Chapter 7: The Rooftop

Chiara laughed at something the other person said.

"Ciao, ciao. Kisses."

I flushed the toilet so she'd hear it.

I splashed water on my face and looked at myself in the mirror.

My mouth looked like someone else's.

When I came out she was pouring me a second glass.

"Nine o'clock," she said. "Wear the green dress. You look amazing in the green dress."

She kissed me at the door and went down the stairs singing.

I opened the kitchen window.

Tommaso was still sitting on the fire escape, his knees up, his coffee cold.

He'd heard it all.

I could see it on his face.

"Handcuffs," he said.

"Handcuffs."

He climbed back in, which took a while.

"Tonight," he said. "Take your phone. Keep it recording."

"Is that legal?"

"In New York you can record any conversation you're part of. Your grandmother's lawyer told me at five this morning."

"You called my grandmother's lawyer at five in the morning?"

"He called me. Your grandmother told him to."

I believed that completely.

The rooftop bar was on top of a hotel in Williamsburg, all string lights and fake grass and a view of the bridge.

There were eight of us around a low table.

Chiara. Me. Six women I'd met a few times, all sommeliers or wine reps, all from Turin or Milan.

They wore black.

I wore the green dress.

Chiara hugged me and put a plastic tiara on my head.

"For the bride!"

Everyone clapped.

I set my phone face down on my knee.

The voice memo was running.

The first hour, they spoke English to me and Italian to each other.

Keep reading free with an account. Start The Italian I Was Never Supposed to Understand from Chapter 1, then sign up free to read the rest of this chapter.