Page 22 of A Love Most Fatal
“If you want me to like you, I guess that means I’m officially forgiven for trying to bribe you into academic dishonesty?” Vanessa asks.
“I guess it does,” I say.
She scrapes the last bite of her ice cream, which is the most sugary atrocity I’ve ever seen: gummy bears, nerds, and sour gummy worms mixed into a strawberry ice cream. The choicesurprised me. For as clean cut and severe as she is, I thought she might go with a dark chocolate fudge, maybe, or a plain vanilla.
I wonder what the sweetness tastes like on her tongue, but quickly dismiss the thought and the accompanying images it procures.
“So, what does a normal day look like in the life of Vanessa Morelli?”
“My sister drags me on a run before the sun comes up, usually. Then breakfast which is my favorite meal of the day—my mom likes to cook.” Vanessa sighs and shrugs. “Then most of the day is taken up by meetings and visiting sites and potential sites. I meet with a lot of investors and check-in on various projects, which is as boring as it sounds.”
“And after the riveting nine to five?” I nudge.
“After that excitement, I go home, see my sisters, the kids make an appearance a few days a week. I know I’m making my life sound really exciting, but of course there’s the basketball games and the random parent-teacher conference to fill in on occasion.”
She shoots me a look at this, and I’m done trying not to smile like an idiot around her.
“What do you do for fun?” I ask, the one thing glaringly absent from her schedule.
This stumps her, and we’re quiet as she thinks about it for the length of half a block.
“It’s fun to go to Artie’s games, or to watch TV shows with my mom at night. I like movies, too, but I don’t go out to see them like I used to in college,” she says. She squints at nothing. “I guess I don’t prioritize fun.”
“And do you date?” I ask. I can’t understand the world we live in if Vanessa Morelli is a single, non-dating individual.
I think I see her cheeks redden under the streetlights.
“No,” she says. “I don’t really.”
I have no sensical words in response, and she must see this because she takes pity on me and fills the silence.
“I’m not anti-dating, I’m just. . . busy. I was engaged once. Before grad school, an old family friend, and my first boyfriend.”
“What happened?”
“He wasn’t what I thought. Didn’t like that I wanted to go to grad school and work for my dad. Wanted me barefoot and pregnant. He was intimidated by. . .” She waves her hand in an encompassing gesture in front of her. “He didn’t want me to be in charge.”
My mind paints a very clear fantasy, unbidden, in which Vanessa and I live in domestic bliss. I’ve quit my job, just for a few years, just until the youngest is in pre-school, and Vanessa runs the world all day before she comes home to be with me and our two babies. After the children are asleep, after a delicious dinner I made, unless we ordered in, we make love and in fact make another baby, a third, a girl who we name Vanessa Jr. She has my nose.
I think there is something wrong with me.
“He sounds like a jackass,” I say, and I hope she doesn’t hear how my voice has dropped an octave into the gravelly, horny territory. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“Me too,” she says. “Better to have found out before the wedding, though. Sometimes I imagine what if I’d gone through with marrying him. My dad would have still died, and I would have still wanted to take over the business, but I wouldn’t have the support of my husband which would make what I do a whole lot more difficult.”
“I’m glad you have your family as support. I can’t imagine taking on something like that alone.”
Our walking has slowed past a leisurely stroll, and I’m starting to think that she doesn’t want this night to end either.That sort of thinking breeds too much hope, though, and it is much too soon to let myself be hopeful.
She’s looking up at me, her big brown eyes focused on my face, assessing my reaction in light of her latest confession. After a moment, she turns back to the sidewalk, and fuck it, I grab her hand and she lets me lace my fingers through hers.
“What about you, then? Do you have hobbies?” she asks.
“My friend Jenna and I go to the community center a few times a week. Pickleball or kickboxing, stuff like that. Otherwise, I like reading.” I don’t mention that sci-fi is my favorite genre, but I will if she asks.
“What is pickleball? A card game?”
“Like table tennis but human-sized.”