"She is taken care of," Lorenzo nearly spits, and I glance at Troy, worried. I remember how protective of me he was when we were younger, but I'm not an innocent eighteen-year-old girl any more. I shake my head just a little bit, hoping he sees me.
Troy notices and gives me a tiny little nod, and sits back, taking a big breath. "That's good. So, Laurie, I guess you speak Italian too?"
"Uh-huh. And English too. My teachers at pre-school said I was one of the best," Laurie says with more than a touch of pride. "You want me to teach you?"
Troy laughs at her unexpected offer, but nods. "I think that would be great. But, you should probably ask your mama first. I mean, it takes a long time to learn a foreign language, and I'm a guy who spends most of his time getting hit in the head."
"What's that mean?" Laurie asks innocently, and I try not to groan as Lorenzo interrupts Troy before he can answer.
"It means that Mr. Wood may not have the most functional brain, Laurie," Lorenzo says with more than a hint of malice. "It might make him slow at learning.”
Troy looks up, his mouth tight, and he lowers his eyes to look directly at Lorenzo. "I may not be fluently bilingual. I may not even have my degree yet. I know that. But I'm not an idiot, and I don't exactly appreciate being called stupid."
"Bruta selvaggia," Lorenzo shoots back, and now it's my turn to be angry. Taunting Troy is bad manners, but to do it in a language that Laurie fully understands and knows that Troy's being taunted in is over the line.
"Lorenzo!" I snap, pissed off. "There is no need for that. Troy has been polite and is a friend."
"Si, si . . . un amico. Un amico speciale," Lorenzo spits back sarcastically before getting to his feet. "Scusi. I must make the toilet."
Lorenzo storms off, and I can tell by looking at Troy that he understood enough of Lorenzo's words that he grasped the meaning. I wait a bit while we calm down. "Guess you remember more Spanish from school than most people."
"Some," Troy says, obviously still pissed. He looks at Laurie, then at me, and shakes his head. "Maybe this was a bad idea. I don't want to give you a hard time. Maybe I should go."
"Don't, please, Troy?" Laurie says, and she's nearly in tears, seeing her new hero so upset. "Lorenzo didn't mean it."
Troy blinks at Laurie's words, as surprised as I am, and he sits back, nodding. "Okay, Laurie, just for you.”
Laurie nods and smiles, and I'm nearly in tears now, watching Troy father his daughter without even knowing it. Lorenzo comes back and sits down, saying nothing as the waitress brings out the desserts. Troy makes the best of the situation, talking with Laurie and me while eating the tiramisu, even clowning around a little by 'forgetting' a giant glob of cream on his nose, which makes Laurie descend into a gale of giggles. We finish dinner, and Troy is restrained enough to not offer to pay our check, seeing the way Lorenzo is still seething. As we get up to leave, Lorenzo takes Laurie to the car while I get my purse.
"Whitney," Troy says, leaning in close enough that it feels again like old times. "This was . . . this was nice. I'd like to see you guys again, if that's okay."
"I'm not sure, Troy," I reply, trying to control myself. "It may not be . . . safe."
"What is safe?" Troy asks, and slips a piece of paper into my hand. "Please. It's just my phone number. Just a call maybe. At least so I can ask the questions I need to ask."
I slip the paper into my purse and leave. Outside, I see Lorenzo stewing next to the car. Laurie's inside, but Lorenzo's still pissed, staring at me over the car. "What?"
"Are you happy now?" he nearly yells, gesturing at the restaurant. "First the game, and now this? Are you happy that you saw Mr. Football Hero? Can we go now? Or do you want some more private time?"
"Lorenzo, what I do is my own business," I say evenly, trying to keep my voice level. "We've discussed that, and you agreed to it as well. I know your feelings, but I won’t be ordered what to do!"
"So you can go running back to him? He's an imbecile, a brute who gets paid to beat up people in front of a crowd! You might as well call him a gladiatore!"
I nod, and open the door of the car. “Maybe, but he was polite and kind to all three of us tonight," I say. "That's better than I can say for you. Now, are you driving, or are you going to stand there?"
Lorenzo thumps down into the driver's seat and jams the keys into the ignition. He sits there for a moment, then shakes his head. "No. I'm sorry, Whitney, but I can’t do this anymore."