Free A Little Too Much by Lisa Desrochers Page B

plate. “So . . . how long are you staying in New York?” I ask, to steer the conversation away from me.
    He helps himself to a slice. “I don’t intend to stay long.”
    I take a bite of pizza and try to ignore the cold rush through my gut. I don’t want him to stay. When he leaves New York again, it will be a good thing. “So you just spend all your time stalking me?”
    His eyes flash to mine. “No. I stalk other people too.”
    “More ghosts?”
    He flinches and lowers his gaze to his plate. “I spend as much time as I can at the Y with the kids.”
    “You’re helping inner-city kids?”
    He nods.
    “Like you and Lorenzo.”
    His intense gaze locks on mine. “I hope that I can help keep them from becoming like me and Lorenzo, yes.”
    We eat in silence, but I can’t stop flashing him glances. There are things about him that haven’t changed at all, and there are other things that are so different. There are so many things I want to ask: Did he miss me after he left? Did he want to come back? He says he’s been haunted, but are the memories all bad?
    Please don’t leave me.
    I squeeze my eyes shut against the unbidden image.
    “Are you okay, Hilary?”
    Alessandro’s voice saying those words taps into that well of despair I’ve hidden away for so long. His just being here after all this time brings it closer to the surface.
    “I’m fine,” I snip.
    He tilts his head and looks at me for a long, uncomfortable second. “Of course.” It’s clear from his tone that he knows I’m lying, but he doesn’t press me on it. He pushes his plate away and nods at the last three slices of pizza. “Have you had enough?”
    “I’m stuffed.”
    He waves down he waiter for the check. Once he’s paid, he stands and slides my coat off the back of my chair, holding it open for me.
    I grab it out of his hands. “I’m not three. I can put on my own jacket,” I say, shoving my arms through the sleeves.
    He tips his head at me and shrugs on his black wool jacket, then escorts me out of the restaurant with a hand on the small of my back. I hate that the feel of his hand there makes me ache inside.
    It’s a crisp, clear late October day, right on the edge of winter but not cold enough for snow yet. Dry leaves cling to the trees in the park across the street and the light breeze prods them loose a few at a time. I bundle my jacket around me and watch them flutter to the ground as we walk in silence toward the subway. Alessandro doesn’t break stride when I don’t turn for the stairs, and he never asks what we’re doing as we walk home slowly past the park. It’s a fifteen-minute subway ride . . . or a half hour walk back to my apartment. Picking my way through the street artists, hot-dog vendors, and tourists clogging the sidewalks keeps me from having to look at Alessandro, but for some reason, I’m not quite ready to be rid of him yet.
    “I’ve been wanting to go to the Met again,” he finally says as we pass the Museum of Natural History. There’s scaffolding over the massive stone front of the building, but the ugliness of it doesn’t stop the tourists from snapping shots like paparazzi gone rabid.
    “The museum?” I glance up and see him looking toward the park. The Metropolitan Museum of Art is a straight shot across the park from here—a twenty-minute walk from my apartment—and I’ve never been there.
    He nods, turning his gaze back to the sidewalk unfolding in front of us. “Have you been?”
    “No.” I’ve lived in the city all my life and I’ve never been most places.
    His gaze flicks to me. “Are you free later this week? Or maybe next?”
    “Um . . . maybe. I’m usually off Thursdays.”
    “Would you be interested in going?”
    “To the Met?”
    He nods and a smile twitches his lips. “To the Met.”
    “Is it expensive?”
    He looks up from the sidewalk again. “My treat. And lunch too, if you can handle my company for that long.”
    I scrunch my face at him. “How long