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deal with it, junk

作者: Gemma Rykes
last update 公開日: 2026-07-30 22:27:41

I didn’t have time to move.

I didn’t have time to ask, familiar how, Rafael? Familiar like cheap déjà vu because you just kissed a woman who clearly wanted to kick you into the fountain, or familiar like your brain had started digging up those six buried years with a teaspoon and a level of confidence no piece of cutlery had any right to possess?

The applause erupted, and everyone stood.

Chairs shifted across the grass with a sound far too polite for what had just happened. To the right of the
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  • Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi   this is why we don’t ask questions

    I pointed at him. “Do not teach philosophy classes in my house.”Al climbed off the sofa, picked up his whale shark, then looked at Rafael. “You eat dinner too?”“Not tonight.”“Why?”“Because your mother and I have to go.”Al looked at me suspiciously. “Princess dinner?”“Family dinner,” I said.“Boring?”“Very possible.”Gabby let out a long sigh. “Then why you pretty?”“Because Mommy doesn’t let boredom win.”Gabby seemed satisfied with that answer. She grabbed Al’s hand and dragged him toward the kitchen. Al nearly tripped over his whale shark, then immediately yelled that it wasn’t his fault, the floor had attacked him.Kendra appeared in the kitchen doorway wearing an apron, her hair tied back messily, a streak of sauce on one cheek, and the expression of a woman who had seen the future and discovered a lot of dirty dishes waiting there.“Dinner’s safe,” she told me. “Pasta, chicken, vegetables I hid in the sauce. If they ask, those are not vegetables. They’re green confetti.”“

  • Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi   no dragon, no castle, no peace

    At exactly seven, I finally looked like a human being who could leave the house without making the neighbors call social services.Not a masterpiece. Don’t be dramatic. I was only wearing a simple black dress that fell a little below my knees, with delicate sleeves and a neckline that was respectable but not respectable enough to make me feel like I’d given up on life. My makeup was light. A thin layer of foundation, a little blush, mascara, and nude rose lipstick I’d chosen because the color said I was emotionally stable, even though my entire personality tonight consisted of small lies and one pistachio gelato sitting on the middle shelf of my fridge.I twisted my hair into a low bun at the back of my head, neat enough for a Ricciardi family dinner, loose enough that if I needed to escape through a window, no hairpin would stab me in the brain.I stood in front of my bedroom mirror for three seconds. “Okay,” I muttered to my reflection. “You’re beautiful. You’re expensive. You are n

  • Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi   pistachio survived the crash

    “Your kids were outside for eleven minutes.”I narrowed my eyes. “You counted?”“Yes.”“Of course. Very normal.”“I was sitting here.” He gestured toward the chair and table area. “The glass door stayed in sight. They didn’t go near the water. My security is outside the fence, not inside the property. No one entered the house. No photos. No violations of your clauses.”I froze for half a second.He had already prepared a legal defense. This man was genuinely a disease in cufflinks.“And the gelato?” I asked.“Not a contract violation.”“That depends on the amount of sugar.”“Mami.” Gabby immediately pulled her cup closer to her chest.“Don’t Mami me with your hands full of strawberry crime.”“It’s raspberry.”“Pink is a general hazard.”Al held his tiny spoon out toward Rafael. “Mine is chocolate. It’s strong.”“Very strong,” Rafael answered with full gravitas, as if Al had just explained an acquisition strategy.“Whale shark got vanilla,” Al added.I looked at the tiny empty cup in f

  • Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi   amnesia, audacity, and gelato

    Apparently, I had a shift too.Not a work shift. Not a mom shift. Not a shift as a woman trying not to think about her amnesiac husband picking her up for an Italian family dinner with the potential for emotional torture and pasta.A sleep shift.It happened a little after three, when the twins were building a Lego city in the family room and I, with absolutely no sense of responsibility, lay down on my side on the rug because the couch was spiritually too far away.At first, I only meant to “supervise.”Five minutes later, Al parked his chubby body across my waist like I was his personal rest stop. One knee pressed into the side of my stomach, the whale shark tucked under my arm, while he worked on attaching a blue Lego piece and explained that the building was an “airport for sharks but no taxes.”Gabby sat a few feet away from us in front of the small table with a kids’ makeup set I had bought because one night I had been too weak, too online, and far too trusting of the words non-

  • Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi   one tío, two toys, several lies

    “Mami...”I immediately turned.Javier heard it too, and his face lit up. “Is that my princess?”“No.” I stood, taking the phone with me. “That’s the IRS.”“MAMIIII.” Louder.“G is on my leg.” Then Al’s voice, rough with sleep.And just like that, peace was over.I walked toward the family room.“Put me on. I want to see them.” Javier laughed through the speaker.“No. You’re buying a secret.”“The truck?”“Exactly.”Gabby was already sitting on the rug when I walked in, her hair stuck to one cheek, her crown still on the floor, and her face carrying profound offense because Al’s leg was, in fact, still lying across her thigh.Al wasn’t fully awake yet. He lay there with his eyes half closed, hugging the whale shark, showing absolutely no intention of moving his leg, and Kendra was still asleep.“Mami,” Gabby said hoarsely. “He is crushing my beautiful leg.”Al opened one eye. “Your leg is fine.”“GET OFF!”She kicked him.Al woke up completely. “MAMIII!”I closed my eyes.On the phone

  • Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi   when nobody screams, worry

    I stared at the invitation for a few seconds.Then closed the calendar.By two oh-six, I was already in the car on my way home.Apparently, my dramatic speech this morning about having meetings until six had been a little too optimistic about my own work ethic.The vendor review ended before lunch. Marie emailed the contract revisions and, after reading the first page, I decided the woman was paid enough not to require my physical presence. Dianna could handle the approval deck, Jemima had already taken command of the war against the Paris florist, and there was no logical reason for me to sit in the office for another four hours just to prove I owned a chair.I owned a company so I could go home when I felt lazy.It wasn’t laziness. It was owner privilege.I texted Dianna from the elevator.[Going home. If something burns, call the fire department before me.]Her reply came before the elevator doors opened.[What about your meetings until six?]I stared at the screen.Traitor.[Confi

  • Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi   Glass Mansion, Soft Monsters

    Five Years Later.“AL, STOP PULLING MY HAIR, I’M A PRINCESS!”“UGLY PRINCESS!”Something small, warm, and heavy slammed into my waist. Then something else landed on my stomach. I didn’t wake up because of an alarm, but because two tiny bodies decided I was their personal playground.“Oh God,” I ras

  • Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi   He Never Chose Me

    “Wow,” I said at last, closing the door behind me with a soft click. “I thought you were still busy having a reunion with your ex.”His gaze dropped for a second, traveling down my body. From the thin heels, to my bare legs, to where the dress cinched at my waist, to the neckline that was bold enou

  • Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi   Platinum Barbie

    Seven p.m., and Lake Como looked like an expensive postcard that had been photographed to death. Deep blue, almost black. Villa lights scattered messily across the water. A thin veil of fog hovering low, like a cheap Instagram filter no one bothered to turn off.From the study window facing the lak

  • Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi   The Wife

    The small pan hissed softly as the oil heated, the sharp scent of roughly crushed garlic already filling the kitchen before I realized I was humming. Fuck.A Shakira song.Wildly off-brand for this morning’s mood, which had gone to hell at five twelve a.m. sharp, when Arsen, the technological basta

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