Page 26 of Always Mine
Thankfully, Evie flies through the door behind me, providing the circuit breaker I need. “Sorry, sorry, sorry I’m late! I was running on time and then I couldn’t get an Uber and then we got traffic. Urgghhh,” she rants in frustration as she strips off her layers. I love my other best friend to bits, but she’s never on time. For anything. The running joke is that she’ll even be late to her own funeral. We’re both Type A over-achievers, but Evie is a crazy creative Libra, and she can sometimes (often) get distracted. Her toxic trait is trying to cram in more activities than is humanly possible and then gets mad at herself for not being on time. Case in point. This morning, she tried to fit in a workout, wash and blow-dry her hair, create outfit of the day content for her online followers, and make it across town in the blistering cold—all within a ninety-minute window.
“Mon Cheri, take a breath. No one dies because you’re fifteen minutes late. And for the record, Sophia just got here too,” Juliette reasons calmly.
“I know, I know. Wait! Little Miss Punctual was late?” she questions, finally taking a breath and doing the rounds kissing and hugging each of us. “What’s your excuse?” she teases playfully. “I didn’t see you at Johnny’s.”
“You were at Johnny’s?” I try to sound indifferent as I move to take a seat next to Stella at the bar. “That’s where the boys weregoing. Did you see them?” More specifically I want to ask, did you see Marco?
Before Evie can answer, Stella swings around to face me. “Girl, why the fuck are you wearing your shoulders like earrings? Didn’t Marco tongue-fuck that tension right away? If not, maybe he needs a lesson from Juliette on how to use his artillery!”
This sets off Juliette and Stella in a fit of giggles again, while I huff out something between a groan and a laugh.
“I can’t speak for his dick, but I can confirm his fingers and tongue are magical. Best orgasm of my life. On one hand, it felt like we went from zero to hundred in a few hours. On the other, it felt like a merciful release after being edged for six years.”
Evie side-eyes me but remains uncharacteristically quiet. She’s the most diplomatic in our group and gives great advice, even if she rarely applies it to herself.
“To be honest, I feel like your retelling is a bit light on details, but either way, get it girl,” Stella replies. “You’ve waited long enough. Besides, the pair of you have enough repressed emotions and sexual chemistry to power a small country. I’m just glad he finally saw sense and made you see stars.”
There’s no point trying to be coy. These girls have been there to catch every tear I’ve ever shed over Marco. They’re also the ones who encouraged me to live my college life to the fullest when I moved away from New York—and him.
Stella leans over and smacks a kiss to my cheek at the same time Juliette slides the first cocktail in front of me. “You look like you need this the most.”
“So what now?” asks Evie tentatively. “Have you guys spoken since the blog blast went out this morning?”
“Yeah, we texted quickly this morning. I told him we need to get our story straight before dinner at casa Princi tonight,” I explain. “And he told me to just make sure I don’t wear panties so he can make good on starting the year like he ended it—with his head between my thighs.” I cover my face with my hands, while the girls hoot and holler like teenage girls. “It’s just…the timing. Is this the best time to focus my attention on Marco? On a relationship, when I’m about to get my first big break in my career? Not to mention the tension between Marco and my father,” I explain solemnly. “You should have seen my dad’s face when Marco stood up to him and then all but dragged me out of the party last night. Murderous.”
“Sophia, you’re almost twenty-six years old. You’re a fierce, independent woman with your own mind and belief system.”
As fun-loving and naughty as Stella can be, she’s also damn good at what she does, and right now I’m thankful for the switch to coach mode.
“You need to stop making decisions based on how the outcome will validate the expectations others have of you. If you want to be in a relationship with Marco, then you should, without feeling like it has any bearing on how good a lawyer you will be. They are irrespective of each other, and you need to find the courage to tell your dad that.”
The raucous laughter has given way to a safe space, where I can share my greatest fears with my best friends in the world. After listening intently, Evie finally enters the chat. “There’s a lot at stake for you, Soph. I know how hard you have worked to join your family’s firm. To earn the respect and validation of your dad. But there’s clearly something there between you and Marco. There always has been. Are you prepared to choose him at any cost? Because I think the time for games is over.”
I know she and Marco have a close friendship, and the conviction in her tone suggests that perhaps he’s confided in her too.
“As much as he hides behind aloofness, playful flirting, and a playboy image, that man feels big things for you too.”
There’s understanding in Evie’s eyes that tells me my hunch is correct. I don’t press her on it because I’ve already got enough to think about after last night’s events that have left me in a heightened state of arousal. My body hums in anticipation at what might happen tonight if I do find myself alone with Marco and at the mercy of his talented hands, but my head warns that by choosing Marco, I’m knowingly jeopardizing my relationship with my father. It’stoo much, so I signal for another cocktail and hope it can calm the war raging between my heart and my head.
The delicious aromas of Italian food hit me as soon as I open the front door of our family home. My tummy grumbles, reminding me I skipped lunch in favor of a few more of Juliette’s delicious cocktails. No regrets. I feel like I’ll need the lingering buzz to get through tonight’s dinner. I’ve avoided my dad today, but there’s no escaping his wrath about my sudden departure last night and that stupid fucking gossip blast once we’re seated for our traditional New Year’s Day family dinner.
I follow my nose into our massive open-plan kitchen with a large island in the center. Mom stands at the stove in front of the big picture window overlooking the yard, the large double ovens off to her left. There’s no doubt this is the heart of our home. Family dinners like tonight always feature her favorite recipes—Bolognese, fried veal cutlets, and pepperonata—which have been passed down from my great-Nonna, to my Nonna, to my mom and eventually one day to me. My mom is standing over the stove, stirring the big pot of Bolognese and meatballs.
Coming to stand beside her, I greet her with a kiss on the cheek. “Smells good, Mom.”
“Hi, darling; it’s almost done. Here, try a meatball. Tell me if they’re as good as Nonna’s,” she responds as she drops a meatball on the little plate doubling as a wooden spoon holder and cutting it in half.
Tentatively taking half in my mouth, I hum in approval. “Perfect. Nice and soft, and enough parmesan and salt.” They do taste amazing, but not exactly like my Nonna’s. We both know that even following the recipe to the letter, we can never replicate the exact taste. It’s as if she’s the only one with the final secret ingredient.
“Happy New Year. I didn’t get a chance to catch you last night…or this morning.” In true Mom-fashion, she doesn’t come right out and ask about the dramatic turn of events last night.
“Happy New Year to you, too. I ended up having a late one at Bella Donna with the boys.” I don’t offer up details, but I’m aware of her eyes burning a hole into the side of my head. She lets the silence linger a bit longer, a sign she’s waiting for more details—namely, why Marco virtually carried me out of a party we both know was entirely for my benefit. When I can no longer stand the silence, I fill it.
“Whatever you want to say, just say it.”
My best friend Evie excels in diplomacy, whereas I excel at not beating around the bush. Well, except for dealing with my feelings about a certain green-eyed man.
“No need to snap, darling. I’m simply pointing out that you left in such a haste that your father didn’t get the opportunity to make introductions to some business associates he’d invited specifically to meet you. Last night was important to him, but I understand you wanted to be with your friends. It just might have been nice to give him some warning,” she adds with a sidelong look, “that you were going to leave with Marco. You guys looked rather…I mean, you know how your father is. He despises giving anyone reason to talk about this family. Appearances are…” She lets her sentence peter out when she hears me blow an exasperated breath. I love my mom to pieces, but I wish she could understand how suffocating it can be to try and live up to my father’s expectations. Would it kill her to take my side for once? I’m no longer an impressionable fifteen-year-old girl needing to be reminded that all actions have consequences. I’ve made my own decisions for the last six years. Yet less than two weeks back in the family fray and I feel the resolve to be the master of my own destiny start to crumble. I’ve wanted to be a practicing lawyer at my family’s law firm for as long as I can remember, but I’m starting to question just how much I’m willing to sacrifice for the sake of keeping up appearances. I feel like a wooden puppet, and with each tug of the invisible string the chokehold of anxiety feels stronger. Channeling that aggravated energy, I formulate the best response I can in this moment.