Zaccaro

yellow dress.
Where are my panties and bra? This place is huge. The night lasted forever, unfortunately for us, forever had to end. I sift through my mind from all the crazy sex positions to a vision of me tossing those suckers. Then my gaze glances toward the living room section of his place, and as naked as I came into this world, I scurry over there for it.
I stop short of breaking a very odd, yet manly statue. An imaginary vice grips at my heart while Evan’s story about his mother sifts through my mind. Something tells me Evan understood that we’re more alike than I’d verbally let on.
He’d told me all about her. As a devout Catholic, he still prays for his mother. I said zilch about my father’s death, and I’d be too afraid of thunder and lightning to pray for Milo Benincassa’s soul. Or is it laughter? Would the clouds open up and Almighty chuckle at my expense?
Don’t look back, I tell myself. He’s everything that I steer clear of.
A Beyoncé song rings out loud and clear; it’s the ringtone for my mother. Now why hadn’t I turned the darn thing on silent last night after Jamie’s call almost bailed me out? This is proof that some people never learn—me included. I fumble getting one foot into the panties, press the away button. My mom needs to learn how to be patient anyways.
I glance back, the detective has stirred but still slumbers peacefully.
I quickly begin to pull the smoke-infused dress over my head. Why do bars always smell like stale cigarettes?
BEYONCE!
I answer. “Yes, Mom?”
“Why are you whispering, girl, and cut that bite from your tone, Reese’s Pieces. I'm married!”
“You're what!” I scream. Who the fuck did she hypnotize? My mother is hot as sin, but she’s missing a few marbles in that brain of hers. And when I mean a few, it’s all niceties on my part because we’re blood related. After my dad’s horrific murder, I visited my mother at the psychiatric ward in Torrance at the age of eleven and a handful or more times so I’ve observed all sorts of craziness. “Mom, you’ve never gotten married in Vegas. You’ve done it many times but not Vegas,” I reprimand her as usual.
“I know,” Lolita simpers. “Hey, don’t mention my marriages in that fashion. Look, I'm going to hang up with you since this idiot cell phone provider won't allow texted photos to transfer while we chat. Soon as you see these gorgeous pictures, call me back!”
Mouth tensed, I glance back. Evan hasn't moved a muscle. So I stalk toward the door without breaking any of his expensive items.
Just as I gently press the front door, my cell phone pings.
God, say it isn’t so. I lean against the door and look at the photos. Low and behold, there's mom. She’s popped up married before. However, in her defense, I’ve gotten a few foreign vacations out of some of her hasty nuptials. A wedding in a small French village, a weekend in Tokyo, a husband she swore was a Nigerian prince, one hubby in Brazil I swear had to be dabbling in some sort of illegal activity to afford to have our family attend, no matter how tiny the Dunham family is. But Vegas. Lolita Dunham is too snooty to marry men in Vegas.
Then I notice the ring on her finger. A full body shot of her and an old geezer, yet the damn diamond is almost as flawless as Lolita. Sheesh, I see why she’s holding onto the stiff, the damn ring has to weigh a ton and she needs the support. Lolita's got some new perky boobs and not one wrinkle on her dark skin, and I doubt Lolita will get wrinkles anytime soon. She's pushing sixty but hasn't had a job since my father died.
The man beside her is Italian. I cringe. Learned racism from her. My father was full-blooded Napolitano. He was no good per Lolita. So all Italians are no good. Hence, another reason why I sort of attempted to run away from Evan.
Evidently mom has switched up the motto because this Italian man is hubby number... six or seven. I've lost count.
She just got a divorce a few months ago. That's the reason why Flour is behind on everything. In between her marriages, I front the bill for her lavish lifestyle. I'm too chickenshit to tell a grown woman to grow up.
Glaring at the photo, I search for a flaw. I can’t tell if he’s new money or old money in the cream-colored linen suit. It’s snazzy vacation attire. And he’s a hefty size, broad shoulders, stocky build. I gnaw at my bottom lip, realizing I won’t know if hubby-number-so-and-so is a bad guy until I hear his accent.
I glance back at the door. The Suit inside strummed my body like his personal guitar. But my mind has been shaped and molded by a bipolar woman who had frequent bouts of verbal and auditory schizophrenia when I was a child. I can't do mainstream guys. I can't do cops. Nor Suits.
“Goodbye, Evan,” I murmur, palm planted against the door. Last night my body shattered into a million pieces with just his touch. There were tears in my eyes before sleep snatched me away from him. My eyes close for a second, and I bite my bottom lip.
Evan Zaccaro. I will never forget the name. Maybe I’ll send him an anonymous ‘thank you’ card one day. This was about the oddest one-night stand. But I reluctantly step away from the door. Surely he has no intentions of setting eyes on me again either.

4
Evan
Though I had intended to respect her mad dash for the door, I almost laughed as Reese cussed under her breath while crossing the living room a few seconds ago. Then my cell phone vibrated on the floor next to me. It lights up and a photo is on my screen. My pupils expand as my father is standing next