27. Stefania

Two bottles of prosecco and a grand tour of the house later, we're sitting out back with our feet on the table talking like nothing's changed. There's a big old aching pit in my stomach now, a tugging and yearning for home, but it's also a freaking miracle that she's here.

"You've been dancing around it all night," she says, and I can tell she's drunk because her ears are red.

I can tell I'm drunk because I've had an entire bottle of prosecco to myself and I suddenly want to go to karaoke.

"Dancing around what exactly?"

She leans forward, eyebrows waggling, drink tilting back and forth dangerously. "How do you feel about him? I mean, really, how do you feel?"

Yep, that's the question I've been dancing around.

I don't respond right away because I'm not sure what to say. There are a million answers to that extremely simple, presumably very obvious question. It shouldn't be something I'm unsure about.

Except I am beyond conflicted.

I have feelings for him. Very positive feelings. The sort of big, emotional feelings that act as the sturdy foundations of a long-lasting relationship. I also enjoy the sex. He is really good at sex.

But I'm also aware that we're stuck in this marriage together and neither of us chose the other, and I don't know if I feel this way because the sex is so good—seriously, the man can bone down—or if I'd feel this way regardless of whether we were humping like sex-starved rabbits on the nightly.

I stare into my glass and take a big, deep breath, really gathering all my air and mustering my courage, before saying, "He's really almost nice to me and I like that."

Giorgia stares. I stare back. Then she bursts out laughing. "He's almost nice? What the fuck, Stef? You're not supposed to use the word almost to modify nice. Like, that's a big thing. He can be extremely nice, or super nice, or really, really nice, but not almost nice. What is the matter with you?"

My cheeks turn red, and I realize I just skipped about fifty hours of conversation and explanation, which is why that doesn't make any sense. "He's nice," I say but Giorgia's not buying it. "Seriously, he cares about my needs. I mean, he's big and brooding and kind of moody, like there's something eating at him that he won't talk about?—"

"Stefania!" she shrieks, her chair tipping back. She nearly falls over, she's laughing so hard. "That doesn't sound like a very positive description! Holy shit! It sounds like you're a prison groupie trying to justify her marriage to a serial killer."

I groan and put my face in my hands. "You're just being cruel now."

"No, no, I'm not, I swear," she says, gasping for air and wiping her eyes. "No, girl, I'm so sorry, I'll stop laughing. I'll almost stop laughing." Then she howls again.

I roll my eyes and refill my glass with the last of the prosecco. I glare at her as she gets herself together, which takes way too long, and by the time she's done snorting and blowing her nose, I'm just about done with this conversation.

"I have feelings for him, okay?" I snap, jaw set as she leans over and covers my hand with hers. "I like the way he makes me feel and I like the way I make him feel too. I mean, at least I think I do. And I just—I don't know. I like it."

"You like your husband," she says, still smiling, but this time she's not mocking me.

"Yeah, I think I really do."

"Good for you." She squeezes my hand. "I still think this whole thing is looney tunes insane, but if you like him, I'm happy for you. I really am. Even if he's only almost nice."

I roll my eyes, but at least she doesn't devolve into hysterics again.

Davide shows up an hour later. He appears in the back door wearing a dark suit and staring out at us with an amused expression. I called him earlier to tell him what's up, so this isn't a surprise, but I can still tell that having a strange woman in his house makes him a little uncomfortable.

He doesn't complain about it. Instead, he introduces himself to Giorgia and he drags us both inside so he can make us something to eat. "You two are very drunk," he declares and starts on the pasta.

"A lady never gets drunk," Giorgia says, leaning her face on her elbows and making her cheeks go all droopy and weird. "By the way, do you have more wine?"

Davide complies and even pours himself a glass.

By the time dinner is ready, I'm straight-up drunk, and so is Giorgia. We feast like a couple of frat girls at a McDonald's at three in the morning while my husband sits back looking very amused.

"You should have seen your wife at work," Giorgia says, waving her fork in the air. "Oh my god, this is really good," she mutters, taking a bite, before remembering that she was in the middle of saying something. "That girl was driven. I think she wanted to prove herself, you know, since her family sort of owned the firm, right? But she's a smart little cookie."

"I'm very aware of that," Davide says, looking at me. There's a strange, possessive gleam in his eyes, and I like it.

"They won't let me work," I declare, which starts an argument until Davide finally manages to convince Giorgia that he's looking for a work-from-home job for me and that the rule is there for my protection.

But it effectively ends the night. He helps me get Giorgia set up on a couch in one of my upstairs rooms because—in her words—"no fucking way am I sleeping in this strange-ass cavern you two call a house." Which is fair and I completely understand.

"I like her," Davide says as he gets me into bed.

"You mean that?" I roll toward him. He's sitting next to me, still in his clothes. I snuggle up against his side, feeling heavy all over.

"I really do. She loves you, which means she has good taste. She's a good friend for coming out here to check on you."

"She is a good friend," I murmur, breathing in his smell. God, I love that smell. I love touching him like this and I love when he holds me back. "You know what I told her earlier?" I ask, now on the edge of sleep.

"What's that?" He strokes my hair. God, I could stay just like this forever.

"That I like you. She thinks it's cute. I like my husband."

"You do?" He sounds amused and he leans over to kiss my forehead.

"Mmmm, I do. Is that weird?"

"No, my dolcezza, it isn't weird at all." He kisses me again. "Can I tell you something now?"

"You better," I mumble. "Because I'm about to fall asleep."

"I like you too. I like you a lot, baby."

Yeah, he fucking does. My face stretches into a big, fat, drunken grin, and he hugs me close.