“No, but it’s not the same without you.”
I roll my eyes. “Shopping is shopping. Don’t you get fed up with my moaning?”
She shakes her head. “It adds to the enjoyment.”
Mia can shop for hours, and it drives me insane. I enjoy shopping, but when it goes on almost all day, it exhausts me.
A prickle of awareness skates down my spine as if someone is watching me. I’ve felt it for a while now, ever since I left the changing room. I scan the room, checking no one is watching me.
For a second I think I see some dart out of sight, but shake my head. Clearly, I’m hallucinating because I’m starving.
“When are we going to get food?” I whine.
Mia laughs. “You eat too much. We had a massive stack of pancakes for breakfast.”
I sigh. “What’s your point? I’m wasting away here. It’s one o’clock.”
She sighs, shaking her head. “Fine. What do you want?”
I smile, as it’s a stupid question when we’re so close to Petroni’s. “Pizza of course.”
“Petroni’s?” she asks.
I nod. “Where else?”
She sets a dress back on the rack. “Come on, then. I’ll go and pay and we’ll head there.” Mia pauses, giving me a pointed look. “But we’re coming back afterwards.”
“I know, I’m not stupid.”
She heads over to the checkout, where they have an account for her already linked to our father’s credit card. Instead of getting her shopping bagged, she just put it over the counter for them to right up and bag for when we get back. Within a minute we’re head out of Bloomingdale’s and down the street toward the little pizza place we love so much.
The owner, Vincenzo Petroni, comes over to greet us. “Camilla, Mia, what a pleasant surprise.” He gives us both cheek kisses, as he’s originally from Italy and a little eccentric. “How are you both?”
“We are good,” Mia says, glancing at me. “Camilla is home for Spring Break and we just had to come and get some of your famous pizza.”
He smiles. “Of course, usual table?”
“Yes, please,” she replies.
I follow the two of them to the table near the back by the window. It’s where we always sit, unless someone has already got it.
Once, Vincenzo offered to move people so we could have our usual table, but we refused.
“Here we are. Usual order?” he asks.
“You bet,” Mia says.
I nod. “Yes, please.”
“Coming right up.”
I sit back in my chair and shut my eyes, drawing in a deep breath and savoring the scent of fresh pizza cooking. “I have missed this place.”
“More than Bloomingdale’s?” Mia asks.
“Way more.”
She laughs. “We couldn’t be more different, could we?”