I asked about her flight, and she caught me up on her last few days back home. Her cats were fine; there were still no bites on the job front; she’d stopped by my place and picked up the mail, watered the three plants that I’d forgotten I even had.
She leaned back against the counter and folded her arms.
“I know this is awkward,” she said, “and maybe a terrible idea, but I missed you, and when I found out that you were in the ER …”
“Only for a few hours.”
“…I felt so bad about the way I left. I’m not someone who just walks away, Donnie, but that’s exactly what I did.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said. “This whole trip…even before…you’ve put up with a lot.”
“I was jealous and confused…it was immature. And so I went online, found a cheap flight, and here I am; I have no idea what’s going to happen with us, but I’m not running away.” She dropped her arms and offered a smile. “So until you say fuhgeddaboudit I’m still here.”
She looked away, as if bracing for rejection, as if Amy might be lurking behind the counter in a wedding dress ready to squeeze off a few rounds from her .22.
“That’s not the correct usage of fuhgeddaboudit,” I said.
“Shut up and hug me.”
So I did, and God it felt good to hold her again, to feel her body pressing against mine, to breathe the warm-honey scent of her skin, and I kissed her pink lips until I felt dizzy, her breath vanilla and peppermint, my hands sliding from her shoulders to the perfect slope of her waist.
“I know we have things to talk about,” she said, her arms resting on my shoulders as we bumped noses. “But it can wait, right? I’m not here to get all heavy on you—or on me, either. Whatever might have happened while I was gone …” In this case, whatever had one definition: did you sleep with her? “…I don’t need to know about it, meaning I don’t want to know, okay? I’ve made questionable relationship choices, too.”
“Understood,” I said, thinking: what questionable choices? Me?
“I’m kind of exhausted,” she said. “The flight landed at 8:00 AM, and then I rented a car and drove to the hotel, and then drove to your Uncle’s house. Nancy, your mother—she said you might be here.”
“I’m just making a few pies before we open.”
“No need to stop.” She brushed my cheek before pulling away. “You know, all this time we’ve been together you’ve never once showed me how to make the famous Marcino pizza. Can I help? Or is it some treasured family secret?”
“Well, I said, “we don’t share it with just anyone….”
We headed for the kitchen, where three rolls of dough waited on the counter. Reaching back, I untied the strings and pulled off my apron, then slipped it over her neck.
“Wow—the official Donnie Pizza apron! I’m honored.”
“I can’t believe you’re back,” I said. “All the way from San Diego …”
“It’s not like I walked. I had an aisle seat and watched a movie. They gave us peanuts and cranberry juice—I even got points for the miles.”
“Still …”
She turned around so I could tie the back, then spun like a runway model, flipping her hair in mock-chic. It was all so wonderfully Kelly, the lightness of it, so baggage-free. I hated that word—baggage—and felt like a dick for even thinking it because Amy’s baggage was my baggage, too—we’d acquired it together, we’d built it side by side. But it made me want Kelly to occupy my life.
I’d already chopped the onions and garlic and the kitchen was redolent with their sharp aromas. Kelly put on a hairnet and we washed our hands before stepping up to the counter. With pizza most of the work is done during prep, and all the ingredients were lined up and waiting. I sprinkled some semolina and rolled the dough, coating both sides, covering every crevice.
“Try it.”
Kelly picked up the dough, her hands hesitant.
“You can’t break pizza dough,” I told her. “It’s virtually indestructible. If it tears, we just roll it out again and start over. Like this.”
I poked my thumb through the edge, creating a hole, then smooshed the dough back with my palm until the hole disappeared.
“See? It’s back the way it was. Too bad that doesn’t work for the rest of our lives.”
Pizza philosophy—Jesus, I sounded like Uncle Dan!
I pressed the dough out flat and created the crust, Kelly watching from my left, adorable in her apron, studying me intently as if expecting a quiz.
“It’s all in the thumb and forefinger,” I said. “You pinch the edge so it rises, and then press it together, making your way around the circumference, like this.”
I pinched out half the crust, then took her hand and guided her around the dough, her thumb sliding along the rim, her hand inside the circle as she pinched and pressed, pinched and pressed, my hand letting go as she picked up the rhythm, her hands switching to automatic pilot, which always makes the best pies.
“Am I doing it right?”
“Perfect. Are you sure you not an Italian from New Jersey?”
I checked the oven, adjusting the temperature to 500 degrees, then showed her how to pound out the dough. I leaned closer, our hips touching, beads of sweat forming on the back of Kelly’s neck. She pressed out the dough as she leaned against me, her upper arm brushing my chest, and for the next hour I turned off my brain and made pizza with Kelly, doing everything I could not to think about the diamond ring wrapped in a tissue in my front left pocket.
. . . . .
I’d bought it with the cash from my
