We’re nowhere near where he lives, even though he doesn’t know that I know where he lives, and no, he is not coming back to my house in Little Italy for a Limoncello. And no, he is not even setting foot on the street because the rows of brownstones have eyes and ears.
There is a limit to how many blocks you can walk, especially in my shoes. And anyway, Michael is probably horny and feeling guilty and conflicted in his cop role, but more than that, scared shitless because I’m seventeen, not to mention the don’s daughter. So, as usual, is the deck stacked here? He wants to put me in a cab then head to a bar to get wasted I guess, not that he says any of that.
“It’s late. You have to go home, Gia,” he says. “You have school tomorrow, right?”
“Shut up, Michael,” I whisper, staring at his beautiful face.
We pass the dark entrance to a low, seedy apartment building and no one is around, so I go over and try the door. It’s stuck at first but then it opens, and he stands there watching me, not sure what I’m doing. I grab his arm and pull him in after me and then lean into him and press my lips against his and start kissing him. He tries to turn away at first, but not really. Then he can’t not respond because he’s so into me too. And for the first time, he kisses me back hard and then harder and rakes his hands through my hair and pulls me against him and everything around us dissolves and our tongues are deep in each other’s mouths. And I don’t even have words to say how that feels because suddenly every cell in my body is exploding with longing and I’m so overcome that I can barely stand. We’re in each other’s clothes and his skin is so hot, his shoulders and back so hard and strong and he smells like lemony soap. And he’s inside my bra and touching me lightly and I can’t bear it. We’re maybe twenty seconds from the point of tearing each other apart and getting down on the floor, until, that is, an old guy with white whiskers and a cane comes tap, tap, tapping his way down the stairs to go out and sees us in heat and waves the cane around wildly in the air and yells in a loud, crazy voice like a psycho.
“If you don’t get the fuck out of here right now, I’m going to call the cops!”
We catch our ragged breaths and start to laugh so hard I double over, a victim of pain and sexual wreckage. All Michael does is stop and close his eyes and mutter “shit” and wait and breathe heavy, and finally he looks at me and whispers, “let’s go.” He takes my hand and we push through the door and he slips an arm around my waist and we walk fast down the street like we’re in a hurry to go someplace. Only we’re not going anywhere. When we get a few blocks away he stops and holds me against him for a few seconds and then he shakes his head and kisses me again before he turns away and finds me a cab, and without a word everything that started is over.
And I’m not sure what happened. Or didn’t.
What I do know is that I’m back in a taxi going to Little Italy. The night is over. It’s past the time I promised my mom I’d get home.
But my head isn’t with me. It’s still with Michael, replaying the kiss and the feel of him against me. But more than that, everything I imagined to be true might even be, though no actual words confirmed that.
He didn’t ask me out. Or say he’d call. Or give me his number.
Still.