The Ex by Freida McFadden(13)

“It smells so wonderful, patatina,” Nonna says, smiling at the aroma of tomatoes, sausage, basil, garlic, and oregano. Ever since I was a little girl, she has called me by the nickname patatina, which means “little potato.” No, it is not a flattering nickname. But in Italian, it doesn’t sound so bad. And these days, Nonna usually favors Italian all the time. She always spoke in English when I was young, but as she gets older, she has switched back to her native tongue. I am fluent, but I’ve been told I have an embarrassing American accent.

“Thanks,” I mumble. It does smell wonderful. Why didn’t Joel want to stay with me when I could create a sauce that smells so good? Doesn’t he miss it? If he doesn’t miss me, doesn’t he at least miss my food?

“Joel… he is a fool,” she declares, as if reading my mind. She always pronounces his name Jo-elle. He used to hate it. It sounds like she thinks I’m a woman. I smile at the memory. “You are the perfect woman. How could he get anyone better?”

I let out a sigh. “Yeah, well…”

She brightens. “I have a perfect man for you!”

Oh God. Nonna has an endless stream of horrible men she’d like to set me up with. Each one is worse than the last. “No, thanks.”

“He is the son of Estelle, from book club.” She picks up the lump of mozzarella cheese and gives it a sniff. “His name is Robert. She says he is free any night of the week because he does not work.”

Fantastic. “I think I’ll pass.”

She puts down the mozzarella, apparently finding it satisfactory. “Did you find a new apartment today?”

“Not yet.” I pick apart a lump of sausage with my spoon. “The options aren’t great. There’s nothing good in Manhattan, and the stuff outside of Manhattan is a little better, but I’ll have a horrible commute.”

Nonna watches me for a moment. “You could live here.”

I nearly drop the spoon into the pot. “Here?”

“Yes, why not?” She gestures around the apartment, which she owns outright. “There is space here. And it is not so far from your work.”

Nonna’s apartment is in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. It’s a straight shot into the city on the D train. It’s more travel time than my current place, but it’s a dream come true after the locations I saw in Queens. “But where will I sleep?”

“I have an extra bedroom!”

Nonna gestures at the small room where she keeps her sewing materials. I dubbed it “Nonna’s Sewing Room.” It is, in fact, large enough for a bed (barely), but I wouldn’t want to take away her sewing room. Nonna makes all her own dresses by hand. Granted, they sort of look like an old woman made them by hand, but she loves doing it. I don’t want to take her room.

“You need that room,” I protest.

She waves her hand. “My arthritis is too bad to sew much anymore. What I need is you, patatina! If I fall and break my hip, who will rescue me?”

“Nonna, you walk farther than I do every day.”

“Well, maybe I need to be there when you fall and break your hip.”

I give the sauce another stir. “Okay, but I’m going to pay you.”

“Absolutely not! My home is your home!” She shakes her head. “You take out the garbage, buy some groceries, wash a few dishes… that would make me happy.”

I’m tempted. Living here would be so much better than any of the micro-studios. Nonna is getting on in years, and she could use some help. I worry about her here all alone. This way I could keep an eye on her and have a kitchen that includes more than a microwave and a hot pot.

Granted, it doesn’t feel like a step up in the world to be living with my grandmother. But I’m low on options. I’ve already got credit card debt and I don’t see my income jumping in the next few months. Maybe someday, but not now.

“Think about it, patatina,” Nonna says.

“I will,” I promise.

Nonna leaves the kitchen slowly. She’s limping. Just slightly, but I notice it. Maybe she really does need someone here with her.

Once she’s gone, I reach for my phone in my purse to see if I have any email. Nonna doesn’t own a computer, so I need to rely on my phone for that when I’m here. If I moved in though, I could get Wi-Fi set up. I could afford to pay for it if I don’t have to pay any rent.

I don’t have any email of interest, but while I’m holding my phone, my thumb lingers over the WhereAmI app. I should delete it. Now is the time.

Delete it. Stop obsessing over Joel.

Except instead of deleting it, I somehow click on it. Somehow.

A map of the city fills the screen. The GPS narrows in on Joel’s location. It’s a Friday night and he’s not home. He’s not in the hospital either, although he’s not far from there. He appears to be… at a restaurant.

He could be there with friends. Just because he’s out on a Friday night, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s out on a date. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions.

And even if he is out on a date, so what? He’s entitled after we’ve been broken up for nearly six months. It’s just a date—it’s not like he’s marrying the girl.

I wonder if she’s prettier than me. If she’s younger than me. If she’s a doctor in the ER like he is.