"What's that?"
"It's Machiavelli."
"Machiavelli." I lean against the doorframe. "Like Tupac?"
Laughter escapes his lips-real laughter-the sound lightening the air in the room. I know who Machiavelli is, but I wasn't sure what else to say. He looks away from the book, those deep dimples out in full force. "Have you read it?"
Slowly, I shake my head.
"Everyone sees what you appear to be," he says, "few experience what you really are."
I take a bite of the food. I know he's quoting The Prince, but damn if it doesn't feel like he's talking directly to me with that. "Does he have any advice for what someone's supposed to do when they see what you really are and it scares them?"
He's quiet for a moment, his eyes narrowed as if in thought, before he responds. "Never was anything great achieved without danger."
I don't say anything to that. I stand there for a while eating as he goes back to reading. My feet grow tired eventually, and without even thinking, I walk into the den and sit down on the edge of the couch.
Naz is fast asleep.
He's on his side, facing away from me, hugging a pillow as he snores softly. It's the first time in a week I've been up in the morning before him.
I move soundlessly around the bedroom, pulling on clothes and putting on shoes, my eyes periodically shifting to him to make sure he's still asleep. I grab my phone, tossing it in my purse, and head toward the door when I hear his voice. "Going somewhere?"
I turn to him, seeing his eyes are open now, regarding me suspiciously.
"I'm meeting Melody for coffee."
"Is that right?"
"Yes," I say. "Or actually, it's tea... chocolate mint tea, from the cafe we always went to."
"In Manhattan."
"Yes."
He sits up. "I'll drive you into the city."
"No," I say, holding my hand up to stop him before he can climb out of bed. "I can take the train there, no problem. I've done it before."
Truth is, I need some space to breathe, to think, without the smell of his cologne surrounding me, without his presence looming in the next room.
He stares at me. Hard. It's as if he's trying to decide whether or not to trust me, as if I've given him some reason not to. I haven't, though, and he seems to accept that after a moment. "Be careful, Karissa."
"I will," I say, hesitating, staring at him as he just sits there and watches me. After a moment I turn away, striding out the door.
I get to the city a few minutes early and step into the cafe, surprised to find Paul behind the counter. He looks at me, smirking. It gives me the creeps.
"I didn't know you worked here," I say.
"Just started," he says. "What can I get for you?"
I order and take my usual seat, but I don't touch my drink. It freaks me out a bit that Paul made it. Last time I drank something his hands touched, I ended up collapsing on the sidewalk in the middle of the night, drugged.
Melody strolls in at ten o'clock on the dot, taking a few minutes to flirt with her boyfriend before joining me. She plops down with a coffee, and before I can even say hello, she reaches into her purse and pulls out an envelope. "Oh, before I forget, you got another one of these letters."
I look at it with surprise, taking it from her. "When did it come?"
"Yesterday."
I tear it open as Melody starts rambling. I pull out the single piece of paper and unfold it, seeing the scribbled writing just like the last one.
Friday night. Midnight. Meet at the entrance to Washington Square Park. You have to get away from him. Leave everything behind. I love you.
"Well?" Melody says, snapping her fingers in my face. "Are you listening?"
I glance up, shoving the letter back into the envelope. Friday night. Midnight. I'm not sure how I could get away at that time. "No, sorry, what did you say?"
She repeats herself, something about Paul. I don't know. I still don't listen. My mind is stuck on the note, my stomach in knots. I still don't know what to do, what to think.
We've been here for going on an hour when Paul takes a break and squeezes himself in at our table. Sighing, I look away from them when they start getting touchy-feely, my gaze shifting to the window. My expression falls, my muscles tensing, when I see the familiar Mercedes parked across the street.
The motherfucker followed me.
I should've known. I'm more exasperated than shocked by it. Now that I know his secret, he's not going to let me out of his sight. He's not going to risk it.
He's not even breathing the same air as me, but I suddenly feel like I'm suffocating. I can feel his hands around my throat, little by little squeezing the life out of me.
Melody excuses herself to use the restroom. As soon as she walks away, I turn to Paul. I have a chance to slip away, and I need to find some way to do it... to at least hear them out, hear their side of the story.
It's my mother, after all.
I owe her that much.
Maybe my life was built upon lies, but there's no denying she raised me for eighteen years on her own. The side of me that's fractured is frantic for this opportunity, while the other half is already grieving the loss of the man waiting outside.
"I need something," I tell Paul, my voice barely a whisper. "Something to make someone sleep for a while."
His eyes widen. "Like Ambien?"
"Stronger."
He stares at me. "I can't get anything like that."
I make a quick glance around before focusing on him again. "The first night Melody met you, you bought her a drink... a drink I drank... a drink that knocked me out for half a day. I want whatever you put in it."
"I don't know what-"
"Cut the shit, Paul. I don't have time for it. Can you get it?"
He nods slowly.
"When?"
"Tonight," he says. "I can get it from a friend of mine."
"I'll be back this week for it."
He starts to babble about how he doesn't usually do those sorts of things, how he knows he made a mistake, how he loves Melody and doesn't want anything to ruin it. I don't respond, and he silences himself when she returns from the restroom and retakes her seat.
I stand up to throw my drink away. Hesitating, I pull out the letter and rip it up into a bunch of tiny pieces and throw it away, too. I tell Melody and Paul goodbye, but they don't hear me, too busy sucking face.
I consider pretending I don't see Naz's car, but it's pointless. Instead, I cross the street, walking around and climbing right into the passenger seat. He glances at me. There's no apology in his expression.
"I told you I didn't need a ride into the city."
"I know," he says. "But you said nothing about not needing one back home."
Semantics.
Night is falling, casting most of the house in shadows. It's dreary outside, cold and wet, a light rain falling, the weather matching the feelings simmering inside of me.
I've been back and forth all day, on edge as I roam the house. I can't sit still. I can't do much of anything.
It's Friday.
It felt like it took forever getting here, but yet it came too soon.
I'm not ready.
I don't know if I'll ever be.
"Are you hungry?" Naz asks, stepping into the doorway of the kitchen as I stand in front of the sink, looking out into the back yard. He still hasn't let me out of his sight, but he's attempting conversation now, a semblance of normalcy. "I can order something."
"Actually," I say, turning to him, "I think I'd rather cook."
He's caught off guard. I get a strange thrill at surprising him. "You? Cook?"
"Hey, now," I say defensively. "I can cook."
"Since when?"
"Just because I don't do it doesn't mean I can't. My mother taught me a little bit."
It isn't until the words are already out that I realize what I've said. My eyes widen, regretting the fact that I brought up my mother, like me not speaking about her might make Naz forget she exists. Like the absence of her name on my lips might somehow save lives. He regards me peculiarly as he strolls further into the kitchen, hands in his pockets.
"I remember Carmela's cooking," he says casually. "She was good... much better than Maria. Maria could burn a pot of water with nothing else in it."
Maria …
His wife?
I'm surprised at the ease in his words. I'm not sure how to respond, how to react, merely whispering, "Oh?"
"We had dinner with them that night, you know," he says. "Your mother made lasagna."
I always loved her lasagna. It was my favorite thing she made. I smile at that, but it fades at the recognition of how Naz's story will end.
"We went home afterward, and your mother didn't send any leftovers. I think about that a lot these days. She always sent leftovers when we had dinner there. But she didn't that night." He pauses a few feet in front of me, eyes fixed to mine. "Makes you wonder if she didn't bother because she figured we'd be dead by morning, anyway."