The Ex Page 4

  Cassie frowns at Zoe. Zoe is the definition of “too much makeup.” Her inky mascara is lined with several extra millimeters of black, giving way to purple. The effect makes her eyes pop, but also sort of makes her look like she got beat up.

  “Maybe just a little,” Cassie concedes. She hates that she cares. She hates that she tugged one of her few sexy dresses out of her closet and slid into it for the purpose of her date. She’s supposed to be focusing her energy on Bookland, not on some hot doctor.

  “Definitely.”

  Cassie’s purse hangs off the back of the chair behind the desk. She digs through it and retrieves a tube of lipstick.

  “No, not that.” Zoe’s nose crinkles like Cassie just tried to paint her lips with excrement. “Please don’t use that color.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s lip-colored lipstick. What’s the point?”

  “It’s natural.”

  “Oh, God.” Zoe rolls her eyes. “Look, do you want me to make you look hot or not?”

  Not. Cassie wants to tell her coworker that she’s going to go on this date as herself, and not jump through hoops to look like someone she’s not. After all, Joel isn’t putting on makeup right now. But then she remembers the tingle that went through her when his fingers brushed against hers. “Okay, fine.”

  Fortunately, there’s a lull in customers during which time Zoe is able to quickly fix her makeup. It takes fifteen minutes, and when she holds up Zoe’s compact, she’s scared of what she’ll see. But it turns out, Zoe did a brilliant job. She looks entirely different in the best possible way. Like herself, but a prettier version of herself.

  Zoe beams at the sight of her handiwork. “Didn’t I do a great job?”

  “You did,” Cassie admits.

  She taps her tube of mascara against her chin. “We should offer this as a service to people who buy books. Like, have a makeup counter.”

  Cassie stares at her friend. “A makeup counter?”

  “Sure.” Zoe grins. “It’s not like women are buying books because there are men knocking down their doors. I bet lots of our customers would love to get a little makeover. A makeover and a book.”

  Cassie just shakes her head.

  Joel shows up at precisely seven o’clock. Cassie almost doesn’t recognize him out of his scrubs, but he looks just as tempting in khaki slacks and a white dress shirt. He’s even wearing a dark blue tie that brings out the color in his eyes. He put on a tie for her. She can’t remember ever going out on a date with a man who wore a tie to the date. She’s relieved she went with the dress this morning.

  “Cassie,” Joel says, a grin spreading across his face when he sees her. “Are you ready?”

  And then he pulls a rose out from behind his back. An honest-to-God rose. That’s a new one—none of the guys in their mid-twenties would ever show up with a rose. “Oh,” she gasps.

  He hands it to her, and again, their fingers brush against each other. And again, she gets that tingle. “I wasn’t sure what kind of flowers you like, so…”

  “I like roses,” she says. Grandpa Marv used to present fresh flowers to Grandma Bea every single week for the duration of their marriage, and she used to put them in the window of the store. But after Grandpa Marv died, there were never flowers in the store again. “Thank you. And you’re right on time.”

  He nods. “I got here a little early, but I figured you were still working so I’ve been… uh, circling the block.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “And now I wish I hadn’t told you that.”

  She laughs. “I’ll forget I heard it.”

  “Would you?”

  Cassie glances at Zoe who is rolling her eyes. “Thanks again for locking up, Zoe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Have fun, you two.” Zoe leans back in her seat and flashes her teeth at them. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. And I mean that, because if I wouldn’t do it, it’s got to be some really bad shit.”

  Cassie has no doubt that’s true.

  The sun is just starting to set when they get outside the bookstore. Cassie loves this time in the fall, when the oppressive heat and humidity of the summer has finally let up, but it’s still warm enough to get away with a dress and no jacket in the evening. A gentle breeze lifts the dark strands of hair from her neck. They stroll down the block, and she’s unsure of the destination. They texted a few times, and he mentioned the possibility of Indian food, but now she thinks the heavy, creamy Indian dishes she usually likes would make her feel bloated and unattractive.

  “Where are we going?” she asks him.

  “Punjab Café is just down the block,” he says.

  “Actually,” she says, “what about Giotto’s? That Italian place two blocks uptown?”

  His eyes darken, almost imperceptibly. “I don’t really like Italian food.”

  “Oh.” Cassie wants to be agreeable, but in her head, a red flag goes up. Who doesn’t like Italian food? American cuisine is so entangled with Italian that he may as well say he doesn’t like food. “What about sushi?”

  His shoulders sag in relief. “That sounds good.”

  “But we can’t get anything with peanuts,” she says. “I’m allergic.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Itchy rash allergic? Or bells and whistles to the hospital allergic?”

  “Used to be bells and whistles,” she says. “It’s not as bad anymore. If it’s a tiny amount of peanut, I’m fine, but my throat closes if it’s too much.”

  “Do you carry an epi-pen?”

  “Yes, of course,” she says, although as she says the words, she’s not entirely sure. Is it still in her purse? It’s been so long since she’s had an anaphylactic reaction that she’s almost forgotten about it. Maybe she’s not even allergic anymore.

  As they walk to the sushi bar, Cassie worries about the price tag on this meal. She can’t afford a sushi dinner. She can barely afford ramen noodles. On dates in the past, she’s always insisted on covering her half of the check—it’s a pride thing. But God knows what the check will amount to in a decent sushi restaurant.

  But when Joel smiles at her, she decides not to worry about it.

  As soon as Cassie walks into the small Japanese restaurant, she sees a conveyor belt carrying small plates of food past customers sitting in cozy booths and larger tables. Zoe had mentioned there was a conveyor belt sushi place nearby, but this is the first time she’s ever tried it. She and Joel snag a booth where a train of sushi plates travels past them, tantalizing them with California rolls and sashimi hidden under glass covers. Cassie watches the plates go by as they wait for their waters.

  “I love the concept of conveyer belt food,” she says.

  “I agree,” Joel says. “All food should be available this way.”

  “Little cheeseburgers, traveling by on a conveyer belt,” she muses.

  “Four little buffalo wings.”

  “A handful of French fries.”

  “Six onion rings.”

  “I think I should close the bookstore,” Cassie says, “and open up a conveyer belt everything restaurant.”

  He grins at her and she swoons a bit. “Brilliant.”

  She’s only partially kidding. She suspects she’d make more money if she did so.

  “The salmon plates are discounted.” She studies the menu. “Only three dollars a plate! That’s a great deal.”

  A waiter comes by to deposit two glasses of water on the table. Cassie notices his glass has a suspicious smudge on it, which makes her worry about the quality of the raw fish, but she decides to live dangerously. She’s yet to have food poisoning during her time living in Manhattan, which makes her think she may have developed a tolerance to the particular bacteria that inhabit the restaurants and food carts sprinkling the city.

  As soon as the waiter leaves, Joel’s brows knit together. “Don’t get what’s discounted. Get what you like.”

  “Hmm.” Cassie takes a sip of her water. “You don’t know what the finances of
a bookstore owner look like.”

  “Right, but…” His fingers play with the napkin in front of him. “This dinner… it’s on me. I’m paying. So you should get whatever you want.”

  She allows her eyes to meet his. “Usually I pay for half.”

  “Not tonight.” He shakes his head. “I asked you out, so I’m paying. Also, I’m not the kind of jerk who would make his date pay for half the dinner.”

  “But—”

  “Not negotiable.” A smile touches his lips. “Don’t worry about it. I’m the hot doctor, remember? I can afford to treat you to dinner.”

  She leans back against the cushion of the booth, knowing she won’t win this argument and not sure why she’s even trying. “Okay.”

  “So like I said, get whatever you want. Order their best wine.”

  Without meaning to, she giggles. “Conveyer belt wine?”

  He laughs. “Now that is a great idea.”

  She suspects if she opened up a conveyer belt wine store, she could retire early.

  Cassie knows she should be scoping out the sushi, but instead, she finds herself staring across the table at Joel. God, he’s sexy. She gets that tingle again, this time through her whole body. He’s staring at her too, a smile on his lips that she suspects mirrors her own. She wonders if he’ll kiss her at the end of the night.

  She hopes he does.

  Actually, she wishes he would kiss her now. Who came up with that rule about a kiss at the end of a date? What a stupid rule. Because now she just has to sit here, thinking about kissing him. How can she digest her food with those thoughts circling her brain? No, the kiss should be first.

  She should tell him about her brilliant idea. This seems like something he ought to know about.

  “Joel!”

  Cassie jerks her head up. A stocky man in baggy jeans and a T-shirt with a shaved skull is approaching their table, a big grin on his face. He doesn’t stop until he gets right up in front of them, and the guy claps Joel on the back.

  “How’re you doing, Broder?” the guy says. “It’s been… shit, how long? A year? Two years?”

  Joel smiles, although his jaw visibly tightens. “Hi, Rob. Good to see you.”

  “You still at the hospital?” the man, Rob, asks.

  “Same old, same old.” Joel shrugs. “You still working at the clinic?”

  “Yeah, but I hate it. Looking for other stuff.” Rob’s eyes stray to where I’m sitting. A smile spreads across his lips. “And I bet I know who this is. It’s really great to finally meet you. I swear, sometimes I felt like Joel wouldn’t shut up about how wonderful you are. The perfect woman. I know he’s in love with you, but give it a rest, right?”

  The color drains out of Joel’s face. “Rob…”

  “You two must be getting married soon, huh?” Rob lets out a cackle. “Sorry, I’m probably speaking out of turn, but Joel needs to know with a girl as beautiful as you, he’s going to have to give you a ring sooner rather than later. And he’s already kept you waiting long enough, from what I’ve heard. Am I right, Francesca?”

  Francesca.

  Who the hell is Francesca?

  Chapter 5: The Ex

  When I am depressed, anxious, angry, or even happy, I cook. It is my favorite thing to do.

  My grandmother, Angela Mascolo, known to me my whole life only as Nonna, taught me everything I know about cooking. She was born in Sicily, and her Italian mother taught her the buttermilk secret to perfect Italian meatballs when her head wasn’t even high enough to reach the counter. Nonna tried to instill her love of cooking in her daughter—my mother—but Mom wasn’t interested in such things. I was always closer to Nonna than I ever was to my parents, and when Joel left me, I spent ages in her kitchen, cooking up a storm.

  The horrible day I’ve had—starting with looking at awful apartments and ending with a call to the police to report my wallet stolen—warrants lasagna. I’m putting together a meat sauce from Italian sausage. Sausage makes a much better lasagna sauce than ground beef. And Nonna gets fresh mozzarella at this tiny Italian grocery store where they give her food dirt-cheap. I wouldn’t make lasagna with anything but fresh mozzarella.

  Of course, I won’t be making lasagna at all if I take that micro-studio. Except for the kind in a plastic bowl you heat up in the microwave. Nonna’s kitchen may be small, but it’s got a decent oven and a full-sized refrigerator that doesn’t electrocute me when I touch it.

  Nonna walks into the kitchen to observe my cooking. When I was very young, Nonna had dark hair like I do, only slightly peppered with gray, but she’s since turned completely gray, although her hair is still long and wound into a loose bun behind her head. She keeps a pair of glasses with lenses the size of my fist perched on her nose at all times—I wouldn’t recognize her without them. She’s nearly ninety now, but there’s nothing frail about my grandmother. She proudly walks two miles a day around the city when it isn’t too icy, and her powerful arms are as big as… well, not tree trunks, but certainly paper towel rolls.

  “It smells so wonderful, patatina,” Nonna says, smiling at the aroma of tomatoes, sausage, basil, garlic, and oregano. Ever since I was a little girl, she has called me by the nickname patatina, which means “little potato.” No, it is not a flattering nickname. But in Italian, it doesn’t sound so bad. And these days, Nonna usually favors Italian all the time. She always spoke in English when I was young, but as she gets older, she has switched back to her native tongue. I am fluent, but I’ve been told I have an embarrassing American accent.

  “Thanks,” I mumble. It does smell wonderful. Why didn’t Joel want to stay with me when I could create a sauce that smells so good? Doesn’t he miss it? If he doesn’t miss me, doesn’t he at least miss my food?

  “Joel… he is a fool,” she declares, as if reading my mind. She always pronounces his name Jo-elle. He used to hate it. It sounds like she thinks I’m a woman. I smile at the memory. “You are the perfect woman. How could he get anyone better?”

  I let out a sigh. “Yeah, well…”

  She brightens. “I have a perfect man for you!”

  Oh God. Nonna has an endless stream of horrible men she’d like to set me up with. Each one is worse than the last. “No, thanks.”

  “He is the son of Estelle, from book club.” She picks up the lump of mozzarella cheese and gives it a sniff. “His name is Robert. She says he is free any night of the week because he does not work.”

  Fantastic. “I think I’ll pass.”

  She puts down the mozzarella, apparently finding it satisfactory. “Did you find a new apartment today?”

  “Not yet.” I pick apart a lump of sausage with my spoon. “The options aren’t great. There’s nothing good in Manhattan, and the stuff outside of Manhattan is a little better, but I’ll have a horrible commute.”

  Nonna watches me for a moment. “You could live here.”

  I nearly drop the spoon into the pot. “Here?”

  “Yes, why not?” She gestures around the apartment, which she owns outright. “There is space here. And it is not so far from your work.”

  Nonna’s apartment is in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. It’s a straight shot into the city on the D train. It’s more travel time than my current place, but it’s a dream come true after the locations I saw in Queens. “But where will I sleep?”

  “I have an extra bedroom!”

  Nonna gestures at the small room where she keeps her sewing materials. I dubbed it “Nonna’s Sewing Room.” It is, in fact, large enough for a bed (barely), but I wouldn’t want to take away her sewing room. Nonna makes all her own dresses by hand. Granted, they sort of look like an old woman made them by hand, but she loves doing it. I don’t want to take her room.

  “You need that room,” I protest.

  She waves her hand. “My arthritis is too bad to sew much anymore. What I need is you, patatina! If I fall and break my hip, who will rescue me?”

  “Nonna, you walk farther than I do every day.”


  “Well, maybe I need to be there when you fall and break your hip.”

  I give the sauce another stir. “Okay, but I’m going to pay you.”

  “Absolutely not! My home is your home!” She shakes her head. “You take out the garbage, buy some groceries, wash a few dishes… that would make me happy.”

  I’m tempted. Living here would be so much better than any of the micro-studios. Nonna is getting on in years, and she could use some help. I worry about her here all alone. This way I could keep an eye on her and have a kitchen that includes more than a microwave and a hot pot.

  Granted, it doesn’t feel like a step up in the world to be living with my grandmother. But I’m low on options. I’ve already got credit card debt and I don’t see my income jumping in the next few months. Maybe someday, but not now.

  “Think about it, patatina,” Nonna says.

  “I will,” I promise.

  Nonna leaves the kitchen slowly. She’s limping. Just slightly, but I notice it. Maybe she really does need someone here with her.

  Once she’s gone, I reach for my phone in my purse to see if I have any email. Nonna doesn’t own a computer, so I need to rely on my phone for that when I’m here. If I moved in though, I could get Wi-Fi set up. I could afford to pay for it if I don’t have to pay any rent.

  I don’t have any email of interest, but while I’m holding my phone, my thumb lingers over the WhereAmI app. I should delete it. Now is the time.

  Delete it. Stop obsessing over Joel.

  Except instead of deleting it, I somehow click on it. Somehow.

  A map of the city fills the screen. The GPS narrows in on Joel’s location. It’s a Friday night and he’s not home. He’s not in the hospital either, although he’s not far from there. He appears to be… at a restaurant.

  He could be there with friends. Just because he’s out on a Friday night, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s out on a date. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions.

  And even if he is out on a date, so what? He’s entitled after we’ve been broken up for nearly six months. It’s just a date—it’s not like he’s marrying the girl.