Danielle Lori

“It was completely platonic,”

“Nonna,” I started hesitantly, “say you’ve . . . wanted this . . . dog.”

. “I would never get a dog. I have allergies.”

Imagine you weren’t allergic and you did want one, Nonna. But you want your . . . neighbor’s dog.”

“We’re not getting a dog, Elena,” Mamma said.

“Cazzo. I know.”

It’s hypothetical,” I said. “Now, say your neighbor’s dog is so . . . cute, and you want him—er, her for yourself.”

“I think, if I could, I would rather have a cat,”

“Fine,” I sighed. “A cat, then. You want your neighbor’s cat—”

“We’re not getting a cat, Elena,” Mamma said.

Oh my god.

“I know. I said it’s hypothetical—”

“Why does it smell like skunk in here?” Nonna’s brows knitted.

“I swear to God, Elena, if I find out you’ve let some man touch you, I will deliver his hands to you in a box

And I do not. Fucking. Bluff

Nicolas,” I breathed. “This is inappropriate.”

His thumb caressed my neck,

Where’s your cousin?” he asked, typing something on his phone. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”