When I am depressed, anxious, angry, or even happy, I cook. It is my favorite thing to do.

My grandmother, Angela Mascolo, known to me my whole life only as Nonna, taught me everything I know about cooking. She was born in Sicily, and her Italian mother taught her the buttermilk secret to perfect Italian meatballs when her head wasn’t even high enough to reach the counter. Nonna tried to instill her love of cooking in her daughter—my mother—but Mom wasn’t interested in such things. I was always closer to Nonna than I ever was to my parents, and when Joel left me, I spent ages in her kitchen, cooking up a storm.

The horrible day I’ve had—starting with looking at awful apartments and ending with a call to the police to report my wallet stolen

—warrants lasagna. I’m putting together a meat sauce from Italian sausage. Sausage makes a much better lasagna sauce than ground beef. And Nonna gets fresh mozzarella at this tiny Italian grocery store where they give her food dirt-cheap. I wouldn’t make lasagna with anything but fresh mozzarella.

Of course, I won’t be making lasagna at all if I take that micro- studio. Except for the kind in a plastic bowl you heat up in the microwave. Nonna’s kitchen may be small, but it’s got a decent oven and a full-sized refrigerator that doesn’t electrocute me when I touch it.

Nonna walks into the kitchen to observe my cooking. When I was very young, Nonna had dark hair like I do, only slightly peppered with gray, but she’s since turned completely gray, although her hair is still long and wound into a loose bun behind her head. She keeps a pair of glasses with lenses the size of my fist perched on her nose at all times—I wouldn’t recognize her without them. She’s nearly ninety now, but there’s nothing frail about my grandmother. She proudly walks two miles a day around the city when it isn’t too icy, and her powerful arms are as big as… well, not tree trunks, but certainly paper towel rolls.

“It smells so wonderful, patatina,” Nonna says, smiling at the aroma of tomatoes, sausage, basil, garlic, and oregano. Ever since I was a little girl, she has called me by the nickname patatina, which means “little potato.” No, it is not a flattering nickname. But in Italian, it doesn’t sound so bad. And these days, Nonna usually favors Italian all the time. She always spoke in English when I was young, but as she gets older,

she has switched back to her native tongue. I am fluent, but I’ve been told I have an embarrassing American accent.

“Thanks,” I mumble. It does smell wonderful. Why didn’t Joel want to stay with me when I could create a sauce that smells so good? Doesn’t he miss it? If he doesn’t miss me, doesn’t he at least miss my food?

“Joel… he is a fool,” she declares, as if reading my mind. She always pronounces his name Jo-elle. He used to hate it. It sounds like she thinks I’m a woman. I smile at the memory. “You are the perfect woman. How could he get anyone better?”

I let out a sigh. “Yeah, well…”

She brightens. “I have a perfect man for you!”

Oh God. Nonna has an endless stream of horrible men she’d like to set me up with. Each one is worse than the last. “No, thanks.”

“He is the son of Estelle, from book club.” She picks up the lump of mozzarella cheese and gives it a sniff. “His name is Robert. She says he is free any night of the week because he does not work.”

Fantastic. “I think I’ll pass.”

She puts down the mozzarella, apparently finding it satisfactory. “Did you find a new apartment today?”

“Not yet.” I pick apart a lump of sausage with my spoon. “The options aren’t great. There’s nothing good in Manhattan, and the stuff outside of Manhattan is a little better, but I’ll have a horrible commute.”

Nonna watches me for a moment. “You could live here.” I nearly drop the spoon into the pot. “Here?”

“Yes, why not?” She gestures around the apartment, which she owns outright. “There is space here. And it is not so far from your work.”

Nonna’s apartment is in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. It’s a straight shot into the city on the D train. It’s more travel time than my current place, but it’s a dream come true after the locations I saw in Queens. “But where will I sleep?”

“I have an extra bedroom!”

Nonna gestures at the small room where she keeps her sewing materials. I dubbed it “Nonna’s Sewing Room.” It is, in fact, large enough for a bed (barely), but I wouldn’t want to take away her sewing room. Nonna makes all her own dresses by hand. Granted, they sort of look like an old woman made them by hand, but she loves doing it. I don’t want to take her room.

“You need that room,” I protest.

She waves her hand. “My arthritis is too bad to sew much anymore. What I need is you, patatina! If I fall and break my hip, who will rescue

me?”

“Nonna, you walk farther than I do every day.”

“Well, maybe I need to be there when you fall and break your hip.” I give the sauce another stir. “Okay, but I’m going to pay you.”

“Absolutely not! My home is your home!” She shakes her head. “You take out the garbage, buy some groceries, wash a few dishes… that would make me happy.”

I’m tempted. Living here would be so much better than any of the micro-studios. Nonna is getting on in years, and she could use some help. I worry about her here all alone. This way I could keep an eye on her and have a kitchen that includes more than a microwave and a hot pot.

Granted, it doesn’t feel like a step up in the world to be living with my grandmother. But I’m low on options. I’ve already got credit card debt and I don’t see my income jumping in the next few months. Maybe someday, but not now.

“Think about it, patatina,” Nonna says. “I will,” I promise.

Nonna leaves the kitchen slowly. She’s limping. Just slightly, but I notice it. Maybe she really does need someone here with her.

Once she’s gone, I reach for my phone in my purse to see if I have any email. Nonna doesn’t own a computer, so I need to rely on my phone for that when I’m here. If I moved in though, I could get Wi-Fi set up. I could afford to pay for it if I don’t have to pay any rent.

I don’t have any email of interest, but while I’m holding my phone, my thumb lingers over the WhereAmI app. I should delete it. Now is the time.

Delete it. Stop obsessing over Joel.

Except instead of deleting it, I somehow click on it. Somehow.

A map of the city fills the screen. The GPS narrows in on Joel’s location. It’s a Friday night and he’s not home. He’s not in the hospital either, although he’s not far from there. He appears to be… at a restaurant.

He could be there with friends. Just because he’s out on a Friday night, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s out on a date. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions.

And even if he is out on a date, so what? He’s entitled after we’ve been broken up for nearly six months. It’s just a date—it’s not like he’s marrying the girl.

I wonder if she’s prettier than me. If she’s younger than me. If she’s a doctor in the ER like he is.

I look down again at the map. There’s one way to find out for sure, isn’t there?

I suck in a breath, contemplating my next move. It’s one thing to orchestrate a couple of chance meetings with Joel. If I were to take the train into the city to spy on him and his date, that would be taking things to a whole new level. It would cross a line. I don’t want to be the crazy ex-girlfriend. I don’t.

Yet…

I turn off the stove. I toss my phone back in my purse and grab a light sweater from the closet. “Nonna!” I call. “I’m going out!”

‌Chapter 6: The New Girl‌

This man Rob will not shut up.

“So what a thrill to finally meet the wonderful Francesca,” he says. “And now that I’ve met you, I see what all the fuss was about.”

“Rob,” Joel chokes out. “This isn’t…”

There’s an awkward silence while Rob puts it all together. That Cassie is not Francesca. She’s not the wonderful woman who Joel thought was perfect and beautiful and wanted to marry. She’s nothing more than a girl who owns a failing used bookstore.

“Wow,” Rob says. “I really put my foot in my mouth, didn’t I?” Joel just shakes his head. “Rob, this is Cassie.”

“Well, hello, Cassie.” Rob offers a crooked smile. “Sorry for the mix-up. Have you two been together long?”

“It’s our first date,” Joel says through his teeth.

“Oh wow,” Rob says again. “Shit, Joel, you must hate me.” He flashes Cassie an apologetic look. “I was just exaggerating all that stuff about Francesca, you know. Trying to make him look good in front of his girl.”

“Thanks for that,” Joel mutters.

Rob raps his fingers on the table. “Well, I’ll leave the two of you alone then. Hope I didn’t ruin the evening.”

That remains to be seen.

Cassie sits there, her fingers clutching the hem of her dress, waiting for an explanation, not certain she wants one. She had already suspected Joel had recently come out of a long-term relationship. But it’s one thing to suspect it, and it’s another thing to have it thrown in her face.

She doubts many great love stories have started with being mistaken for the guy’s ex-girlfriend.

“I’m sorry about that,” Joel says. “I’m so… so sorry.”

She shrugs like she gets mistaken for ex-girlfriends on dates all the time. “It’s not your fault.”

“Yeah…” He rakes a hand through his dark hair. “I just… I think you should know… he was exaggerating. A lot.”

She manages a tiny smile. “So this Francesca wasn’t the most perfect human being who ever was?”

“No.” He lowers his eyes. “She wasn’t.”

A million questions pop into Cassie’s head. When did the relationship end? It must have been recent if this man assumed they

were still together. Who ended it? She’s not sure why, but somehow she thinks it was Francesca who pulled the plug on their perfect relationship. Did you love her?

Well, of course he did. That much is obvious from his face.

“I don’t want to talk about Francesca,” Joel interrupts her thoughts. A muscle twitches in his jaw. “That’s the last thing I want to talk about. So… let’s change the subject. Okay?”

“Okay,” she agrees, even though it’s the only thing she wants to talk about. But he’s right. Ex-girlfriends are not an appropriate first-date conversation. Or any date conversation.

A song starts playing in the background. It’s a man’s voice, although Cassie can’t identify the singer or the name of the song. But Joel’s ears perk up and he smiles. “I used to love the song. Haven’t heard it in a long time.”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever heard it.”

His eyes widen. “Really? This is Sister Hazel. It was on the radio all the time back in…” He frowns at her. “Is it rude to ask how old you are?”

She laughs. “No, not rude. I’m twenty-six. How old are you?” He hesitates. “Older than you.”

“Oh, that is so unfair.” She shoots him a look. “I told you how old I am and now you won’t tell me how old you are?”

“Well…”

“Okay, in that case, I’m going to guess…” She squints at him across the table, studying his face for lines and gray hairs. She detects one possible gray hair around his temple. When he smiles, there are lines around his eyes, but they mostly disappear when his face relaxes. Mid- thirties, or thereabouts. But she feels in the mood to tease him. “Fifty… seven?”

His mouth falls open. “That’s a joke, right?” She blinks. “Older or younger?”

He grins at her. “You know, it makes you look even worse if you agreed to go out with a fifty-seven-year-old if you’re only twenty-six.”

“What can I say? I’m looking for a sugar daddy.”

“Says the girl who wouldn’t even let me pay for dinner.”

The spell that was broken by that idiot who mistook Cassie for the ex-girlfriend has returned full-force. They’re staring at each other again, and even though she loves sushi and hasn’t had it in ages, she can’t wait for the meal to be over so she can walk close to him on the street and maybe get that kiss she’s been thinking about.

“Thirty-six,” he says.

“Oh my God, you’re so old,” she teases him.

“Considering more than half my patients are geriatric, I usually don’t think I am.” He takes a sip from his water. “But right now… on a date with a twenty-six-year-old… yeah, feeling a little old. When I was in high school and taking the SATs, you were a kindergartener eating paste.”

“Uh, I never ate paste.”

“You think I can’t recognize a paste-eater when I see one?”

She laughs. She likes the smile that plays on his lips when he teases her. He’s very sexy. And so what if he had a serious girlfriend right before her? Everyone’s got a past.