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Francesca did. They were usually couples affairs, and after coming alone to two or three of them, Val had stopped inviting her.
"Of course."
"It's Thursday night, and we're doing Scrabble, so brush up with a dictionary between now and then. I think that's it. Sometime around 7:30 p.m."
"Can I bring anything?"
"I'm making everything the same size and shape as Scrabble tiles so, no, don't bring anything because I'm obsessed with the theme right now and if it's not perfect, I'll be annoyed."
Francesca laughed. "I'll bring drinks, then."
"One more thing, Francie."
"Hm?"
"It's, um, it's probably going to end up being Team Scrabble. If everyone shows up, so, you know, each couple would be a team, so—"
"It's cool, Val. I can be my own team."
"I mean, if you'd let me set you up with someone, you wouldn't have to be your own team—"
"No, really. It's fine if I'm by myself, or if someone needs a teammate I can be on a team. I'm not sure how much help I'll be, but I'll do whatever."
"Great! Wow, I'll see you Thursday, 7:30."
When she hung up the phone Francesca felt like she'd been eavesdropping on a more reasonable, even-tempered, forgiving version of herself on stage in a play. Team Scrabble? If she survived that evening, maybe she'd be on her way to becoming that more reasonable, forgiving version of herself.
FRANCESCA SPENT THURSDAY morning doing website photography, soul-numbing work that required no artistry, just sheer tenacity with a white box. She listened to podcasts while she shot, first an edifying one on women in business, and then a guilty pleasure dissecting Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours. After rearranging the sleeve of a sweater for the fifteenth time, she took a break to have a coffee and snack.
She'd kept her phone on "do not disturb" in an attempt to get through the web shots without distractions, so she wasn't surprised to have a slew of emails and texts to sort through. She was surprised, between the Venmo payment notifications and the analytics reports from her website, to have an email from Bruno. It was matter-of-fact, subject: Dinner tonight, body of email: I had to come up for a few meetings. Are you free for dinner tonight?
The coffee was too hot on her tongue; she felt an unmistakable yearning she couldn't define, something that wanted the email to be longer and more personal, also something that loved the implication of a message so short and simple. Of course, she would see him. She wanted to see him. She remembered everything about their last dinner, his gentle brown eyes, the way he cleaned his glasses with his handkerchief, his fingers swirling the cotton on the lenses. Moments she wished she could crystalize. Moments that existed in defiance of her boundaries.
Valeria's game night was tonight. Francesca blew over the surface of her coffee to try to cool it and succeeded only in sending foam across the table, flecking her photos. She picked up the phone to reply with the total confidence that if anyone could be enthusiastic about Team Scrabble, it would be Bruno.
"I'll pick you up at 7:15," she wrote to close the email.
She sent a quick text to Val next, to give her a heads-up. It was only polite. "Looks like I'll have a team after all," she wrote. "I hope it's ok. Bringing a friend." She reread it and deleted "a friend." Val knew Bruno; it was disingenuous not to tell her who was coming. "Bringing Bruno." She wasn't sure if it was inscrutable or if it sounded like she was trying to imply they were together. She deleted the whole message and stared at the blank bubble and keypad.
"Bruno's in town and he's a big Scrabble ace, so I hope it's okay that I'm bringing him with." She added a googly eyed smiley face and pressed the send key before she could think about it further.
Valeria replied immediately with a row of monocle emojis. Francesca toyed with writing back, but she wasn't sure what she'd say. It wouldn’t hurt to mention her boundaries; Val could hold her accountable. In the meantime, Bruno had replied, a quick "Yes, perfect" that was more cryptic than she'd wanted. He followed it up with a terse, "Park Hyatt" and she consoled herself that he was busy.
She had about six more styles to shoot before she'd be done with the web photos, and though it didn't seem like much, it would take the balance of the afternoon to finish. As she shot, she admired the samples, trying on one top to see if it fit, considering borrowing it for the evening. What she wouldn't give for something new to wear.
By five o'clock, she turned off her lights and pushed the white box to the corner of the room. The blouse she'd tried on had been perfect, but she could just imagine herself getting marinara sauce or gooey cheese on it in a finger-food incident and she'd never be able to live that down. Instead, she settled on a sweater from her closet, something she'd recently learned she could hand-wash in her bathroom sink. Caring for her clothes gave her a sense of invincibility, even in the face of gooey cheese.
She leaned all the way out the window to smoke a cigarette before she got into the shower. Her last one of the evening; she wanted to smell like a nonsmoker around Val and Bruno. As she washed her hair, she tried to think of words that began with the letter Q, words that had few vowels. She decided her commitment to being a good friend would make her just as popular as if she was good with words.
At 7:14 p.m. Francesca was pulling in front of the Park Hyatt, flipping the radio to a classical music station. She scanned the entry for a dark suit and hair, and when she spotted him she felt a rush of excitement, electric through her core. She glued her thighs to the car seat, trying to wave and unlock the doors at the same time, fitting the syllables of “boundaries” into the rhythm of Vivaldi through the speakers.
"I just finished work; I'm afraid I'll be overdressed," he said.
She wanted to reach over and loosen his tie, use her nimble fingers to unbutton his shirt and muss his hair. She could undress him a little and solve his problem. A smile grazed her lips at the thought, until she realized he was still talking and she hadn't heard a word he'd said.
"I'm sorry; I was trying to figure out the best way in traffic. What did you say?" She willed her hot cheeks to cool.
"I was asking about traffic this time of day. Where do they live?"
"Oh, you know, it's pretty close, actually. Just over this way," she said as she jerked her steering wheel left across two lanes of traffic. She felt if she let go of the steering wheel, her entire body would launch into the atmosphere.
"I brought a bottle of wine," she said, making conversation because she wanted to hear his voice. "I pulled it out of the cellar at Mama's. You'll have to tell me if it's any good."
She swung another hard left onto the street where Valeria lived. There was a parking spot; it looked a little tight, between an oversized Jeep and a motorcycle on the margin of the space, but she drove a hatchback and was an ace at parallel parking.
"You're going to go for it?" Bruno asked as she slid into position and shifted into reverse.
"You don't think I'll fit?"
"It's going to be tight."
"Sit back and relax, Bruno Pallavicini. You're about to see something special."
The trash-talking calmed her. She wedged her car right up against the curb and the Jeep's front bumper, then tucked in her front wheels. She had barely turned off the ignition when she jumped out of the car to admire her work.
"I'm sorry I ever doubted you," Bruno said. "It won't happen again."
"It's just a parking space." She pulled the wine out of the backseat and marched up to the door of Valeria's building. Inside, the building was still, their footsteps echoed on the dark terrazzo. Francesca punched the elevator button repeatedly.
"It doesn't matter how many times you press it," Bruno said.
"It makes me feel better."
The elevator door opened and then they were inside together, the elevator like a closet, the wool of their coats touching, the heat beneath the fabric filling the elevator as it rose six floors. Francesca willed herself not to move, not to breathe, not to break the spell. She stared at the metal grate, tracing its diagonal lines with her eyes. Anything to keep from looking at his jawline, his fingers. The elevator jerked to a halt at the sixth floor and he reached to slide the grate, pushing the door open for her.
"After you," he said. She knew it was just his typical boy-scout politeness, not an act of chivalry. With Bruno, nothing was an act.
In the corridor Val and Giorgio's game night beckoned, the sound of laughter and conversation more promising than Francesca had expected.
"Ciao, Francie," Giorgio said as he answered the door, leaning in to kiss her cheeks. "Who's this? Val said you were bringing someone—"
"My friend Bruno," she said. By then, Valeria had heard them, turned from her bowls of square snacks, and made a rush for the door.
"A new friend," Giorgio said, as Bruno extended a hand to shake.
"Just a friend," he replied. But when he eased Francesca’s coat from her shoulders, she shuddered at his touch, at once firm and tender.
"Bruno!" Valeria said, shoving Giorgio aside. She stretched to kiss him, and Francesca tried to remember when they had ever met to warrant such a friendly greeting. The funeral?
"Thanks for having me," he said. "This looks like a lot of fun."
Francesca surveyed the living room, people she recognized from Val's couples-dinners holding wine glasses, helping themselves to Chex Mix and pita chips. Was this what normal people did? People with friends?
"Do you want a drink?" Bruno asked, but as soon as he'd spoken, Valeria was upon them with two glasses, little Scrabble tiles dangling from their stems.
"F for Francesca and B for Bruno," she announced, handing them the wine. Francesca studied the tiles.
"I'm worth more than you," she said, and immediately regretted her flippancy.
"Only if you can use your F better than I can use my B," he replied, and she thought she saw him wink as he drank his wine.
"Well, it's a good thing we're on the same team, then."
Valeria popped in again. "You're not, actually. It's a Scrabble swap! We're going to pick teams out of that bowl!"
"Like a key party?" Francesca asked, but Val was already off, rounding up the rest of her guests.
"I don't think anyone does key parties anymore," Bruno said.
"You'd be wrong. Three years ago, the Dolce after-party was a key party."
"Did you?"
Francesca was saved when Val returned with the bowl of letters.
"No peeking," she said, holding it in front of Francesca.
She shut her eyes and swirled her fingers around, plucking a tile. "R," she said, turning it over.
"Oh, you got Roberto," Val chimed in, oblivious. "Roberto—" she called, and a bald man with wire-rimmed glasses waved from across the room. Francesca gave him a three-fingered wave in reply.
"Who did you get, Bruno?" Valeria's persistence amazed even Francesca. He showed her the tile.
"Isabella!"
Francesca saw the woman who turned at her name. She wasn't one of Val's mom friends, that was for sure. Her spotless white shirt, oversized like she'd pulled it from her boyfriend's closet, cat-eye glasses, dark hair cropped in a wavy bob. Red lipstick. She looked French, perfect, exactly Bruno's type.
"Who is that?" Francesca whispered to Val.
“I knew you'd like her! She's so cool, isn't she? Her boyfriend works with Giorgio, but she's got a great job herself, she's a lawyer for the city. Good person to know, don't you think?"
"I'm sure," Francesca murmured. She wasn't sure, as she watched Isabella approach Bruno, touch his arm, laugh at a joke that only the two of them could understand.
Meanwhile, she and Roberto struggled to string together any semblance of conversation.
"How do you know Val?"
"She and my wife are in the same new moms’ group."
"So you have a baby?"
He nodded. "Seven months. Seven months with no sleep."
He wasn't at the top of his game. Neither was she, distracted by Isabella, sneaking glances across the Scrabble board, trying to arrange the endless stream of Us and Es and As she pulled from the velveteen bag into words that would score more than six points.
Bruno and Isabella routed them. After their first 45-point word, Isabella gave him a sporting high-five. When they got a triple-word score on JINX, she clutched his forearm. Francesca watched their heads together, shifting tiles on the easel, whispering behind elegant hands.
She drank. Roberto kept refilling her glass, because it gave him a reason to refill his own, and they played unmemorable words like SOUP and BEE.
When the game was finally over, when Isabella enveloped Bruno in a friendly, winning hug and they clinked glasses of celebratory champagne, Francesca turned away and found solace in a chocolate cupcake with a giant L iced on top.
Bruno found her in the kitchen, licking the remnants of chocolate from her fingertips.
"Congratulations."
She didn't want to be a sore loser; she didn't want to be sore at all, but he was beaming and she felt like she'd been stabbed by a fountain pen-wielding Isabella.
"It was a good game, wasn't it? And these cupcakes are delicious." His smile should have embittered her, but a smear of vanilla buttercream at the edges of his lips spoiled his winning affect.
"You've got frosting on your face." If she didn't tell him now, Isabella would lick it off with her little cat tongue.
He brushed at his mouth. "Did I get it?"
She shook her head. Out in the living room, the sound of the party had dulled, the laughter had hushed. They were alone in the kitchen and she moved closer, bridging the gap between them.
"I'm glad you won," she said. "I'm happy for you."
"You don't sound happy. And you let me walk around with frosting on my face."
She swept her thumb from his stubbled chin up to his lower lip, relishing the shift in sensation from rough to smooth. Her eyes were locked on his.
"There," she said.
"You got it?" His voice was a near whisper.
She nodded without leaving his eyes. He wrapped his hand around her wrist and she stopped breathing again and then a loud voice snapped her reverie and she leaped back, breaking his grip.
"There you are." Valeria stood in the kitchen doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. "The winners and the losers have to do shots."
"I'm not doing shots," Francesca said. "You live here, Val. I have to drive home. I think I'm done."
"You too?" Valeria asked Bruno.
"She's my ride," he said.
Francesca drove carefully to the hotel; they were quiet; the moment in the kitchen was lost. When she pulled up to the revolving doors, she stayed buckled into her seat, hands on the wheel.
"Thanks for bringing me." Bruno unlatched his seatbelt. She turned her head to face him.
"Thanks for coming. And good job." She felt the stitches of the steering wheel leather under her fingertips and counted them to calm herself.
"I had to impress your friends," he said. He opened the door and got out of the car, then leaned back in.
She was breathing so heavily she could see the fog forming on the inside of her window. "Yes?"
"Get home safe, Francie."
He closed the door, and it sounded solid and she peeled out of the drive before she could change her mind.
The morning after game night, she woke at the sound of her alarm and saw her clothes piled on the floor next to the bed and the events of the evening came flooding back to her. She had narrowly avoided embarrassing herself again. She was supposed to have boundaries. Bruno was supposed to be her business partner and her friend.
And neither of those classifications explained the way her body reacted when she saw him. When they were in the car together. When she watched him winning with Isabella, the jealousy stinging her as if he was someone who meant something to her. And when they were in Valeria's kitchen, the lips she touched for the first time since their kiss in Capri, a moment that was a lifetime ago. She ran her fingertip over her lips, imagining they were his.
He'd made it clear how he felt. From the minute they walked into Valeria's flat, he emphasized they were just friends. He had been a friend when her brother died, he'd been a friend when she needed help, he remained a friend now. And she was a woman trying to focus on her recovery who needed to have appropriate relationships. Not childish, vulnerable crushes.
But last night they'd both been in Val's kitchen, they'd both locked eyes, they'd both been held captive by that moment.
In the light of day, she still was.
“I THINK YOU’RE ONTO something,” Francesca said as soon as they were seated at their regular table, the sushi restaurant quieter than normal.
“People have been having mango and scallop forever, it wasn’t my idea.”
“Not that. The foundation.”
“What makes you think that?”
Francesca nibbled at the inside of her lip, tore the paper collar from her chopsticks. “I go to a therapy group.”
“Me too. Widows and other sad family people. I like it.”
“No. It’s for survivors of sexual assault.”
“Francie—”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s a long story. You wouldn’t be interested.”
“If you want to talk about it, I am,” Giulietta said. She scribbled on a menu checklist and handed it to the waiter, sending him away with a flick of her wrist.
“It was Selim. That shouldn’t surprise you. You knew from the beginning that he was a liar. You had him figured out before anyone else.”
Giulietta reached across the table and gripped Francesca’s hand. She still wore her engagement and wedding rings, a radiant solitaire and an eternity band of round brilliants, sparkling in the noon light.
“I’m sorry, Francie.”
“I am, too. But it could have been worse. It should have been better, obviously. At least I know that now, for the future.”
She had a quick, violent flash of the Scrabble party, the heft and strength of Bruno’s hand on hers. Nothing at all like Giulietta’s soft, gentle touch. She broke the grasp and gulped sparkling water until it stung the back of her throat.
