Page 13 of The Broker
“I’m very clever,” he says dryly. He waits patiently until I empty the mug and then says, “Lean on me. You don’t have to open your eyes; I won’t let you fall.”
Why are you being nice to me? I almost ask. Instead, I lurch to my feet. Dante is immediately at my side, lending me support. “You want me to carry you?”
“No.” He feels like a rock, solid and steady. “Just don’t let me hit a lamppost.”
Ten minutes later, we arrive at my house. “Thank you,” I murmur. “I’m good now.”
“No, you’re not,” he responds. “I’m coming in and making you soup. I’ll leave once you eat it.”
“Do you eat soup or drink it?” I wonder out loud. “Can you cook?”
“No,” he admits. “But nobody opens a can better than me.”
For some reason, I find that ridiculously charming. I laugh and immediately regret it when a battering ram hits my head. “Sit,” Dante says, urging me to the couch. “Close your eyes. What kind of tea do you want?”
How does Dante know I want tea? “There’s a blend called Serenity in my cabinet. Follow the brewing instructions on the tin.”
“Got it.”
Dante disappears into my kitchen and reappears with an ice pack. I take it from him with a whimper of relief and hold it to my forehead. The caffeine helped a little with the headache but did nothing for my nausea and light aversion. I shut my eyes, drape a throw over myself, and zone out in my darkened living room.
The delicious aroma of lemongrass wakes me up. I crack an eye open. “This doesn’t smell like it’s from a can.”
“You only had tomato soup,” Dante replies. “I wasn’t sure if tomatoes were a trigger for your migraines, so I went to the Thai restaurant around the block and got you some chicken soup instead. Here’s your tea.”
I take the mug from him and hold it with both hands. “Thank you,” I whisper. “This is very kind of you.”
“Not really,” he replies. “Anybody would do the same thing. Except, evidently, Enzo Peron.” Disgust saturates his voice. “That fucking guy. Didn’t he have the decency to bring you home?”
“It’s not his fault.” I sip the tea, letting its warmth fill my senses. “He doesn’t know about the migraines.”
“Because he takes no interest in your life.” Dante’s voice is low and furious. “You deserve better than him.”
Enzo is an elaborate lie and nothing more. “I’ll cry if you yell at me.”
He exhales in frustration. “I’m sorry. I’ll drop it.” He hands me a container. “Soup.”
What do I deserve? That’s such a complicated question, too complicated to deal with when my head feels like it’s going to burst and my senses are being assaulted from every direction. But the lemongrass, ginger, and garlic in the soup are fragrant, and the tea is hot and soothing and steeped for exactly the right amount of time. And he’s even brought me fresh spring rolls.
Why are you here, Dante?
“Zadie is going to take Angelica to school tomorrow. But can you pick her up in the evening?” The words tumble out of my mouth, and then I regret them. What am I thinking? Tomorrow’s Friday. Dante undoubtedly has a date. “Never mind, I’ll ask Rosa or Lucia, and if they can’t do it, it’s okay. Angelica isn’t any trouble. She just freaks out when I’m sick.”
“No need. I’ll pick her up.”
Okay then. I finish my soup and my tea. Dante sits quietly in the chair across from me, recognizing that I’m not up for conversation. The silence feels companionable, though. The tension that usually accompanies our interactions is gone, buried under a temporary truce.
My eyes keep drifting shut. “I should go to bed,” I murmur when I’m done eating.
“Okay.” He gets to his feet. “I’ll get out of your hair then. There’s more Thai food in your refrigerator.”
“Thank you.” Dante’s the only person who’s been around when I’m sick. My parents were great at extravagant gestures but terrible at the day-to-day stuff. Somehow, even as a kid, I knew I wasn’t supposed to bother them when I didn’t feel well.
Dante isn’t acting like I’m a bother.
“It’s nothing,” he says.
No, it isn’t. It’skind.