Cal
“Basket Case”—Green Day
It was a humbling experience, standing in the pissing rain on Dylan’s doorstep with a baking dish swathed in foil, shivering in my ladybug rainboots as Zeta Casablancas regarded me with the suspicion of a prison guard.
“Calla, cucciolotta, I am so sorry for your loss.” She sniffled through the tiny crack in the door.
Not sorry enough to let me in, I thought uncharitably.
“Is she waiting for you?” She peered beyond my shoulder, still blocking the entryway.
Mrs. Casablancas was a distrustful woman, though I had a nagging feeling she hadn’t always been this way. Zeta was as tall as treetops and as glamorous as the sun. She had given up her career in Milan to move here with Dylan’s late father, Doug, after meeting him on a night out in New York. Someone who up
