Read Shall We Dance? Chapter 1 for free!

Copyright © 2022 by Caroline Frank

The dirty New York City rainwater cascades down the subway steps.  It’s pouring outside—one of those early morning freezing March showers that flood stations and cause sick accidents. Dark-gray water sluices down the right side of the stairway, and I do my very best to dodge the likely bacteria-infested water. I press myself up against the opposite wall as I make my way back to civilization, but it’s a dog-eat-dog world up in here. People keep shoving me aside, and I think longingly back to the days where I would have been able to just skip the crowded subways and afford an Uber. 

I used to be somebody.

I know it’s awful and obnoxious, but for half a second, I think it because, six months ago, I never would have had to take the subway during a torrential downpour. I would have checked the weather app on my phone and ordered a car to pick me up from the comfort of my 2,000-square-foot apartment on the Upper East Side. I would have walked out with my head held up high, not a care in the world.

But that was before I lost all of my money—or rather, before someone stole it.

I sigh and stop myself before tearing down this rabbit hole again.

It could have been worse. You still have your friends. You have a plan. You will survive. 

It could have been worse. You still have your friends. You have a plan. You will survive.

I repeat the words—my mantra—over and over again in my head, holding onto them for dear life, pushing myself through the crowd. When I’m finally on street level, I take a deep breath through my mask, stretching my chest, my lungs, filling them with as much air as possible, holding it in for a few seconds before exhaling. 

It will all be okay.

Thankfully, the entrance to the building where the dance studio is located is just at the end of the block, so my commute won’t take much longer. The rain is so bad, though, that I still need my clear, bubble umbrella. I struggle to pop it open and set out to the next phase in my life—an unexpected, yet welcome one, considering the circumstances. So what if I lost all my money and I’m absolutely broke? A lot of people go through worse and recover. At least my old agent was able to get me a job last minute, even after not having worked in years. Sure, it’s on one of those dance shows where D-list celebrities or washed-up former child actors (like yours truly) compete against each other. Where they take the opportunity to try and claw themselves back into the limelight in a super-obvious way. 

So what if it’s not very well-regarded in the acting community?  A gig’s a gig. And I desperately need one.

Celebrity Dance Battle is one of those guilty-pleasure shows you watch just to see how badly your favorite child actors have aged. Or how low reality stars will stoop to extend their fifteen minutes of fame.

When I stopped acting, I swore to myself I would never do anything like that—no celebrity cooking shows or sing-offs—especially since fame was never something I wanted. To me, it was a price I had to pay if I wanted to act (which, at the time, I did).

I used to watch trailers for those shows and snort derisively at them, making fun of the ridiculous things these “celebrities” would put themselves through. I’d feel sorry for them and wonder where their career went wrong.

Oh, God. Is that what people will think of when they see me out there doing the mambo on live television? 

My stomach turns, the nerves finally hitting me. This never would have happened if—

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, stretching my arms up a bit, repeating the same mantra—out loud this time.

“It could have been worse. You still—"

“Watch it!” Someone runs into me, nearly knocking me over.  “Jesus!” I hear a man yelp. “What the hell are you doing waving an umbrella around with your eyes closed on a crowded street like that?”

My eyes pop open, and I meet his gaze. He looks just about ready to kill me.

Stunned, I try to collect myself to apologize, but his eyes distract me. Half his face is covered by a black KN95 mask, so I can barely make out his features. But his eyes…damn. They’re hypnotic—blue fire, blazing in frustration. I’m positively caught in them while he seems to be completely unaffected by my presence. I blush just imagining what I must look like—very damp. I wish I looked more like a glistening siren, and less like a wet dog.

“Do you have no sense of awareness whatsoever?”

Irritation finally breaks through the hypnotism. 

“Are you going to get out of the way, or are you going to stand there all day?” he asks, his black hair wet from the rain. Ha! He doesn’t have a super-cool, clear, bubble umbrella to protect him.

“Sorry!” I say. I mean, what’s the big deal? “But there’s really no need to get so worked up. It was just an accident.” I roll my eyes, doing my best to keep my voice level. “I was just trying to ground myself.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. 

He frowns at me, giving me a once-over before shaking his head. “Yeah, well, try to not be literally grounded. You’re blocking the sidewalk for the rest of us.” He snorts, shaking his head disapprovingly at me. “I hate New Yorkers,” he mutters under his breath before squeezing by me, bumping me in the side with his massive bright-blue gym bag. “You’re all so weird.”

My jaw drops. “Yeah, well, you’re a—" I stutter. “You’re like a—just plain rude! So, yeah!” I call after him in the world’s worst comeback known to man. He looks over his shoulder at me with a smirk, and I want to die. 

So embarrassing.

Grumpy Sexy Eyes guy keeps walking ahead, and I realize begrudgingly that we’re headed into the same building. I see him disappear through the main entrance, behind the brass-colored doors, and decide to take a beat. The last thing I want is to be stuck in an elevator with that guy. I don’t need his negativity affecting the rest of my day. Staying focused and calm is of the upmost importance for today. I can’t let the stress of my situation affect my career’s recovery, and I certainly cannot let it affect my medical recovery. I’ve had enough issues with my epilepsy in the past year, thank you very much. I’m supposed to be making strides to improve it, not make it worse. 

I sigh, checking the time on my phone. It’s only a couple of minutes until eight. Assuming the first day will probably just be about my partner and me getting to know each other and possibly strategizing about our first dance, I figure I can afford to be a few minutes late. We’ll probably just be reviewing the basics.

Resolving to put a few minutes between myself and Grumpy Sexy Eyes, I stand a bit to the side of the sidewalk, clearing the way for other passersby, and shoot off a text to Liza, my best friend. 

Barbara: Got run over by ass with huge gym bag, but now OMW to first day of practice. Wish me luck!

Liza: You got this, girl! Send videos!

I hop on Instagram to browse what people have been up to, sharing a few memes here and there. I wouldn’t consider myself to be a social media person, but I have a pretty decent following, considering I haven’t acted in years. By the time I’m oversaturated with content, I realize fifteen minutes have gone by, and I am officially late.

“Shoot!” I pocket my phone and jog to the building entrance, pulling on the heavy brass doors before scrambling through my bag to show the security guard my ID. Once he has all my info, I rush to the nearest available elevator and press the button for the eleventh floor. 

“Stupid Instagram,” I mutter under my breath. That’s the thing about social media: it’s all fun and cat videos until it sucks you in and spits you the hell out. I don’t know why I’m still on the thing.

* * *

The first thing I see when I get off the elevator is a buzz of people running around the hallways. Everyone seems to be operating on DEFCON 1, jogging from one room to another with dance shoes or heaps of fabric in their hands. 

I sigh and resign myself to look for my contact, but the email I received from the network lacked any type of useful information. According to the message, I am supposed to, “Look for the dancer who always frowns.” What type of info is that? I understand that many consider brevity to be the soul of wit, but sometimes brevity can be the soul of laziness. They couldn’t even give me a first name? Nope, just a vague physical description—if you could even call it that.

“Okay, so we’re looking for a guy who frowns a lot,” I tell myself under my breath. 

I adjust my bag over my shoulder and start checking every dance studio for a man matching that vague physical description, but they’re either occupied by couples already practicing or empty. 

Ugh. 

Checking the time on my phone, I grow anxious. It’s twenty-past, and I still have no idea where I’m supposed to be.

I try another door and find a shirtless man standing alone in the room by a stereo system. His, um…physical attributes momentarily distract me. The man’s tan skin glistens under the harsh bright-white lighting overhead, and his dark-brown hair is wet with sweat and slightly disheveled. My eyes travel down his chest and—holy eight-pack, Batman!

I don’t mean to objectify this man, but this moment right here calls for a two-syllable daaaaaaa-yummmmm.

Eight-Pack catches me ogling at him, and his brown eyes light up with mischief, throwing a smile in my direction.

Definitely doesn’t look like a guy who frowns a lot.

“Can I help you?” he asks, his voice laced with a thick accent and intent.

“Um,” I stammer briefly. “No, I’m good. I’m just looking for my dance partner.”

Eight-Pack runs his fingers through his sweaty hair, casually flexing his muscles. I’d be really annoyed if I weren’t so distracted. 

“I could be your dance partner.” He walks toward me, and I’m snapped out of my trance. “I could be whomever you want me to be.” His sudden forwardness is completely off-putting, and I immediately regret ever having opened the door to this room.

Ew, gross.

Do women really fall for this stuff?

“Um, no thanks. I don’t think you’re the one I’m looking for.” I quickly back out of the room, accidentally crashing into something.

“Oof!” I hear a high-pitched voice behind me say. 

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” I apologize to the person I just turned into roadkill. Today is definitely not my day. It’s like I’m a magnet for chaos.

The girl on the floor looks up at me, an explosion of pink, and blows her blush bangs off her face. 

“It’s okay,” she squeaks. I extend my hand out to her, helping her up. “I’m Rosie. Rosie Castillo.” She smiles. 

Rosie adjusts the hem of her fuchsia dress before bending over to pick up some items that must’ve fallen from her arms during impact.

“I’m Barbara, and again, I’m so sorry,” I say from underneath my mask. Am I allowed to remove it now? Can I dance without it? I mean, she’s not wearing one and neither is Eight-Pack.

Sigh. I hate this post-Covid world. I never know what the right protocol is.

“I was just in there, and the guy, and his abs, and…” I trail off, waving my hand in the air.

“Oh—you just met Nico.” She nods in understanding. “He’s a charmer.”

I laugh. “Not really. I was just momentarily distracted by his whole thing, you know?”

Rosie chuckles, totally understanding what I mean. “Fair warning, he is somewhat of a lady killer. Not the nicest guy in the bunch—unless you’re looking for something casual,” she adds quickly, no judgment in her voice.

“God, no. Not looking for anything.” I snort. I need to sort out my personal life before I can even begin to consider reviving any sort of romantic life. And that’s if I even decide to. 

“Um, okay?” She laughs.

Desperately wanting to change the subject, I ask, “Actually, do you mind helping me out? I’m so late, and it’s my first day. I have no idea what I’m doing or where I need to go, and you look like someone who knows her way around.”

“I should! Been working here long enough. This is my sixth season on the show.” She smiles, readjusting the heavy fabrics in her arms. “What do you need?”

“I’m actually meeting with my partner for the first time and don’t even know his name. All the information the network gave me was that he frowned a lot.” I snort.

“Oh, sure.” She smiles immediately. The fact that she already knows who this person is by the identifier the network used cannot be a good sign. “You want Theodore.” She frowns slightly, checking the time on her watch. “You’d better hurry, though. He won’t like that you’re late, and I’m pretty sure rehearsals were supposed to start a half hour ago. His studio is the last one down the hall,” she says, throwing a thumb over her shoulder.

“Uh, thanks.” I force a smile and hesitantly turn away from her.

“Good luck!” she calls enthusiastically. But as she walks away, I hear her mutter, “You’re gonna need it,” under her breath.

Oh, boy. 

Positive thoughts, Babs. Keep it positive. 

It can’t really be all that bad. I’m sure that Rosie and the network execs are all exaggerating. Right? Right???

Determined to make the best out of this situation, I take a deep breath and open the door to the last studio down the hall. Three of the four walls of the studio are mirrored with a barre running across them, and the artificial lemony scent and the glossy wooden floor leads me to believe the room has recently been cleaned. I am fully braced to meet the wrath of my dancing partner, but the room’s empty. No scary frowny man to be found. All I can see is a stereo system and, atop a bench pressed against the far back of the room, a large, bright-blue gym bag.

Perfect.

Copyright © 2021 by Caroline Frank

“…In conclusion, I think we would be better suited with other people.”

       I stare, open-mouthed, at my now ex-boyfriend sitting across from me, looking incredibly smug.

       “You’re kidding me, right? Or did you seriously just read me your break-up?” I ask, dumbfounded.

       “Liza.” Jeremy removes his glasses and sets them on the table next to the piece of paper with his break-up speech. He brings his hands together in front of him, pursing his lips before saying, “I just thought it would be less messy if I organized my thoughts and laid them all out in a structured fashion, rather than let you lead me off on a tangent and not let me explain myself properly—as you tend to do.”

       I blink at him. “What does that mean?” I ask.

       He sighs, as if holding back. “I never seem to be able to properly express myself around you without it turning into a scene.”

       A scene?

       To Jeremy, a scene means expressing any type of emotion, good or bad, apparently.

       “Ah,” I say in understanding. “So, you bring me to my favorite restaurant for lunch, knowing full well that I would not want to risk embarrassing myself by causing a scene so that I could keep coming back after?”

       “Yes, that is correct,” he says in agreement, sitting up straight in his seat.

       I can’t blame him for that unnecessary line of thinking. Though, it just emphasizes how much of a spineless tool he is.

       You know what? This break-up might not be the worst thing ever. I mean, look at him. He is so…so…meticulous. Which is to say, he is such a perfectionist asshole with his perfect Ken-doll hair and perfect teeth. Everything in his life needs to be planned, detailed, calculated. I mean, seriously? Who brings a script to a break-up? A man with no passion or heat—cold-hearted, too in his head.

       “Jeremy, I’m disappointed in you.” I tsk and take a sip of my wine. I feel like getting under his skin a little.

       “Oh?” He lifts an eyebrow, intrigued. Jeremy is a type-A personality and overachiever. He is severely allergic to disappointment.

       “I thought you were an intelligent man—you know, what with you being a tenured Physics professor at Columbia and all.”

       He scoffs. “Are you implying that I am not?” He sits back in his chair as if I’ve just pushed him.

       “I’m saying that you’re not. You’ve overestimated just how emotionally invested I was in this relationship.” I take another sip of my wine, trying to act cool. “You don’t want to be with me anymore.” I shrug. “No biggie.”

       “No biggie?” he asks, frowning. “We’ve been together for three years. We were engaged, Liza.”

       Ah, yes. I guess you can’t really ‘no biggie’ an engagement break-up, can you? But oh, how I love how peeved he is at the thought of me not caring about the fact that he’s breaking up with me. It gives me an incredible—admittedly, petty—sense of satisfaction.

       “Oops,” I say with a fake laugh. “Right. Here you go—before I forget.” I slide the ring he gave me a year ago off my finger. A gold band with a heart-shaped diamond.

       To be fair, that should have been the final red flag in a sea of red flags. No offense to women who love heart-shaped jewelry, but I am not a heart-shaped-diamond-engagement-ring type of gal.

       Jeremy takes the ring and looks down at it, confounded. “I truly did not expect you to take it so well,” he says, frowning. He inspects it as if I had it switched with a fake stone, expecting this exact moment to happen or something.

       “Oh, really?” I chug the rest of the contents of my wine glass and reach for his. Jeremy is smart enough not to complain. He just broke up with me, after all. He’d be an even bigger dick if he were to not let me have any of his wine.

       “You know, that is a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. It is meant to be savored and enjoyed, not chugged like a box of Franzia that’s being passed around between people at a college party.” He laughs once, and I roll my eyes at him, chugging more of his wine to make a point.

       I always hate it when he makes incredibly snobby comments like that—like anyone who can’t afford his lifestyle is below him, and he is absolute perfection. Ain’t nothing wrong with the occasional box of wine. Not everyone can afford to live the lifestyle that he lives.

       Who even has the kind of money to buy a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine??

       I’m so happy I don’t have to deal with this crap anymore.

       “Seeing as you are taking this so well, I feel as though I can be honest with you now. I have actually been seeing someone else,” he says cheerfully. His grin widens, and he sits up taller in his seat.

       I stop breathing. “Excuse me? Why would you tell me that, Jeremy?”

       “Well, you seem to be taking this break-up pretty easily.” He shrugs, surprised. “I mean… Y-you seemed okay with it.” He runs his fingers through his hair, smoothing it down, making sure that it’s neat. “I thought you would be happy for me.”

       “Why in the world would you think that I would ever need to hear the fact that you cheated on me, Jeremy? Do you know the damage you could have just caused to my psyche? Now I’ll probably never trust anyone ever again.”

       “Pfft, come on, Liza. Let’s not be dramatic,” he says as he adjusts the cuffs on his tweed blazer. It’s painful how I never realized how big of a cliché he is—his jacket even has elbow patches! “I know you are a psychologist, but you cannot expect me to believe that this simple fact can affect your ‘psyche.’” He air-quotes with a look of disgust in his eyes. “You and your social sciences.” He shakes his head at me with a patronizing smile on his lips. “I told you that your psychology master’s program was a mistake the day I met you. You should have at least gone for psychiatry. I mean, it is still a joke, in my opinion, but at least it contains some actual scientific study.”

       “Oh, gawd,” I say, standing up. “You know what? I don’t even care. I am just astounded by the fact that you could find another woman to even put up with you and how boring you are.” I toss back the rest of his glass of wine and pick up my purse, digging for my coat check number and five bucks to give to the attendant.

       “Let’s not exaggerate now, Liza.” He laughs a little. “I don’t think that a Columbia University Physics professor could ever be deemed as boring.”

       I burst out into hysterical laughter, scaring the waiter trying to get by me. “Ohmigod,” I laugh. “Just listen to yourself.” I grab a couple of mini-baguettes from the bread basket to take to-go, devastated that I can’t take the French butter with me, too. “You are incredibly boring, Jeremy—in and out of bed. You know there are more positions out there than missionary, right? I promise you that. You could probably afford to allocate some of your research time into studying them.” At this, I realize we have started to garner some attention, but I don’t care. I will definitely give him a scene now. “I want to personally thank you for this break-up, given that I admit I did not have the lady-balls to do it myself. But I want to let you know that you fucking suck for cheating on me.”

       “No need to use foul language,” he whisper-yells at me, looking around nervously at the other tables.

       “Goodbye, Jeremy. Thanks for the boring memories. I’m pretty sure I’ll soon forget them.”

***

“So, he just read you your break-up? Just like that?” my brother, Vinny, asks as he sips his wine in our mother’s kitchen. The smells coming from her stove bring back warm and comforting childhood memories. Ones of sitting at this very table with my parents and brother, eating my mother’s home-cooked meals, essentially ruining all Italian restaurants for me because no one cooks Italian like my mother.

       “He freaking pulled out a sheet of paper as soon as they served us a drink and proceeded to read it out loud to me.” I am still shocked. Vinny just snorts and shakes his head. “I mean, Barbara always said he was nuts, since day one, but I just thought the guy was just a little eccentric. Plus, it’s not like she has such a phenomenal grasp on what normalcy is, if you know what I mean.” I raise my eyebrows at Vinny, and he nods thoughtfully.

       Barbara is my best friend and the wildest person I know. She was also the first person in my life to meet Jeremy. Two minutes into meeting him at dinner, she texted Get out! Get out now! under the table. But she’s always had a unique personality, so I didn’t take her too seriously.

       “The worst part—besides the fact that he couldn’t wait until we were done with our entrees so that I could at least enjoy my Cajun chicken—was that I didn’t understand what was happening at first, so I just let him go on and on while I sipped my wine, listing off all the things I had to do the next day in my head, until I heard him say my name.”

       “What do you mean?” He raises an eyebrow at me, taking another sip of his wine.

       “I mean, I thought he was reading me another one of his boring articles or letters to the editor. You know how he liked to send in stupid stuff whenever he thought journalists were wrong or their research was lacking?” Vinny nods with a smirk. “Well, he started off saying something about how romance is overrated, and that certain people want romance more than they want the actual person that they’re with. So, naturally, I thought he was going off on one of his rants about the social sciences and some study he read up on or something. But then I heard him say my name, and he got my attention. He said that I didn’t seem to be really into this relationship because of him, but more the idea of him, and that we should just break up.”

       Vinny takes a sip from his drink and looks the other way, avoiding my gaze. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

       “What?” I ask. “Why are you being weird?”

       “I mean…” He clears his throat. “Let me just preface this by saying that I never liked the guy. No one did.”

       “Except Dad,” I remind him sadly, and he winces. Dad only met Jeremy once before he passed away, but before he died, he had told me how much he loved Jeremy for me, and that meant everything. To tell the truth, I’m not sure that I was all that into Jeremy until Dad told me how great he thought he was.

       “Right.” He scratches the back of his head. “Whatever. The point is that I didn’t like him, but…the thing is, Liza…I don’t think that he was necessarily wrong, you know?”

       I lift an eyebrow at him. “Excuse me?”

       Besides the sound of meatballs simmering in the pan and the low bubbling of my mother’s tomato sauce, there are no sounds in the kitchen. Mom’s in the dining room, setting the table for us, and Vinny and I are hiding here, like children. I’m hiding to avoid any type of housework while I’m back home for fall break, while my brother is hiding from his wife and kids. I’m guessing by how uncomfortable my brother looks now, though, that he’s praying for Danielle to walk in here with some sort of childcare crisis—not bad enough that it’s scary, but just enough that he would need to walk away from this conversation.

       I kick one of the legs of his chair and throw him a menacing look. “Vinny. What do you mean?”

       He exhales deeply and runs his fingers through his dark-brown hair. “I’m just saying that maybe he has a point. I think all those romance novels and rom-coms you watch are messing with your perception of what love really is, you know?”

       There might be a little truth to what he’s saying. I might have been going through a ‘Hot for Teacher’ trope phase in my reading when I met Jeremy at a prospective students’ school event. But still. There were tons of reasons why I dated Jeremy.

       I just can’t think of one right now, that’s all.

       “What are you talking about? I really cared about him. And he was plenty romantic.” I frown. “I mean, he brought me flowers every Friday and then took me to nice restaurants, told me I was pretty, blah blah.”

       Vinny scoffs, raising a bushy eyebrow at me, and takes a giant sip of wine. “Now I know what your problem is. You don’t know what love is.”

       He says it so matter-of-factly my jaw drops. This coming from the bro-est of bros, the epitome of frat boy himself, the man who won the fucking lottery by meeting a woman as amazing as Danielle and getting her to love him, marry him, and start a family with him. I never thought he would ever settle down, and now he’s talking to me as if he were the ultimate authority on love.

       I’m about to say something not so nice when the kitchen door swings open, and my sister-in-law walks in holding one toddler in her arms while another trails closely behind her, gripping her pant leg.

       “This is for you.” She hands my nephew, Leo, to my brother like a football. Vinny takes him and recoils at the scent of what I can tell is a very poopy diaper.

       “See?” he says, holding up his son as evidence. “This is love. This is romance. Love is not reminding your wife that it’s her turn to change the diaper, that you’ve changed the last ten poop diapers because you love her so much and know that, after two kids, she still has a hard time not gagging when she changes them.”

       “Please.” She rolls her eyes at him. “I was up all night with Clara while she vomited, and where were you? Sleeping like a baby,” she says with her hands on her hips. Danielle looks back and forth between the two of us. “What are we talking about?” She pulls her naturally blonde hair up into a messy high bun at the top of her head and still manages to look perfectly polished. How do other women do that? If I tried that with my thick curly hair, it would look like a giant cinnamon roll stuck on the top of my head.

       Vinny gets up from his seat and settles Leo on his hip. “Just telling Liza here that she’s never really been in love,” he says casually with a shrug.

       “Oh, yeah, totally. I thought this was common knowledge,” she says, and Vinny throws his head back in laughter as he walks out of the kitchen, presumably to change Leo’s diaper.

       “What are you even talking about?” I screech. “I was engaged to the guy. I was with him for three freaking years, you guys!”

       Danielle looks bored and ignores me as she picks up Clara and sets her on my lap. “I need to pee. Please take her before I lose my mind.” I sigh deeply and wrap my arms around my niece, holding her to me.

       I look down and catch Clara staring up at me with the same big brown eyes and huge smile on her face that Dad had. She looks so much like him it’s almost eerie. Of everyone in the family, she’s the one who looks the most like her grandfather. Despite being twins, Leo looks more like Danielle’s side of the family than ours. Where her brother is blond and blue-eyed, Clara has curly brown hair that is often pulled up to the side with a crooked clip. Poor Danielle grew up with Pantene-commercial hair and doesn’t know how to handle so much of it, so her daughter often looks like a mess.

       I fix Clara’s hair and hold her close, giving her a kiss on the forehead.

       “You definitely have the Castelli hair, kid.” I smile fondly at her. “You and your daddy look so much like your nonno.”

       “No-no,” she says with a smile.

       I sigh. The door swings open, and my mother walks into the kitchen in a huff as I say, “No, you have to say it right. Nonno,” I repeat, emphasizing the double-N.

       “They’re never going to learn Italian, are they?” she asks me in her native tongue, and I shake my head with a smirk.

       “I don’t think so. Vinny only ever speaks to them in English,” I reply back in Italian.

       “Then you should be the one to teach them. It’s your job to keep traditions alive when I’m gone.” I roll my eyes at her. My mother grunts in frustration as she stirs the sauce.

       “I need you to add one more place setting, by the way. Your brother just invited someone over for lunch.”

       I bounce Clara on my knee while she plays with the gold necklace my dad gave me a few weeks before he passed—a gold medallion with my initials engraved in it on the back.

       “What do you mean he invited someone over? I was just talking to him, and he didn’t mention anything.” I switch back to English.

       Mom looks over her shoulder at me, exasperated, and shakes her head. “It was last minute, apparently,” she sighs. “More like last second,” she adds, muttering under her breath.

       I feel bad for my mom. She’s always giving, giving, giving, and we never notice how much we’re taking, taking, taking. I make a mental note to start showing my mother how much I appreciate all that she does for us.

       But not right now because I have a baby on my lap, and she is so damn cute.

       “Who did he invite?” I ask, smiling down at Clara. “I didn’t realize he was still in touch with people from high school.” I definitely am not. I hated high school. It was just four years of torture and mean girls and football players and bullies. You could easily say that I wasn’t very popular growing up, due in large part to my huge, frizzy hair and nerdy tendencies. I preferred to stay in and watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer reruns than go out partying, thank you very much (Team Spike all the way).

       Vinny, on the other hand, was the high school golden boy. A jock, a genius, class president—you name it! Thankfully, the fact that my brother is six years older than me meant that he never had to see how big of a loser I was. Though, I sometimes wonder whether he would have given me some sort of street cred, like being his sister would have somehow made things better for me.

       We both grew up here in Long Island, but Vinny and I live in New York City now. My brother got a scholarship to Columbia for pre-med and med school and is now a doctor at Cornell-Weill.

       I went to NYU for undergrad and am currently in my last year of my psych graduate program at Columbia. We visit often to see my mom, but we haven’t really hung out with any of our high school friends since graduation, which is why I’m confused. Who could he have invited that lives in town?

       “It’s not a high school friend. It’s one of his old college roommates who was apparently in the area,” she tells me.

       Holy shit.

       “Which one?” My heart starts beating out of my chest suddenly, and my stomach churns. Vinny had a lot of roommates throughout his eight years of college, but there were definitely some stand-out candidates—one in particular.

       “Auntie Liza?” Clara slaps my face lightly so I pay attention to her. “My tummy hurts.”

       “Hold on, kid,” I say on the verge of a panic attack. “Mom, who is it??”

       TELL ME, WOMAN. I MUST KNOW NOW.

       “I don’t know,” she sighs, stirring her sauce and lowering the heat. “I think it’s Mark? Max? I can’t remember.”

       “MATT WILSON??” I yelp, suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

       “Yes?” I turn to the voice standing in the doorway and see my brother’s college best friend and former roommate standing there, looking down at me with the sexiest smirk I’ve ever seen, with Vinny in tow.

       I’m momentarily paralyzed with shock. Clara grabs me by the shirt, shaking me as much as she can, but I’m still trying to recover here.

       Words. I need to remember how to say them.

       Play it cool.

       “H—” I start to say but am interrupted by Clara vomiting all over my shirt.

       What—and I cannot stress this enough—the actual fuck??