Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ivy
The crash course in cacio e pepe is simple, yet effective. We boil noodles, grate cheese, grind pepper. The key, as with most pasta dishes, is to use good pasta, cooked al dente, and to see the sauce as an enhancement, not the focus.
The noodles themselves are the star.
The sauce is only there to add.
Americans don't get this. They drown their pasta in all sorts of far-too-heavy sauces. And who can blame them? They don't have good noodles. Only sad, soggy things, that barely resemble what families serve in Italy.
There's a metaphor of some kind and to be found, sure enough, when we sit down to dinner, Amara gives a long speech comparing marriage and cooking. The themes are all there. The mix of different ingredients, the merging of cultures, the need for patience, the combination of technical skill and heart.
Some see cooking as an art; some see it as a science.
Neither is wrong.
The different approaches can work. And clash.
For a few minutes, we're too enraptured by the fresh pasta to talk much. I pass on the bright orange cocktail in favor of another gin and tonic. The mix of lime, quinine, herbs, and sugar clashes with the rich flavor of the pasta, but that only convinces me to down the drink faster. Then fix a second.
It's not a good idea, I know. I should keep my wits about me. But this is too much talk about forever.
Romeo notices the way I gulp my second round, but he doesn't mention it. He just reaches out and offers his hand under the table. As if he really is my sweet, supportive boyfriend. As if I really am a person capable of loving someone and letting them love me.
Thankfully, Amara retires early, and the four of us end up in the backyard, talking about vacations while Cynthia offers everyone various forms of drugs.
This time, I take her up on her offer. I take half a gummy, I let the THC and CBD melt into my system, and then I go upstairs and have free, uninhibited sex with Romeo.
We don't talk about what it is or what it means or what we're doing here.
For once, I just enjoy.
When he retires to his room, I text Meredith and set up a recording for the next morning. It's way too early, but, hey, I gotta do what I gotta do.
Even though I wake up with awful cotton mouth and a fuzzy head, I fall into the zone the second I sit behind the chair. Well, on the bed with a mix plugged into my computer. All it takes is a cup of tea and a Zoom connection with my best friend and I'm in the zone.
Meredith is right. It feels good, sharing all these. Freeing. Brave. Exciting.
For once, these are my stories.
Stories Romeo told me I could share with the world.
Sure, I need a lie or a few drinks or half a gummy to access this version of myself, but she is there somewhere.
I can find her without all the facade too.
Meredith promises to get the episode into our queue ASAP. Anything to avoid sitting with her thoughts. I don't remind her she's paying good money for that privilege.
Hey, I need this too.
If she wants to cut promos of my story, little snippets of How Doctor O Got Her Groove Back a few days early, who am I to deny her a distraction?
When I'm finished, I find Cynthia in the hallway, close enough to hear me laughing, but not close enough to hear why.
"I was just walking by, I swear." She smiles and stretches her arms over her head in a lazy gesture. She looks towards the living room, where the boys are starting to set up for… something. Another game, maybe.
"Trying to avoid The Pre-Honeymooners?" I ask.
She motions a little. "Can I ask what you were…?"
"Watching The Office," I say.
"Really?" she asks.
"No," I admit. "I've never seen it, actually. I don't get office humor. It's not part of my job." Lies should be close to the truth. "My friend sent me this great podcast. It was hilarious. These two best friends shooting the shit."
"Oh, what's it called? I'm always looking for a new one," she says.
Uh… no go. I need a new path. "Hey, what do you say we get out of here?" I ask.
"Huh?" she asks.
"Go shopping for that dress," I say. "Make it official."
"And skip twenty questions? Should we?"
"If it's an official wedding activity, why not?" I ask.
She nods. "Let's do it."
Twenty minutes later, we're at the Philz coffee across from the county's crown jewel, South Coast Plaza. Cynthia apologizes profusely for her need for another cup of java, promises to pay, and asks me to promise not to tell either Galante brother about her time on enemy ground.
"You know, since this is the only chain coffee shop doing pour overs," she says as she slides into long line.