saltwater

Angelica takes a cab to the Adami apartment, clutching the flowerpot. She spent a solid half hour touching petals and smelling perfume before she decided on purple calla lilies, but now she worries they’re too flamboyant.

When she steps out of the cab, straightening her skirt and fidgeting with the crucifix, Angelica notices that the place is deserted. There’s only one car in the parking lot, and there are no roaming guards. They will be truly alone.

Inhaling deeply, she rings the doorbell, texting for good measure. She holds her breath until Nadia opens the door, and for a long moment, the only sound is that of her exhale.

Nadia is dressed in men’s boxers and a white tank top, which is slightly transparent, though Angelica tries not to notice. Her feet are bare, and her black nail polish is chipping. With her newly buzzed hair, she looks as hard and vulnerable as exposed bone, and Angelica wants to reach out to touch the scruff on her head so badly that her hand jerks. 

Nadia’s mouth quirks. “Are those for me?” she asks, stepping back to let Angelica pass through the door. She sets the flowers on a nearby table between a package of gummy bears and a pile of unopened mail.  

“They reminded me of you,” she answers, then wishes she could take back the words. But Nadia doesn’t seem to judge her, and reaches out to run her finger along the spiral petal. 

”Pretty,” she says, almost sarcastic. “Never been given flowers before. They’ll probably die here.”

“No, no, I know how to keep them alive. I’ll teach you.”

“I guess you better stick around.”

Angelica swallows. “I guess I’d better.” 

She eyes the envelopes on the table, and Nadia, mistaking the source of her attention, tosses her the bag of candy. 

“So...have you been staying here?”

Nadia scoffs lightly. “No one’s come to claim the place yet. I’m taking whatever rest I can get until they do.”

“...and you?” 

She raises a brow and smiles, bittersweet. “No one’s come for me.” I’m here, Angelica thinks.

Then Nadia shrugs. “You hungry?”

Angelica follows her to the open kitchen, instinctively taking the same seat she’d taken at their war meetings. The quiet is a Spadino-shaped hole beside her, but Nadia doesn’t seem to notice, tossing her a block of Parmesan and motioning briskly toward the grater. 

“I never cooked much,” Angelica says to break the silence.

“It’s not so hard. I was taking care of the boys when I was just a kid, and they were useless in the kitchen. I could fish better than they could, too. Anyway, it’s all about the fresh ingredients, you know?”

“I tried to learn, but...the older generation likes things their own way.” 

Nadia huffs a laugh. “Spadino said your mother-in-law was formidable.”

“A bitch,” Angelica corrects with a vindictive grin. With Manfredi dead and Alberto on the run, the old woman will have lost all influence. Angelica wonders what would have happened if Adelaide had backed her younger son, then shuts the door on the thought. It’s pointless to dream. “At least I never have to see her again. And Manfredi’s rotting in the ground where he belongs.” 

”A toast to that!” Nadia laughs, as the water begins to boil. She doesn’t ask any more questions about the Sinti clans, although she must know that there’s nowhere for Angelica to return to. Instead, she gestures towards a bottle of champagne at the bar, and Angelica pops it. 

It is a morbid parody of their victory party, and yet it somehow comforts her: they may never be as young and reckless again, but they survived, and they’re together.

And they stay together. Nadia instructs her on how to make a perfect arrabiatta, rolling her eyes at Angelica’s clumsy knife work, then bursting into applause when Angelica tells the story of the stabbing. The bar is still full, so they mix barely-drinkable cocktails and invent silly names for them: “the Dancing Octopus” or “the Vulture’s Tuxedo.” 

They binge TV together, curled up beneath a midnight blue fleece blanket. Angelica likes soaps about the Tudors or Borgias; the actors strip out of their lavish costumes to have sex that’s never  awkward, crying out in ecstasy without foreplay. Nadia calls her a nerd, smiling fondly when she mocks the writers’ historical errors. Nadia prefers the “DIY” shows, and, although Angelica finds them tedious, she enjoys Nadia’s asides about her repair work at the amusement park. They both appreciate documentaries about the excavation of mummies and bog bodies. 

Nadia exercises like a soldier, weightlifting in the living room and running along the beach, somehow graceful even in the sand. Angelica starts begging for more cooking lessons, just so she has an excuse to feed her. Still, she shrinks, becoming more and more birdlike, her slender proportions a contrast to her strong energy. Angelica, on the other hand, is filling out, her new clothes tighter; it’s like grief has kickstarted another puberty.

Neither sleeps well. At first, Angelica insists on sleeping on the couch, but then come the nightmares. She dreams about a bloody monster between her legs, a ring that turns into an asp and bites, a man’s beefy hand over her eyes, and a laurel tree struck by lightning. She wakes up too frightened even to scream, and hears Nadia weeping. So she cannot resist curling up behind her, wishing she was even bigger so that she could be a more solid weight at her back. They sleep together in Aureliano’s bed, after that.

One night, Angelica models her new wardrobe. Nadia plays electronic music, low enough that they can hear the sound of the steady ocean waves in the background, while Angelica runway-walks across the living room. When she stumbles drunkenly against the window, Nadia laughs and claps her hands.

“Look at you! You look too hot to stay cooped up.”

Nadia rifles through the closet while Angelica lounges on the couch and kicks her feet, clad in black stiletto sandals, letting her slinky black dress ride up. Once Nadia is dressed in her tightest jeans and a fitted black top with metal studs, they share the bathroom mirror to put on makeup. Angelica leans over Nadia’s shoulder, and they smudge each other’s black eyeliner to disguise their dark circles.

They scroll through Internet reviews to find nightclubs far away from family territory. In the cab, a man on the radio sings that cities are churches, and Angelica grasps Nadia’s hand.

The club is unfamiliar, and the songs are new to her, but Angelica likes it right away. Every crowd is the same once you’re moving in it, she thinks.

When Nadia disappears into the unisex restroom, she sidles up to the bar, nodding with confidence at the handsome bartender and ordering a couple of vodkas. She keeps one eye at the back of the club, and stands quickly when she sees Nadia emerge and crook a finger.

“I’m a bloodhound for a dealer,” Nadia brags, placing a guiding hand on Angelica’s lower back. In the stall farthest from the door, they snort bumps off one another’s hands. When they return to the dance floor, they stay close. The bass makes the ground vibrate, and lights flash green and gold in the dark.

It’s too loud to speak, and, though Angelica knows it would be beyond foolish, she longs to say, It wasn’t only that you got to choose each other, that made me jealous. I wanted you to choose me.