Paolo
Caitlin stays in the bathroom a full forty-five minutes. She might have stayed there all day, but I call her when the pizza arrives.
She comes out looking adorable in her workout clothes, her hair wet, her lips that bright pink candy gloss.
“How is it? Did you try it?” She scrunches her hair as she walks toward me. Her wide mouth is stretched in a smile. I’m pretty sure she does this on purpose—acts like we’re the oldest friends—to manage her fears. Or to manage me. Not sure which.
Either way, I don’t mind it. I enjoy it, in fact.
I think she’s cute on wheels.
She comes over and scoops a piece of pizza out of the box with her hands and takes a bite. I offer her a plate but she’s not stopping to rest. The girl eats that whole slice standing up in my kitchen, without coming up fo
