in their club, drinking their drinks, exciting their patrons.
Funny how quick people are to move on to the next best thing.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Matteo says. “Believe it or not, I miss your dumb face.”
My fingertips trace along the scar hidden beneath my beard. “Yeah?”
“Go out with us,” he says. “I know you sit at home, Alessio. No one ever hears from you anymore. You’re a shell of a man, and you’re better than that. Don’t let . . . don’t let what happened ruin you. Don’t give her that.”
Matteo has a point.
“I’ll come by in an hour. You think you can be ready by then?” he asks.
Fuck.
Fine.
Whatever.
It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do tonight.