“I see.”
“Chastity is the custodian of authentic love. Isn’t that right, Mr. Falso?”
“That’s a very mature thing, to look to the saints’ lives. Hard to live up to, though.”
“But anything worth doing is. Wouldn’t you say, Mr. Falso? Some people might say your chosen path is tough. Listening to young people’s problems every day. You could have probably been anything you wanted after college. A businessman. A doctor. A lawyer. But you chose to work for the church. I believe many of us are called to higher purposes. But not everyone listens. Don’t you think, Mr. Falso?”
“Call me Nick.”
“Nick.” She said it softly, and it sounded sweet.
“You know, Francesca, you’re an unusual girl. Mature. It’s admirable that you want to help put your friend on a better path. I’m glad to speak with her, too, if you wish.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she rushed. “Connie will be fine.” Francesca slapped her cheek in horror.
His eyebrows shot up again. “Whoa. No need for names.”
“I mean, I can be the one to stop Connie—to stop my friend—from looking to boys for … fulfillment.” Too much. Too much, Francesca. Scale back.
Mr. Falso looked behind himself and into the garage. “Perhaps we could step inside and say a prayer for Concetta.” He stifled a yawn and rubbed his arms. “And maybe I’ll have some more coffee. Have you had breakfast yet?” For the first time, she noticed his hair was adorably ruffled, as though he’d gotten out of bed and gone immediately to work in his garage. Industrious.
Francesca felt herself smile. “That would be lovely.”
Suddenly Francesca felt the wet warmth in her palms. Not yet, she told herself. She tried pressing her middle fingers upon the holes, but the gloves were stiff with age, and her fingers wouldn’t bend to reach. She forced her hands into claws, but it was futile.
Mr. Falso glanced at her fists. “Oh, hang on. You’re upset.”
Francesca stared at her hands like they were unfamiliar, letting them fall to her sides.
“Of course you are. This is your cousin we’re talking about.”
“Mio sangue,” Francesca whispered.
“Your blood. Come inside.” Mr. Falso vanished into the back of the garage as the garage door rattled down behind her. She blinked to adjust her eyes as a hand snaked around her arm. “This way,” he said gently, leading her up a set of rickety stairs into his kitchen. “Gloves in September, huh? You must run cold. Take them for you?”
Francesca blinked. The kitchen was painted neutral beige. The appliances were stainless steel and entirely unused. Above a generic granite countertop were cheap blond cabinets with brushed steel hardware. To her, it looked modern and sparkling, though she knew it was what Connie’s dad would call a contractor’s special. A scratched George Foreman Grill in the center of the counter appeared to be the only thing used in the whole kitchen. She imagined how much Mr. Falso would appreciate her cooking homemade gravy at the stove.
“Of course you can leave them on, if you’re cold,” he said.
“Oh! Yes, I’m cold. I mean I’m warm. Here, Mr. Falso.” She turned her back to him before gently tugging off each glove. The bandages were intact and stuck where she bled. She turned and handed the gloves to him, leaving her hand dangling in the air. This would be a perfect time for him to ask her about the bandages. It would be a relief to stop talking about Connie; already, guilt about throwing her beloved cousin under the bus crept in at the edges, tainting their special time together.
He took the gloves and pretended to snatch her nose between two fingers. “Oh, come on now! How many times am I gonna say it? Nick to you!”
“Nick,” Francesca said, another soft cluck. She could see too much of his chest through his shirt; not really, not see-through-like, but the rise of his pecs and where his biceps strained the sleeve, and she was embarrassed. She dropped her eyes. He grabbed a plaid button-down shirt from a hanger in the back closet with a cold clink, and slipped it over his shoulders, smiling mildly. She rubbed at the sharp goose bumps that ran up her slender forearms and watched as his eyes grazed her jaw, which tipped up slightly, knowing it was her best feature, and then his eyes pulled away and searched the counter for something, though it was bare.
“Francesca?” he said, still looking away.
“Yes?”
“Does your father know you’re here?”
Francesca winced. Her father was Bismuth royalty, and tough: not a guy you messed with. Mr. Lattanzi next door, that weaselly, whistle-blowing CPA, had learned as much. Until now, Francesca had only benefited from her father’s chilling effect, keeping away the creeps. Now, it was backfiring on her.
She had no choice but to lie. “Yes.”
His shoulders loosened, and he turned to face her. “Good. Can I make you some eggs?”
Eating in front of Mr. Falso seemed vulgar, though she couldn’t place why. But saying no felt rude. “Water for now, please.”
He opened a cabinet stacked with canisters of vanilla protein powder and bottles of ready-to-drink Muscle Milk, also vanilla. It took him two tries to find the cabinet with the glasses. He rinsed the glass of dust, dragged a stool out for Francesca, and sat opposite, leaning forward. Francesca smelled the bike chain grease on his jeans, and that he’d popped a mint when she wasn’t looking.
Francesca sipped her water with closed eyes, trying to remember her lines as she’d rehearsed them.
I have something of the utmost importance to show you.
Because I respect your opinion, I wish for you to examine …
There are few people in this world I trust and admire more than you. Because of that …
But the words sounded silly and formal. She set her glass on the table with a dull thud and flexed her fists.
Mr. Falso tempered his smile. “Now, is this the only thing you came to talk to me about?” he said gently.
Francesca’s words came in a torrent. “I’m so scared I don’t understand why this new thing is happening to me Daddy says it means I’m special but that I shouldn’t tell anyone because hardly anyone believes in this stuff anymore so one half of the world will think I’m a crazy attention-seeker—”
“Hold on!”
Francesca stood then, wild-eyed, the stool scraping behind. “And the other half of the world will stick me up on a pedestal and never leave me alone and treat me like I’m some kind of sideshow act—”
Mr. Falso grabbed Francesca’s arms, his stained fingertips meeting around them. “You’re so thin,” he whispered.
She kept babbling.
“But I’m not freaky. I’m special. I know this. I’ve known it for a long time. I’m scared. I’m so scared.” Her eyes cut up and to the side toward an unseen voice.
He released his grip on her arms, afraid she might bruise, floated his hands to her shoulders, and eased her to the stool.
Her back jumped.