“Everything okay, Mrs. Gardner?” Matthew asked quietly.
I flared, taking my hand back and shoving it into my pocket with the chip. That was all I needed—the slightest bit of concern would turn Calvin into a rage later, if that wasn’t already in the cards.
“It will be once you and your mangy little car are off our property, Mr. Zola,” I said loudly. And as cruelly as I could manage.
Behind me, Calvin snorted. “I need a drink. Nina. Inside. You’ll be at least somewhat social for the full weekend before you and Olivia abandon me again.”
“Of course,” I said. “I need to change, though. Would you like me to take your things up to our room?”
“Fine, sure.”
Calvin tossed his phone and everything else at me like I was nothing better than a bellhop. I turned to follow him, feeling like my heart was being torn out of my chest behind me. But as Calvin disappeared up the steps and into the house, I chanced one last look over my shoulder.
Matthew still stood behind his open car door, watching me carefully as I walked away. He had removed his shades, and his gaze was now transparent, green eyes as wide and fathomless as the ocean behind me. Wide. Open. Full of more love than I’d ever seen in my entire life.
As he backed toward his car—the beat-up Accord I’d seen parked outside his house—I pressed my fingers to my mouth and released them, a small gesture of the kiss I so wanted to give.
Matthew didn’t respond, too aware of the faces potentially hidden behind the reflective window panes. But his expression didn’t shift, and I soaked in that love for one last second before he left.
Interlude II
August 2018
Matthew
“Come on, you can do it. Throw me the ball, Sof.”
I squatted down like a catcher, held out my hands, and pretended to brace myself for the plastic Wiffle ball my four-year-old niece was holding.
But instead of throwing it the ten feet or so across the tiny yard we shared with the other brick houses around our block, Sofia just screwed up her face and began to cry.
My arms dropped. “Shit.” I jogged to Sofia and squatted down again, this time to pull the little girl into my arms. “Sofia, honey. What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I c-can’t do it!” she howled.
“Can’t do what, Sof?”
“Throw the ball.”
I bit back a smile. Like most of the women in my family, Sofia already had a talent for speaking in italics and making a man feel like an idiot in the process.
“What? Of course you can,” I crooned as I stroked flyaway hairs from her face. “You nearly broke one of my windows yesterday. That’s why we’re playing with this sturdy thing instead of my baseball.” I tossed the whiffle ball up in the air and caught it easily. “Why don’t you think you can throw it, Sof?”
“Because.”
“Because why, monkey?”
“Because!” she shouted. “Because of what those boys said to me!”
I cocked my head. She and her mother had just gotten back from Mass, which could only mean one thing. Her cousins had been acting like assholes again. “You mean Tommy and Pete?”
A big, pea-shaped tear welled out of one eye, then slid over Sofia’s chubby red cheek. She brushed it away with a thick fist. “Those boys,” she spat, like the word intimated some terrible creatures that lived in a cave.
I couldn’t really fault her there. My nephews were basically gremlins.
“They said,” she huffed, “they said”—another hiccup—“they said I throw like a girl!”
And like she had just purged some terrible admission, a torrent of tears spilled forth, which she automatically shoved angrily out of her face. Yeah, Sof was definitely a member of the Zola tribe, if for no other reason than her hot temper and stubborn charm. She might have been four, but she didn’t like crying any more than the rest of us.
I didn’t dwell too long on why that might be.
“Hey,” I said, pushing her hand away. “You wanna know the truth, kiddo? They’re just jealous.”
She blinked, her tiny forehead still wrinkled with a frown. “How do you know, Zio. You’re a boy too.”
I smacked my hand against my heart, like she had just shot me through with an arrow.
She giggled. Progress.
“I know because I’m a boy, Sof,” I told her.
She eyed me suspiciously, like she was trying to see if I was messing with her too. “Zio, don’t trap-uh-nize me.”
It took me a second to figure out what she meant, but in the end,