Page 61 of The Rook’s Obsession

Lucia comes back twice. The first time, it’s to bring more bread. The second time, she refills the wine. That’s when she rests her hand on Ivy’s shoulder and lets it slide down her arm as she walks away.

Fuck it. I have to do it. “So. You and Lucia.”

Ivy looks at me over the rim of her glass. Her expression is perfectly neutral. “Me and Lucia.”

“How do you know each other?”

“We used to sleep together.”

That’s when I choke on my wine. Not a subtle, dignified clearing of my throat. I actually choke, the kind where the liquid goes down the wrong pipe, and my body stages a revolt. I cough into my fist while she watches me with patient amusement.

“Are you all right?” she asks. Oh, yeah, she’s enjoying this. Not cruelly. More like the way you enjoy catching someone off guard when you like them.

“Fine,” I manage before clearing my throat. “Just fine.”

“You asked.”

“I did ask.” I pick up the wine and take a sip, then set it down. I need to move on. This is not the hill I’m going to die on, no matter what my face is doing right now. “How long?”

“On and off for a couple of years. It ended well. We’re friends.” She says it the way she says most things: directly, no apology, no checking to see how it lands. Because she doesn’t owe me an explanation, and we both know it.

That doesn’t stop me from sitting here with an expression on my face I can’t seem to get rid of. When I catch my own reflection in the restaurant window, it’s pretty damn obvious I’m rattled.

She takes a bite of bruschetta and chews thoughtfully before asking, “Does it bother you?”

“No,” I say, too quickly.

“Liar.” But she says it gently, the way she’s been saying things to me lately. Like the word has a softer landing when it’s aimed at me than it would at anyone else.

“It doesn’t bother me. I’m just—” I have to search for the word. “Adjusting.”

“Adjusting.” She repeats it like she’s testing it in her mouth. “To the idea that I had a life while you thought I was dead?”

“To the scope of it.” I lean back in my chair, narrowing my eyes at her. “I spent twelve years with a ghost. You spent those years actually living. I’m catching up.”

Something shifts in her face. It’s not pity—she doesn’t do pity—but something closer to understanding. “It wasn’t all like this, you know. Just to be fair. In fact, most of it wasn’t like this. Lucia was one of a few good things. This restaurant, this neighborhood, they were the exception. The rest of it was work and training and doing what I was told.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” It’s not a challenge. It’s a genuine question.

“I’m learning.” And I mean it. Every day I learn something new about the years I missed, and every day I have to decide whether to grieve the version of her I lost or be grateful for the one I found. Most days, it’s both.

She holds my gaze another beat before taking a sip of her wine. A breeze moves through the piazza and ruffles the edge of the awning. For a few seconds, everything is quiet and good.

I should leave it alone. I know I should. But I’ve never been very good at leaving things alone where she’s concerned. “What about men?”

Slowly, her eyebrow arches. It’s a warning shot, and I see it, and I keep going anyway, because that’s apparently who I am. “How many have there been?”

“Are we really doing this?”

“I’m curious,” I tell her with a shrug.

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m curious and also possibly jealous, and I would like an answer.”

“How many women have you been with since you thought I was dead?” she counters, leaning forward with her arms folded on the table.