“Alessandro, I am emotionally and physically exhausted after discovering that the man I’m supposed to marry next month was arrested for—”
“Stop. Please.” He slammed the glass onto the table, splashing water everywhere. “If you saw the girl, you’d understand she looked eighteen.”
“Okay,” I said. “Maybe she did and you made an honest mistake. Let me rephrase. I’m emotionally and physically exhausted after discovering that the man I’m supposed to marry has been cheating on me. You cheated, Alessandro. How could you? I thought we loved each other.”
Alessandro screwed his lips into pout position. “I do love you. It was a mistake. You have to forgive me.”
“I don’t have to do anything.” I tramped off to the kitchen, opened the freezer, grabbed a half gallon of rocky-road ice cream, stuck it in the microwave, and zapped it until it was soup. With the ice cream carton in one hand, Kitty in my arm, I marched to the bedroom and butt-slammed the door behind me.
Sitting up against my pillows, I clicked on the TV. There was Audrey Hepburn in the tennis pavilion waiting for William Holden. Have I mentioned I keep one of her movies loaded in my DVD player and watch scenes from them every day? Well, not every day. I rarely take them with me when I travel. I drank the chocolate soup out of the carton, but soon felt sick, like there was a tumor the size of Alessandro’s head pressing against my lower intestines. My eyes filled, then tears sloshed down my face. Soon sobs came in hard, painful waves. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair!” I screamed. “Where’s my happy ending?” I threw the ice cream carton at the television set and it made a big brown Rorschach stain on the screen. Kitty leaped out of bed and went over to lick up the drippings.
I was deep in alpha slumber when Alessandro shook me. “Huh? What? What time is it?”
Alessandro was wearing his boxers and his breath smelled like beer. “It’s three thirty. Holly, I’m sorry to wake you, but I had a terrible nightmare.”
“Huh, a night…?” Then it came back to me. What a surprise. The cheater had a nightmare. “Go back to sleep.”
“It was our wedding day. Your mother was there,” he said. “It’s like she came back from the dead to watch you get married.”
“Go away, Alessandro.”
“Please just listen. Your mother came to give us her blessing, but then suddenly you changed your mind. You refused to marry me.”
“Was it because you’re a child molester?”
Alessandro winced. “No, no, you wanted to stand by me, but you were afraid something like this could happen again.”
“Noooooo, really?”
“Your mother came to assure you and then warn you,” Alessandro said, his eyes wide, his voice dramatic.
“Of what?”
“She said if you married me as planned, I would be faithful to you for the rest of your life. But if you marry another, you and your husband and children will be cursed,” he said. “You will know nothing but pain and misery. That was her message.”
I rolled my eyes. “Jeezus, Alessandro, how many times did I see you in Fiddler on the Roof? That’s the dream Tevye made up to convince Golde to let Tzeitel marry Motel instead of Lazar Wolf.”
Alessandro cocked his head. “So it is. That must be the source of the dream, my having acted in the show so many times, but your mother was there; I swear it.”
I buried my head in the covers and muffled a scream. “Go away.”
“Please, give me another chance to love you,” he begged, pulling down the blanket as he tried to kiss me.
It was awkward, because I was wearing my headgear.
“I’m so sorry; please, please Holly. I need you.”
Alessandro ran his tongue down my neck, since the headgear made lip access impossible. Then he started to lift the T-shirt over my face and next thing you know, we were doing it. Don’t ask me why. I was furious with him, but I was desperately afraid to let him go. Is it true what they say—better the asshole you know (than the asshole you don’t)? I was completely flummoxed, so I let him screw me again.
Someone to Watch over Me
THE HOUSE WAS STILL when I snuck out the next morning. Alessandro was sleeping on the sofa. Empty beer cans were strewn about.
I’d hardly slept. It was early. There wasn’t even a line at Dunkin’ Donuts. Pops, unshaven and bedraggled, was manning his stoop, singing “Thank Heaven for Little Girls” to a white teacup Maltese in his lap. I sat down and set up breakfast between us. The smell of rotting trash wafted through the air, making the outdoor picnic less appetizing.
“Cute puppy,” I said.
“Poor thing,” Pops said, crushing out his cigarette stub. “She cried all night. She misses her human. We’re waiting for him.”
I took the white fuzz ball and cuddled her in my hands.
“Did you see the Post?” Pops said.
My face burned. “No, why?”
“Here. Someone dropped it in the trash.”
My stomach sank when I saw it. The headline read “Babe and the Beast,” accompanied by a picture of Alessandro and me fleeing the police station, story page six. I was wearing my red Jil Sander shift, the one I’d picked up at the Sloan-Kettering Thrift Shop. Alessandro was right. Red does bleed.
“Here’s the News,” Pops said.
“Oh, my God,” I moaned. “This is so embarrassing.”
“Broadway Hound,” the headline shouted, accompanied by the same delightful photo of Alessandro and me midflight, story page five. They had an inset shot of the minor Alessandro was accused of violating. It was taken from her MySpace page. The blond nymph was making love to the camera with her striking eyes and a come-hither smile. She definitely looked older than sixteen.
I sunk my head. “A year ago,” I said, “no one would have cared but me. He was just another no-name actor.”
“In
