For me, now, that was another matter.
And Benny immediately got into that matter.
“And I know you. You would not let him plant babies in you—not go out and do the shit he did for Sal, come to you with blood on his hands after puttin’ drugs on the street or shakin’ people down or whatever the fuck they do, and let him put a baby inside you. I know that, Frankie. He was livin’ on borrowed time in more ways than the one that got him and we both know it.”
“So you were gonna move on his woman?” I asked.
“Why do you think I was so fuckin’ pissed when you made that move on me after we put him in the ground?” he asked back. “You stole my show, babe. And you did it too fuckin’ quick. I was not ready, you were not ready, and I got pissed. Too pissed. Held a grudge. Pissed away time. Now we’re here.”
“I didn’t make a move,” I reminded him sharply. “You kissed me.”
“You made a move, Frankie,” he said with rigidity.
I did.
Fuck.
I did.
“This is insane,” I snapped, because it fucking well was!
He got even closer. “This is real and you fuckin’ know it.”
“I do not,” I bit out.
“You so fuckin’ do,” he returned. “I get where you are. I was there for seven years. Denyin’ where I was at and where I wanted you to be. Holdin’ guilt about all a’ that. How I felt and what I wanted before he died. How I felt and the same thing I wanted after he was gone. You see the woman you want bleedin’ from a gunshot wound on a forest floor, she survives that shit and gives you a week and a half, Frankie, that’s plenty of time to pull your head outta your ass. I did it on my own. Now you’re gonna do it, and if you don’t, I’m right here and I’m gonna do it for you.”
“You are not!” My voice was beginning to rise as my heartbeat was beginning to escalate. “Primarily because there’s nothing to pull my head outta my ass about.”
“You need me to kiss you?”
“No!” I shouted, my voice now loud and my breathing now harsh.
“Shakespeare,” he clipped, and my head jerked.
“What?” I rapped out.
“What’d he say about protesting?”
I felt my eyes go squinty again.
“You got it all figured out, don’t you, Benny?” I asked sarcastically.
“Bet you five hundred dollars I kiss you, in about five seconds you’d have it figured out too.”
No way in hell I was taking that bet.
“Gambling is a sin,” I hissed.
“Yeah, so you go to Vegas every year to catch the shows?”
My eyes got squintier.
“Five hundred bucks, Frankie.”
“I’m recovering from a major bodily trauma, Ben.”
“Read your doctor’s notes, babe. Said nothin’ about you not kissin’. Told you to refrain from intercourse, so we’ll save that for later.”
I clenched my teeth, even as I felt my nipples tingle.
God, I wanted to slap him.
I also wanted him to kiss me.
And I couldn’t even think of intercourse with Benny, not with him that close. Hell, not ever.
“Not gonna take the bet?” he taunted, moving an inch closer.
“Fuck off, Ben.”
He grinned.
Then he repeated, “Shakespeare.”
“Whatever,” I muttered, pressing back into the pillows and sliding my eyes away.
“My win,” he said softly. “You’re off your game. Figure you’ll get yours in when you get stronger so I gotta get in as many as I can now.”
I slid my eyes back and informed him, “You’re taking advantage of an injured woman.”
“Yep,” he replied easily.
I glared.
We heard the doorbell ring.
Ben pushed up from the bed, sauntered to the door, and ordered, “Ass downstairs, babe. Time for pie.”
I did not get my ass downstairs.
I stared at the door and I did it for a long time after he disappeared. I did it wondering if what just happened actually happened. After that, I did it trying to figure out if I could pretend that what just happened didn’t happen. Eventually, I figured out I couldn’t.
Then I realized there was a pizza pie downstairs created by Ben.
Not to mention Benny himself was downstairs.
And as much as it sucked (and it sucked huge), I couldn’t stop myself from swinging my legs over the side of the bed, making my way to the door, and doing it more excited than was healthy, all in order to taste Benny’s pie.
And do it with Ben.
***
I woke enough to feel Benny slide my hair off my neck and then slide his finger along my jaw.
I also felt how nice that was.
Behind my closed eyes, the dim light penetrating went out.
Finally, I felt his presence leave the room.
He didn’t close the door.
I opened my eyes to the dark.
Score one for Benny before dinner. Score one for me during and after. This was because I managed to hold on to the silent treatment throughout both (mostly).
The silent treatment was not a weapon in my female arsenal. My mother came from German, Polish, and French stock, probably with a few more things thrown in.
But my father was half Italian, and considering how he was, I was, and all the other fruit of his loins were, Italian blood was clearly dominant.
This meant I was hotheaded, low on patience, and had a flair for drama.
So managing the silent treatment, going so far as not even moaning when I took my first bite of Benny’s deep-dish pie (it had been a long time so maybe I was wrong, but in that moment, I would swear it was better than Vinnie’s), was a feat.
A Bianchi pie, I’d been told by Vinnie Bianchi Senior himself in better times, had no single secret ingredient. It wasn’t the dough. It wasn’t the sauce. It wasn’t the cheese.
It was all of that.
All of it was homemade except the cheese, which was not grated and dashed around. It was sliced off a ball of buffalo mozzarella and laid on to melt its mild, smooth, milky goodness into tangy red sauce that leaned a bit to the spicy side, and pan-style or hand-tossed crust that made you know there was a God and He was Italian.
I could do a hand-tossed pie and be happy.
But I was from Chicago.
It was all about the pan.
And no one did better pan pizza than Vinnie’s Pizzeria. Sure, there were some who could extol the virtues of Uno’s and Due’s.
They were wrong.
Vinnie’s was the best.
Now Benny’s was the best.
I didn’t share with him my overwhelming approval of his culinary skills with a Chicago-style pan pizza pie.
I just ate it and kept my mouth shut.
After Benny was done eating, but I wasn’t, he left the table and went out to his garage. He came back with my phone.
He set it on the table beside me and said, “Phone a friend.”
I glared at him. He grinned at me. I snatched up my phone and he sat down to watch me call my friend Asheeka.
Asheeka was a woman I worked with who I’d met after the Vinnie debacle. We became friends and she became acquainted with my story.
With experience, I found it was better with those who learned after the fact that I could have been on a reality show of Chicago’s mob wives and girlfriends. This was because I could attempt to convince them I was beyond it and on my way to becoming a better person who made smarter choices. Seeing as I made no choices outside of what I’d wear that day, living my life quiet, without a man, this turned true.
Asheeka had come to visit me twice in the hospital and she was all over coming in the morning to be around when I showered. She was a little concerned about the staying-at-Benny’s part of that scenario, but she got from the tone of my voice that I couldn’t talk about it at that moment and she let it go.