Page 90 of Dante

“Great!” I chirp, a little too brightly.

Her smile widens, showing perfect teeth against her burgundy lipstick. “That good, huh?”

We both laugh.

I notice how the spa attendant pretends not to hear our conversation while she finishes my last toe.

I exhale slowly, feeling the weight of what I’m about to say.

“That’s the problem,” I admit, watching Angie’s perfectly shaped eyebrows lift in question.

“Explain,” she demands.

“Sex is the only time we connect,” I whisper.

The words hang between us, and I watch Angie’s face for a reaction.

Steam curls up from some hot towels just brought in, making the air feel thick and close.

“You married a don, Gina. He doesn’t exactly punch a clock at nine and come home for meatloaf.”

She says this like I should have known better, like I signed up for this.

“I just want him to see me outside the bedroom,” I say, my throat tightening. I stare down at my red toenails, embarrassed by how pathetic I sound.

“What are you talking about? Of course he sees you,” she says evenly. “I saw the way he looked at you at the museum party.”

“No. He manages me. There’s a difference.” I look directly at her now, willing her to understand what I can barely articulate myself.

Angie sighs, leaning back in her chair.

A spa attendant offers her more cucumber water, which she accepts with a nod.

“You’re living in a penthouse with a view of Manhattan,” she says, counting on her manicured fingers.

“You go to a prestigious art academy, you run part of a restaurant project, and you have a French bulldog with better grooming than most people in Brooklyn. Yet you’re complaining that your mafia-boss husband doesn’t come home for dinner every night?”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“I know. You want intimacy,” she says, with air quotes around the last word.

I nod.

She reaches for one of the glossy magazines in the wicker basket between us. And freezes.

When I look over, Dante’s face fills the cover. ICEBERG OR EXECUTIONER?

The headline feels louder than the room.

“Did you read it?” she asks.

“Of course.”

“And? You’re not letting this nonsense get into your head, are you? You can’t believe Dante had a hand in her death.”

I look at Angie a long minute. “I don’t know what to think.”

“Gina, you can’t take these magazines seriously.”