Fading Snow, Long Island

The truth is, I didn’t become Enzo’s mistress just because of Marco. There was also a kind of atonement. For my mother’s sins. And for my own. My sin: one spring in high school, I made the mistake of falling for him. It was April. The plane trees in Manhattan were just budding. We all wore the same dark blue blazers and khakis. But Enzo Vitale in a crowd? Always the best‑looking. Dark curly hair. Blue eyes like the Mediterranean. When he smiled, the corners of his eyes tilted up like they were holding starlight. He was the heir to the Vitale crime family. I was just a dean’s daughter. I should have kept my distance. But every time I saw him, those green shoots I’d tried to suppress grew wilder. One PE class, free period. Enzo was playing basketball in the gym. I sat in the bleachers pretending to read a book, but I was watching him from the corner of my eye. My palms were sweaty. I felt like I was sitting on a cloud. Suddenly a cheer erupted from the court. Hi

I started seeing a therapist. In secret, at a small private practice on the Upper East Side. The doctor was famous—a rising star in psychology, they said. His fee was two hundred dollars for half an hour. I went once a week. The first month, my mother asked, “Did all thirty thousand come through?” I said, “Why?” She said, “It’s four hundred short.” I didn’t say I’d spent that four hundred on a therapist. My parents would only blame me for wasting money, ask why I didn’t use it to buy supplements for my brother. I stayed silent. For once, my mother didn’t push. She reached out and touched my red scarf. “This scarf is all shrunk, and you’re still wearing it? Take it off. Let me mend it for you.” It was deep winter. I wore a black down jacket and an old red scarf around my neck for warmth. Enzo laughed at me, said I treated that ugly scarf like treasure. I never told him my mother had knitted it. I always wore it. Trying to convince myself she cared a

His name was Leo Hawthorne. At first I was confused, then it hit me: “You were in the college poetry club?” “Yes.” He laughed, eyes sparkling. “I was a year behind you. I always remembered you wrote beautiful poems.” I hadn’t written poetry in a long time. Thinking about my college days made me feel shy and awkward. In that moment, memories came flooding back. The Manhattan sky. The college lawn. A blue denim jacket. And Enzo, riding his bike through the plane tree shade on campus. His blue eyes full of shattered stars. So much time had passed. Enzo’s eyes weren’t as clear anymore. Now they were dark, tired from years of fighting in the family business. But Leo’s clean eyes reminded me of the old Enzo. Leo was a kind person. When he found out I was job‑hunting, he made an introduction to a former editor at a magazine. The editor read my journals, poems, essays—and offered me a trial column. I was so excited I said yes immediately. To prove myself, I foun

I wrote like crazy. Day and night. A month later, I’d saved quite a bit. Between that and my old savings, I had about twenty thousand dollars. Not enough for Europe, but enough for Canada or Mexico. I’d figure out leaving later. I wanted to go somewhere where I’d never see snow again. I contacted an immigration agency about leaving the country. They gave me a detailed plan. It looked good, but who knew if it was legit. I was researching online when Leo called. His voice was hoarse and tired. “Senior, can you talk to Enzo for me?” Turns out Enzo was investing in Leo’s competitor. He was poaching Leo’s patients, undercutting prices, using shady tactics to disrupt Leo’s practice. All because of me. Leo was collateral damage. He’d been so good to me. I couldn’t let him suffer. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll set up a meeting with Enzo as soon as I can.” That night, another call from an unknown number. I answered directly: “I need to see you.” The breathing on

My mother hated the word “teacher.” Because she’d once taken pride in being a dean, in using her authority to crush students. She thought she’d done a great job, but in the end, parents joined forces and forced her to resign. Her scar was ripped open. She lost it and started screaming at me: “This is all your fault, you worthless child! If you’d studied something useful and made good money, would we be in this mess?” I’d heard that a thousand times. She’d been saying it for years. It didn’t really hurt anymore. But Enzo lost it. This was the first time he’d seen her go after me like that. “Is that how you talk to her?” His voice was low and furious. “Do you deserve to be called a mother? From the moment you saw her, did you ask once how she was doing? Whether she’s been hurt? No—all you care about is money. You’re obsessed with bleeding her dry!” “Do you know how tired she is? She’s so stressed she’s seeing a therapist! She’s holed up in that little room in Queens,