Excerpt from the title story, Nick and Lorraine Were Lovers
Petrocelli's fist caught Nick square on the nose and nearly knocked him to the sidewalk. Blinking back tears as the initial sting gave way to a deep throb, he covered his nose with his right hand and held his left in the direction of Petrocelli, palm out, like a cop halting traffic. They were in front of a restaurant called Tully's on a Sunday morning in April. A couple on their way inside slowed their pace and turned their heads in Nick's direction, like drivers passing a car crash. Inside, a few people were staring out from under the capital "T" stenciled in green on the front window.
"Jesus, son," Petrocelli said. "Are you okay?" He was a little over six feet, the same height as Nick, but had the solid frame of a man who did physical labor and made Nick feel skinny, insubstantial. Petrocelli stared at him, looking surprised and a little stricken at the damage he had done.
"Of course he's not okay. He's bleeding. Did you have to hit him so hard?" Lorraine stepped towards Nick, who had turned sideways and bent slightly at the waist. "I think it will be better if you can stand straight and tilt your head back. Can you do that?"
Nick straightened as Lorraine stepped closer, her green eyes studying his nose. She put her hands on his shoulders.
"Let me see."
Nick moved his hand from his nose to see it was covered in blood that ran down to his wrist. "Shit."
"It's broken." Lorraine shot a quick glance at Petrocelli. "We need to take him to the hospital, babe. Can you get the car?"
Still staring at Nick, Petrocelli nodded, took one step backwards, then another, slowly unsticking himself from the scene.
"I'm fine," Nick said, wincing.
Lorraine shook her head. "No, you're not." She gripped his arms gently and looked at him. "Don't move, okay? Just stand right here." She hurried back inside.
Nick looked at the people staring out the window and nodded. They responded by moving away, as if suddenly realizing it was not a one-way window like on TV police procedurals.
When Lorraine reappeared, she held a wet white washcloth folded into a square. "Hold this against your nose and keep your head back." She looked at him, tilting her head to one side and then the other, trying to find the best angle of view. "Jesus, Nick," she finally said.
The cold cloth felt good but made his nose sting and eyes water when he pressed too hard. Head back, he stared at Lorraine through blurry eyes for the second time in 24 hours. He told her the same thing as before. "He doesn't love you." But his voice sounded nasally and thin and robbed the words of his intended effect. Lorraine was trying not to laugh.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I know it's not funny. But if you could see yourself."