The Promise
Page 122

“Frankie,” he whispered but didn’t go on.
I ignored the depth of meaning behind that whisper and stated, “So don’t tell me I can’t go out with Cheryl. She’s funny. She’s edgy, but she’s nice. I know Vi wouldn’t let her close to her or her girls if she didn’t have a heart of gold, but just sayin’, Cal wouldn’t either. So I’ve got two months left in the ’burg. The whole time I’ve been here it felt like I was in limbo, not at home, away from everyone I love, primarily you, and that really hasn’t felt great. So I’m gonna go out and have fun with one of the few people I know and you aren’t gonna stop me.”
“Okay, baby.”
I blinked again at my pillow. “Okay?”
“Yeah, go out and have fun.”
“As easy as that?” I asked dubiously.
“Pretty much,” he answered.
I didn’t trust it.
“Does this mean you’re gonna play some guy’s wingman while I’m away?”
“Francesca, when do I have time to be some guy’s wingman? I work, and when I’m not workin’, my ass is with you.”
Oh yeah.
Right.
“But, are you sayin’ you can and I can’t?” Ben went on.
“You’re hot,” I pointed out. “Girls like hot.”
“You aren’t butt-ugly,” he returned.
I had to admit, this was true.
He kept going.
“And do you think in a million years I’d do anything to jeopardize the promise of you?”
God.
Benny.
Suddenly, I was not pissed at all.
“No,” I whispered.
“I’m not Enzo,” Ben declared.
“I know you’re not.”
“And you aren’t Ninette.”
“I know.”
“So are you done pissin’ me off after you got me off?” he asked.
“I think so,” I answered. “But just to say, you started it.”
“Fuck,” he muttered.
“Ninette’s fiancé dumped her, by the way,” I told him to change the subject.
This got no response.
“She’s heading up to Chicago to find someone to mooch off of,” I shared.
“That will not be you and me,” Ben stated firmly.
I knew it, and because I did, I smiled.
I also kept at it.
“And Chrissy had the baby.”
Another non-response.
“They named her Domino.”
That got a response.
It was, “Jesus.”
“We’ll call her Minnie.”
“Puttin’ my foot down right now, babe, our kids are not gonna be named stupid-ass names.”
Our kids.
God.
Benny.
“I was thinkin’ Solitaire,” I lied.
“You’d be thinkin’ wrong.”
“Spade?”
“No.”
“Club?”
“No.”
“Monopoly?”
He chuckled through his “Fuck no.”
“How about John?”
“John I’ll consider.”
I grinned at my pillow, and through my grin, I said softly, “Love you, Benny.”
“Love you back, Frankie,” he replied softly. “Now go to sleep with the promise of me, and tomorrow I’ll make certain I do somethin’ to fulfill it.”
God.
I f**king loved Benny Bianchi.
“Okay, honey.”
“’Night, Frankie.”
“’Night, Benny.”
I waited and he waited, then I let him off the hook and disconnected first.
After that, I brought my phone to my lips like it was him and I could touch my mouth to his as a goodnight.
In a couple of months.
Then I’d be full-on happy.
I set the phone aside, snuggled up, and fell asleep.
Chapter Twenty-One
Firing Line
The phone rang in Benny’s back pocket. He flipped the flaps closed on the box he was sorting through in the basement, pulled his phone out, and saw it was his ma calling.
“Hey, Ma,” he answered.
“Benny, we’re out,” she told him something that he really didn’t need to know.
“She’s out and she dragged my ass with her!” He heard his father shout, which meant wherever they were, everyone heard it.
“Quiet, Vinnie, yeesh,” his ma shushed his pop.
“Ma,” Ben called to get her attention back in hopes of getting this conversation over a lot faster.
“We’re at a furniture shop and we’ve just seen the sweetest bed,” she announced.
“She thinks it’s sweet,” he heard his father yell. “I think it’s girlie.”
“Vinnie, quiet,” his mother snapped.
But Ben knew what this was about. He’d told them Frankie was moving in and he was doing a clear out to prepare for that event.
He’d also, now he saw was stupidly, told them Frankie wanted a guestroom.
“Ma, let Frankie pick the furniture,” he ordered.
“I am,” she returned smartly. “But she needs to see this bed so I need her email address ’cause I’m takin’ a picture of it with my phone. I don’t wanna text it to her. She’s gotta see it bigger, in all its glory.”
Ben gave a moment’s thought to the kind of redecorating Frankie would undoubtedly instigate in his house. These thoughts included the muted colors, candles, minimal knickknacks, and photos she decorated her apartment in. Since he liked all that, he quit thinking about it.
What he did not think was that any bed his mother picked would be something Frankie would want. It was a surprise, but when it came to her home, Francesca Concetti wasn’t about flash but was about taste and minimization. Theresa Bianchi decorated in bulk, with a heavy dose of Catholicism.
Still, he gave his mother her email. A bonus of having Frankie, she could deal with his ma when she got like this. He felt no guilt about that. He was going have to put up with her whacked family, she was going to have to put up with his family’s brand of whacked.
This was something, he’d noted repeatedly, that she not only had no problem doing, she actually liked doing it.
“Do you want your father to come over and help with the basement this weekend?” she asked, taking him out of his pleasant thoughts.
“Workin’ on it now, Ma. And goin’ to Brownsburg this weekend.”
“Oh, right, of course,” she muttered. “Do you want me to send your father over there now?”