Simone
Cecilia leaps to her feet, dragging me with her, and plants me in front of the biker called Rocco. It’s awkward enough, standing in front of a man who I saw topless a few hours ago, without Cecilia making it more so, but if there’s one thing Cecilia knows how to do, it’s make things awkward. She pushes me so that I almost bump into him, and then stands beside me.
“This is my sister, Simone,” she says. “And this, Mona—I call her Mona—this is Rocco Greene. He’s Shotgun’s second-in-command.”
Rocco’s lip twitches when Cecilia calls him that. Neither Cecilia nor Shotgun catch it, but I do. He wipes the look off his face at once, though, and takes my hand. “It’s a pleasure,” he says.
He holds my hand a little longer than is necessary, and then the four of us sit at the table. Cecilia has skillfully arranged it so that Rocco and I sit on one side of the table and she and Shotgun sit on the other. This would be fine if it wasn’t a circular table, meaning that Rocco and I are almost sitting separately from the other two.
“Shall we have some champagne?” Cecilia cries, waving her hands in that overdramatic way she does. She’s always floating on air when Shotgun is around. Shotgun is, too. They’re like a couple of teenagers who’ve just had sex for the first time, and are insane from the passion of it. Without waiting for anybody to answer, Cecilia flags over a waiter. “A bottle of champagne, please.”
“Isn’t it a bit early for champagne?” I say, addressing Cecilia.
I feel Rocco’s dark eyes on me. Close up, in real life, I see that they’re brown, but they look black from almost every angle. “You don’t like champagne?” he says.
“Oh, I love champagne,” I reply. “I also love alcoholism.”
Rocco growls out a laugh. “What’s that? A word for people who have too much fun?”
“No, it’s a word for people who trick themselves into believing they’re having too much fun so that they can continue destroying themselves.”
Rocco tips an imaginary hat.
Cecilia looks from him to me and back again like a mad scientist whose creation has come to life. She looks far too pleased with herself. “Don’t worry about her,” Cecilia says, pointing, but not looking at me. “She’ll liven up once she has some champagne in her. Once she drank two bottles and went home with an entire football team.”
“Ceci!” I snap. She’ll do this sometimes, tell random lies just for the sake of it.
She blushes, shaking her head. She knows she’s gone too far. “None of that was true,” she says quickly. “Not even the part about the champagne.”
“Why don’t you get control of yourself?” I ask. “Think before you speak.”
“Okay, I said I’m sorry.”
“Actually, you didn’t. Not until just then.”
The champagne arrives and the waiter pours four glasses. I push mine aside, ignoring it and taking a sip of water instead.
“You’re not going to drink that?” Rocco says. We’re sitting so close I can feel his breath on my neck, sending strange tingles all over my body. I should ask him to move. He’s sitting too close. But I don’t.
“No,” I say. “I don’t see any reason to drink champagne.” I shoot Cecilia a look when I say this. I know she gets the message. She mouths, “Sorry,” but my cheeks are still red from blushing. I ignore her.
“Fair enough,” Rocco says. He picks up the glass and drains it in one sip. Replacing the glass, he says, “I hope you don’t mind, Simone.”
He used my name, I reflect nonsensically. Why should it matter if some leather-wearing brute uses my name? He’s a big man, taller and wider than Shotgun. He barely fits at this table. He’s a muscle-bound leather-wearing day-drinking cigarette-smelling giant of a man. I tell myself I have no interest in him.
“What does everybody want to eat?” Shotgun says, smoothing down his red hair.
“I know what I want to eat,” Cecilia says, before leaning into Shotgun and whispering in his ear for the next three or four minutes. The waiter skillfully stands aside, watching but not approaching. I’m guessing Cecilia and Shotgun have been here before.
I look around the restaurant for the first minute, determined not to engage Rocco in conversation. When I date, I date handsome, well-dressed, clean men. And they never smell of cigarettes. I don’t consider myself a snob, but if it makes me a snob to not want to sit in a restaurant tongue-fucking a biker’s ear, then I’ll take the label. The restaurant has checkered red and white décor, with a few abstract paintings on the walls and sleek tables and chairs. Every surface is clean, polished.
“Getting a good look?” Rocco says. “What are you, an interior designer?”
I laugh, and then kill the laugh. I didn’t just laugh. He can’t prove I did. Part of me knows I’m acting like a kid. But I won’t laugh at this man’s jokes.
“Look at her,” I whisper in disbelief. Cecilia’s arm is moving in a way that leaves no guesses as to what her hand is doing.
“I’d prefer to look at you,” Rocco counters.
I feel that tingling feeling again. I don’t look at him. I won’t look at him. But looking at Cecilia and Shotgun is hardly better. And I’ve already looked around the restaurant. I’ll look like a madwoman, sitting here with eyes twitching all over the place, looking at the restaurant over and over again. Finally, the whispering stops and the waiter takes our orders. Nobody orders starters. I can just hope that nobody orders desserts either.
When I order a salad, Rocco makes a playful snorting sound. “I’ll take a steak, medium rare.”
“It’s two in the afternoon,” I say. “A salad is perfectly acceptable.” I realize I’m defending myself and stop. I shouldn’t have to defend my choice.
“I’m hungry,” Rocco says. “Work makes a man hungry.”
“Yeah. What kind of work?” I turn to him without thinking.
He stares at me, a wicked glint in his eye. “Laboring,” he says. “I’ve been moving bricks since half past six in the morning. I’m exhausted.”
Shotgun laughs. Cecilia joins him after a moment. I feel like the nerdy kid at school who’s fluked her way onto the cool kids’ table, and now they’re all laughing because I don’t know the ins and outs of their wild life. I take a long sip of my water, shutting them all out.
“Don’t be upset, Simone,” Rocco says. “I was just messing around.”
“Upset?” I narrow my eyes, as if confused. “I have no clue what you’re talking about, Mr. Green. Why would I be upset?”
My salad arrives and I tuck into it, eating it slowly, drawing out every mouthful so that I don’t have to look at Rocco, or think about why not looking at him is so difficult. I’ll build a mind-prison around that, I decide. I won’t let myself consider it, because then I might think about that photo Cecilia showed me. I wish she hadn’t shown me that. It’s distracting. Every time I catch a glimpse of Rocco, I can instantly see him topless just by checking my memory.
“Are you excited for the wedding?” Rocco asks the couple, mostly because of the stretching silence, I guess.
“Excited?” Cecilia lifts her hands to the ceiling, to the heavens. “That doesn’t even come close to how we’re feeling, does it, baby?”
“No way, not even close.” Shotgun grins through a mouthful of burger. “It’s going to be the happiest day of my life, the day I marry the woman I love.”
For a second, everything else falls away, Mom and Dad and the fact that he’s a biker and all the rest of it, and I feel genuinely, uncomplicatedly happy for them. They really are in love.
“Marriage,” Rocco says. “Big step.”
“I heard you’re more of a screw-them-and-leave-them type.” I imagine myself saying the words, imagine how the table would react. Of course, I never would. It just isn’t me. Cecilia would, if our positions were reversed. She’d say it defiantly and then screw him and let herself be chucked, just for the thrill of it.
“It’s only a big step if you’re not sure,” Shotgun says. “If you’re sure, it’s the most natural step there is.”
“Hmm.” Rocco chews on a forkful of steak.
“Did I tell you?” Cecilia says after a pause. “My girls are throwing me an early bachelorette party!”
“Are they?” My voice is like a whip. If it’s true and her friends really are throwing the party, I just know I’ll get dragged into it.
“Yes, three days from now.” She giggles. “It’s going to be crazy. So don’t get jealous, okay, babe?” She nudges Shotgun.
“Jealous?” Shotgun says, looking to Rocco. “I think we’ll have to have a little party of our own.”
Rocco nods. “Sounds good to me.”
“No touching.” Cecilia pouts up at Shotgun. She knows exactly how she looks, like a terrified little girl. “Touching’s a rule breaker.”
Shotgun wraps his arm around her, kissing her on the forehead. “I’d die before I did that.”
“You’re going to make me puke up my steak, man,” Rocco says, chuckling.
Shotgun looks at him sideways, and then turns to me. “You’ve had a good effect on him, Simone. He never laughs like that these days.”
“For God’s sake,” I mutter.
“Mom alert! Mom alert!” Cecilia jumps up from her seat and runs around the table, waving her hands in front of my face. “Mom alert!”
“You are the single most annoying person I’ve ever met. Get away from me.”
Nobody orders dessert. Soon we’re standing outside the restaurant, saying our goodbyes. Cecilia and Shotgun—of course—have a long, slow, embarrassing goodbye kiss which involves a lot of smooching and lip-smacking. Passersby make groaning noises or look away. Rocco and I have no choice but to stand away from them, waiting for them to finish.
We stand side by side, not saying anything. Part of me wants him to make some joke about kissing. I have this whole scenario worked out, where he’ll make a joke about kissing and then I’ll make a joke about how we should kiss, and then it won’t be a joke anymore, and we’ll actually be kissing, and I’ll know what his tongue feels like in my mouth, and . . . I kill the thought, but not before Rocco catches me looking at him.
He grins and shoots me a wink just as Shotgun joins him. “I guess I’ll see you around,” he says.
My palms are too sweaty to shake his hand. I nod shortly, turning away. His dark eyes are fuzzing my brain. “Yeah, I guess so. Bye.”
“Bye,” Cecilia repeats, leaning into me and gripping my hand. “Bye, bye, bye. You’re so smitten, Mona.”
“I am not smitten. Don’t be such a child!”
I pull my hand free, making for the parking lot.
Cecilia chases me all the way, singing, “Smitten kitten, smitten kitten!”