Page 45 of Lorenzo

I make my way to the bathroom for a shower. The hot water takes a moment to arrive.

When it does, I stand under it until the steam rises and fogs the mirror.

As I work strawberry-scented shampoo into my hair, a question surfaces through the white noise of the water.

Who was this woman with the purple pen?

The topless brunette from the VIP room, her dark hair spilling over bare shoulders?

Or the blonde by the entrance, the one whose eyes had tracked Lorenzo the entire length of the club floor?

I rinse my hair and watch the suds spiral down the drain. I mentally envision my anger, jealousy, and frustrations rushing toward that drain instead.

After all, I’m here in Manhattan.

Why not forget all about Lorenzo and instead treat my time here like an all-expense paid, much deserved vacation.

As I dry off, I think about how I’m going to spend my day.

Angie mentioned that as Lorenzo’ s wife, the Equinox is mine to use whenever I want.

The way she lingered on the offer, leaning in with that hopeful little smile, made it clear enough that she was angling for an invitation.

But if I go to the Equinox club this morning, I want to go alone. I need to get focused, think things out, and have time to myself.

I’ve made too many sacrifices of late.

An image of Teddy pops into my mind.

I imagine him as he must be right now, school uniform on, hands folded as he listens with what I hope is rapt attention to his teacher.

He’s a good student.

Well, an okay student.

But he’s doing well at the Berkshire School. I did the right thing by ensuring his tuition, paid until the end of the year.

Next year, we’ll see if our uncle Eton makes good on his promise.

Once my hair is dry, I work it into a braid. Then I coil it like a crown and pin it into place.

A sort of pseudo-Grecian look I came upon by accident, then added it to my repertoire.

Once dressed, I pad into the living room for my morning coffee.

Gina is already sitting at the kitchen counter.

Her blonde wavy hair flows loose around her shoulders. She’s laughing at something Ciro must have just said.

That French Bulldog of hers lies content in her lap.

No one notices me in the doorway.

This is the second morning in a row I’ve found her here, settled into my kitchen like it’s an extension of her own penthouse apartment.

It’s a little off-putting to share what is supposed to be my private space with a potentially snoopy sister-in-law.

I like Gina.