Page 8 of The Vow

“Why does it have to be about us, and not any random Romeo and Juliet?”

Putting on my best poker face, I told her, “It’s for my mother. Her wedding anniversary is coming up and since she’s waiting for grandchildren, I thought it would be nice to surprise her with a story about her son finding the one.”

“False hope?”

I wondered if it would be wrong to take her over my knee right there at the bar. “No. More like wishful thinking.”

“I see. You think I’m the one? You only met me yesterday.”

“No, Alex. But writers are supposed to write what they know, aren’t they? And I’m sure you know yourself pretty well.”

“I don’t know you at all, though.”

“Well, that’s where your imagination comes in,” I said, in my best authoritative voice. “Will you be able to terminate your current lease?”

“I’m sure my slumlord would love to get rid of me so that he can intimidate some other unsuspecting fool.”

“Good. Let me know if it becomes an issue.”

“You’re my bodyguard too?”

“I’m just protecting myself. And my investment.”

Nick returned with our drinks and gave me a slight nod like Cable does from ringside to signal to me that I’m doing everything right. I picked up my drink and practically shoved it in her direction. “Deal?”

Her fingers met her glass, but before picking it up, she asked, “When do I start?”

“In about two weeks,” I said, imagining The Anvil’s fist hitting my ribs. “I’ll need your phone number.”

“And how long does this.... contract... last?”

“How fast can you write?”

“Free room and board? Unfortunately,” she said, smirking, “I’m a pretty slow writer.”

I took that as my cue. Silencing that voice in my head that kept whispering Anjela’s name; the voice that was trying to tell me that my heart was going to shatter, I gently clinked my glass against hers and closed the deal. “Cheers.”

Four

“You are not going to believe this, love. Hold on, I brought a blanket for this stupid bench. Okay, listen. You’re going to be so Goddamn happy. I took that lunatic up on his offer. You know what that means, right? I don’t have to rely on cheating husbands looking for a piece of ass, or fat old men who could never score any. Don’t worry. The lunatic seems nice enough. Crazy, but nice. I start writing in about a couple of weeks. I gave him my number. He’ll call. He better call. If he doesn’t, I know where he hangs out. Plus, he told me he’s a boxer and there’s only one gym in town. I sound like a stalker, eh love? He looks too skinny to be a boxer if you ask me. Pretty eyes, though. Shit. Don’t be jealous. They’re not as pretty as yours are. Were. I’m going to go talk to my landlord now. Hopefully the bastard won’t give me a hard time. If he does, I’ll threaten to tell the Board that he hasn’t replaced my stove. He told me the microwave works. Can you believe that? How are you supposed to cook a steak in the microwave? I heart you. I’ll see you soon.”

Ma has worn the same apron for decades. The stains on it are more like splotches on a painter’s palette because that’s what ma is – a culinary artist. She once entered a cooking competition, vying for the grand prize of one hundred dollars in credit at Joe’s Grocery & Deli. For a whole week I had to eat pasta with a slight variation to every tomato sauce she made. She outcooked the other neighborhood ladies by making an Amatriciana sauce with chopped onion and guanciale (which is basically pork cheek) and used her winnings to buy premium canned tomatoes and more pasta. What thrilled her the most was being crowned top chef, and while I’m as proud as the next person, I fight with the proverbial pot of gold in mind so that I can use the money to better my life, or, in this case, Alex’s life.

“Can I read your diary?”

I’ve been sitting at the kitchen table jotting down my musings in my little black book. They are failed attempts at love poetry because Alex’s poem awakened something inside of me and ever since I read it, I’ve been wondering if she had a muse, and if it was dedicated to the man in her life.

“It’s not a diary, ma.”

“A love letter?”

My mother still harbored love in her eyes. The story of my parents’ engagement has been retold countless times over the years and as I grew older, it became apparent to me that one’s heart is like a time capsule. When pop first noticed ma on a sandy beach in Sicily, he said the rest of the world had disappeared. As she worshipped the sun, he likened her to a siren, alluring, yet capable of breaking his heart. Back in central Italy, after a whirlwind courtship, he proposed with Sicilian sand, having gone back to the beach where they first met to gather the grains. In the town square, bathed in moonlight, he scripted the words, Vuoi Sposarmi? Will You Marry Me? and waited until sunrise when he knew my mother would take her daily walk to the market. He had stayed awake all night and when he saw her lithe form emerge from an alleyway, he got down on both knees, not just one. My mother, apparently, was lost in her own thoughts and didn’t notice him, nor did she notice the question written in sand that would change their lives. Desperate, pop called her name, and in running after her, he stepped through the sand, marring the words. My mother could see the disappointment in his eyes, and when he explained what had happened, she didn’t bother saying “yes” to his proposal. She simply tackled him to the ground with a kiss.

“I used to date a boxer.”

Our kitchen table is the same one we’ve always owned, a lime green Formica with faint scars in it from when I used to press too hard with my pen while doing my homework. Ma never scolded me for it since our walnut dining room table is as new as the day pop bought it. It’s only ever used on four days of the year. Good Friday, Easter, Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day, and God help the person who so much as sneezes on that thing.

Cable would have my head if he could see the plate of food that my mother placed in front of me. There’s no such thing as a “light dinner” in the Italian lexicon and as I stared at the mound of chicken cacciatore on my plate, accompanied by a plate of ma’s signature roasted potatoes – a secret recipe she swears she will take to her grave – I asked her the obvious, “You did? Who? When?”