NICK
Here was the thing about Stella Peretti: she might’ve been a badass, she might’ve been my Kryptonite, but she also fucking melted me, because when I got off my motorcycle, stuffed my jacket into my helmet, and grabbed the wine from the compartment under the seat, I heard it. All the way from across the parking lot.
She was singing.
I don’t mean some half-assed, half-hearted, unsure-about-the-lyrics singing; I mean a full-on, top-of-her-lungs, shatter-the-wineglasses, bring-the-house-down karaoke wail. As I neared her place, I realized I knew the song. She was roaring along with Tom Petty about running down the dream.
It was out of tune, it was over the top, and it was absolutely fucking fantastic.
I stood in front of her door, with my hand in a fist, ready to knock, but she was so into it—even doing the guitar solo, “Da-dun-da-dun-da-dun-dun!”—that I decided to wait it out. She sang with such pure, unapologetic joy that I just could not wipe the grin off my face. From my left came an old lady walking a small, fluffy white dog with a red beard and dark streaks under its eyes. I gave her a nod and kept on listening.
“She does it all the time. All the time!” she said in an adoring way. “You should hear her sing to Johnny Cash. She’d make June Carter so proud!” She chuckled a little, beamed at Stella’s closed apartment door, and then shuffled off.
Now Stella was at the bridge, and she was letting it rip. “Ooooh-oooooo,” she hollered with the chorus. “Ooooh-oooooo!” Finally, she really upped the ante, with a throaty croon that made her sound like a gospel singer taking it home for the congregation. “OOOOOH-OOOOOOO.”
And silence. Staring at the brass 3A on her apartment door, I tried to pull myself together. I tried to wipe the smile off my face. I could not do it. It was a state of being, and I knew I had zero chance whatsoever of playing the tough guy through happiness like this. So I didn’t, and I gave the door three solid knocks. I was smiling when she opened the door, and smiling even harder when I saw her. She was in a red polka-dot dress, barefoot. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and she was wearing a half apron that was printed to look like a hula skirt.
“Hi!” she said. She was breathless, her cheeks were flushed, and with every gasp her beautiful cleavage compressed against the scoop neck of her dress.
I handed over the bottle of wine and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You should take that show on the road.”
She took the bottle from me, looking a little shy. “You were listening.”
No point in playing this one cool, either. I wasn’t going to lie to her about the big stuff or the small stuff. “Yep. The whole thing.”
She cringed and then giggled at herself. “I get a little carried away. Come in,” she said, and opened the door wider. She had the Christmas lights that hung over the television plugged in, and the shades were drawn. The light was soft, the place was tidied up, and it smelled amazing. Inside the oven was a huge pan of lasagna, bubbling away. A big bowl of salad was ready to go on the table. And Christ almighty, garlic bread.
I could barely keep the drool from spilling out of my mouth, and then she turned around, revealing the back of the dress, which was backless except for a braided crisscross of thin polka-dotted straps. No bra, just a creamy white tan line still left over from summer. “You look gorgeous,” I said, taking her by the hips and looping my fingers over the apron tie. I brought my lips to hers, teasing her before I went in for the kiss. A nose to her cheek, my fingers in the curls at the base of her neck. But then I did kiss her. Kissed her hard and passionately and like I hadn’t been missing her for hours but for days, for weeks, for forever. Her body collided with the fridge, and it rocked behind her. I ran my hands down the pleats of her skirt and grabbed her ass, hoisting her up into my arms. Magnets fell off the fridge, and David went cockeyed.
“Does this mean we’re not eating yet?” she asked, with a laugh in her voice.
I hooked one arm underneath her, and she linked her ankles together. As I carried her through the kitchen, I paused in front of the oven long enough to hit the “Off” button, which beeped under my fingertip as I kissed her. Then I pulled my mouth away from her sweet lips to tell her, “You’re not gonna eat right now. But I am.”