Page 16 of Bitter Poetry

She snickers. “I can’t believe you’re still so short.”

The brief moment of shared humor does not linger before the melancholy sweeps me under.

“I’m not crying,” she says.

“I’m not crying either,” I reply.

We are both lying. It’s a stupid game we play, trying to convince ourselves we’re doing better than we are.

She steps back, swiping the tears from her cheeks. I do the same before heading over to the small table before the window where Brigida put the tray. I sip my cappuccino. Then I deliberately dunk the biscotti in: a heathen act, according to my mother.

God, I miss her.

“She hated you dunking biscotti,” Jessica points out.

“I know.” Another sad smirk makes its way across my lips. “I only did it when she couldn’t see.”

“Well, that’s all the time now.”

I hear the raw edge to her voice. The biscotti feels heavy as it hits my stomach. I can’t remember what I ate yesterday.

Today, we’ll have closure. At least, I hope so.

“It’s going to be a shitty day,” she says.

I don’t bother to pull her up on her cursing. “It is,” I agree.

“But at least Dante will be there,” she adds. “Maybe after, Papa will finally announce your betrothal, and we can have something to look forward to—and, like, screw college. Marry him already. Then he could stay here, and Ettore and his sister wouldn’t have an excuse to snoop around.”

We share a look.

She doesn’t like Ettore or Helena any better than I do but is far less subtle about it. We are vulnerable here despite the army of soldiers patrolling the grounds. Ettore is in a position of authority, and through him, so is his sister. Better if we don’t do anything to antagonize them.

“Maybe,” I say. Only, something feels off whenever I try to envision a future with Dante. Since that terrible day when everything changed, I’ve seen him exactly once as we crossed paths when visiting my father at the hospital.

He was polite and asked me how I was doing.

I nodded and said,“Not great.”

Then, one of the men had called him away, and that was that.

I wash my hands and then dress while my sister stares out the window at the pool.

I wonder if she’s thinking about the barracuda.

“He’s making himself awfully comfortable,” she says as I slip my feet into my shoes.

I still. She wasn’t thinking about the barracuda, then. Instinctively, I know she is talking about Ettore.

She turns to face me. “I’ve seen how he looks at you when you’re not watching.”

I inhale sharply and shake my head. “Not now. Not today.”

“Predatory,” she continues. “Like his sister and Cosmo. Predatory runs strong in that family. He wants you. Don’t wait too long to marry Dante. Please, Carmela, I have a terrible feeling about this.”

My sister has long been prone to dramatics. I swear she has drama flowing through her veins instead of blood. Yet her eyes, pooling with tears, undo me today. I go over and hug her again. I’m older, and I need to be the one to allay her fears. “I won’t. Don’t worry about it. I promise it will be okay.”

She still looks uncertain, but she nods and leaves to finish getting ready.