Page 27

“What do you think of Nico?”
I hesitated.
“I’m not sure,” I finally responded.
“I talked to him a bit tonight.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. It wasn’t so bad. He’s a little rude, but I don’t hate him.”
I focused on the movie because I didn’t know what to say. I was glad for my sister, that she found something to talk about with him . . . However, my chest tightened in a strange way.
“Elena?” she said softly, grabbing something off the nightstand.
“Yeah?”
She handed her cell phone to me without looking. “Please send it. I can’t.”
I took the phone and read the text already typed out to Samantha—well, that was the codename for Ryan. A simple “Goodbye” was all it said.
My throat constricted, but I pushed the little button that could change lives and break hearts with nothing but an electronic word. I did it for Ryan’s sake, and wished I could go back and do the same for another’s.
“Done,” I whispered.
We lay side by side and watched a girl fall in love.
One of us already had, and the other knew she never would.
I sat at the kitchen table, legs crisscrossed on the chair, watching a raindrop make its way down the windowpane.
“No, no, no!” Mamma tossed the wooden spoon on the island, having just tasted the red sauce Adriana had prepared. Mamma’s sweatsuit was purple today, and her hair was half-up like it always was. “Now you’ve gone and killed him.”
Adriana sighed, her expression tightening with frustration. “How have I killed him again already?”
“That sauce is so bitter he would keel over.”
Amusement filled me. The last pot of sauce, Adriana had taken too long and poor Nicolas died of starvation.
Mamma shook her head. “Incredibile. I don’t know how you went on this long not knowing how to cook una semplice salsa di spagetti. I should pull you from those classes you take and make you spend the time in the kitchen.”
Adriana leaned against the counter. A white apron covered her Hamlet t-shirt that was longer than her shorts, and a yellow bandana kept her hair back from her face. “Elena isn’t a good cook either.”
I frowned.
“Elena is not getting married in two weeks!”
The soft patter of rain hitting the windows filled the room, a quiet discomfort replacing any words. The need to ease the tension rushed over me. It was what I was good for, after all.
“I doubt she will kill the man, Mamma. If he can survive being shot a number of times like I’m sure he has, then he should outlive Adriana’s cooking.”
“Three times,” Adriana piped up.
My brows knitted. “What?”
“He’s been shot three times.”
“Mamma mia,” Mamma scolded. “Do not talk of such things.”