Page 222 of The Wicked

As she washed the dishes and I rinsed and dried them, she asked, “So, this girl… how come you never mentioned her?”

I shrugged. “I didn’t know how I felt.”

“And now you do?”

“Hm.”

“And this girl—”

“Zahra,” I told her.

“Zahra, do you know where she stands with it?”

“Yes.” I placed a plate in the holder, picking up another one to dry. “It is one-sided.”

She stopped washing for a second before continuing. “And you know this, how?”

“When you tell someone you like them… they are supposed to respond if they like you too; she didn’t.”

Gemma nodded. “Maybe she just wasn’t ready? You know it takes some people a lot of time to catch up to their feelings? Maybe it’s like that with her.”

I glanced over at her. “Are you saying that with certainty?”

She shrugged. “Not really, I’m just saying it based on what I think. I don’t know her, so I might not know what could really be going on in her head, but I think if you really like her, don’t stop doing what you do. Sometimes, some people want you to give them a reason to show that they like you too.”

I paused. “That… makes sense.”

“I know.” She smiled. “And it’s cute,” she added after a pause.

“What is?”

“The fact that you like her. The tips of your ears are redder than my face right now.”

I raised a brow at her, keeping a plate. “If I don’t see it, then it never happened.”

She laughed, proceeding to inform me of the different shades of skin flushing and what they meant.

About thirty minutes later, we were settled in the living room, the pizza had arrived, and Gran Louisa had popped open a whiskey bottle.

“Sorry about food, Elio,” she said.

“It’s okay—it was spicy, but I enjoyed it,” I told her, now recovered from the attack of the meal.

“My dead husband like spice. He always say it is real men food. That is why he die early.”

“Nonna,” Gemma chided.

“What. I cannot speak truth?”

“It is always advisable to speak the truth,” I supported, and Gemma pinned me with a look as she changed the channels on the TV.

“So, Elio, how come no family? Cousins. Uncle. Aunty, no one?”

I drank from the glass in my grip, about to give the usual response I delivered to anyone who asked me that question. “Actually,” I started instead, “I have a brother, half-brother.”

“You do?” That caught Gemma’s interest.

“Hm,” I said.