by Kali Brixton
“The Irish don’t have the market cornered on all things orange. Speaking of the Irish…”—he wipes his hands on my dish towel—“I tried to call my little Irish clover yesterday for her birthday. Do you know why she hasn’t returned my call yet?”
I snatch a raw piece of carrot left on the cutting board and toss it in my mouth while looking for the chef’s knife. “She had a rough weekend.” Every time I think back to Saturday, it kills me when that look on her face passes through my mind.
The pot sizzles as he continues to stir in a little more olive oil. “What happened exactly? You never told me when we spoke on Sunday.”
With a sigh, I go into the whole spiel about the motel debacle, my chest aching each time when I imagine how she must still be feeling.
His brow creases deeply. “We are talking about the same Rian Greene, correct?”
I nod my head, still trying to figure out what the hell Rian was thinking by jeopardizing his family—and unknowingly breaking his daughter’s heart. “Unfortunately, yes.” Lia had updated me on my way home that Ev had made it to work today and yesterday, but she wasn’t talking much. “She’s absolutely heartbroken.”
His expression is grim. “That’s what happens when good men make selfish choices. The consequences cast a wide net of despair.” He gives me a knowing look, my father more than likely the face that popped into his mind. “I’ll go check on her tomorrow. I owe her some birthday flowers.” Stirring the pot—literally and figuratively—he follows up with, “What do you want me to include from you?”
“The same as the last six years. Lia said she loves them.” I did my research years ago when I first went to Italy and Papi Dean asked me what he should send her. Blue thistle for courage and loyalty, white lilies for innocence and purity, and clover for good fortune and love. A beautiful blend of her Scotch-Irish ancestry, with a little bit of Italy mixed in—a perfect mix of our ancestries, just like she and I were when we came together.
It was truly the best of all three worlds.
That is until my father fucked us both over and I put the final nail in the coffin before leaving.
“Then, we stick with a winning formula. Is Georgina’s flower shop still open?” Georgina’s a sweet lady who owns a flower shop in Midtown Papi Dean visited often when he wanted to send my grandmother tokens of his undying affection for her. I nod, which brings a smile to his face. “I’ll call her in a bit and deliver them myself to our Everleigh tomorrow.”
She won’t return my texts, which she should recognize from my old number I kept active while I was in Italy. There was so much history in those messages between us—or should I say Mystery Girl and myself—that I paid to keep the number active for years until I returned to the States. It was a way to keep her close, even though she was out of reach in so many ways. Keeping her close wasn’t as hard to do when I got my chest tattoo because she would forever be in my heart, no matter what the damn marriage arrangement said, and I needed a reminder of my true home. But those texts got me through some rough days over the past six-and-a-half years, even though she probably deleted the ones on her end the night I broke things off. “She’ll be happy to see you. I haven’t even told her you’re in yet.”
“Let’s keep this a secret between us and your sister, then.” He casts a sly wink my way as he grabs the focaccia out of the oven. “What time did you say Gia’s coming by again?”
At seven p.m. on the dot, a soft knock ushers in the star of the evening. I’ve been so nervous about tonight, but Papi Dean assured me once more before Gia arrived that things will all work out. We just really need this ace in the hole, and I’m hoping she’ll be as on board with this plan as I am.
I open the door to see Gia dressed to the nines in a sharp black pantsuit with layers of gold jewelry on her necklace and hands. Which is a little overboard for just a dinner here with Papi Dean and myself. Hell, I’ve got on denim and a gray pullover sweater and he’s wearing his favorite old man chinos with a blue button-down shirt. Maybe she came from somewhere else that she had to be so gussied up.
A bottle of good Italian vintage peeks out from a wine sack in her hands. Seeing the label, I’m certain it came from Antonio’s stash in the wine cellar as he serves this brand often. Papi Dean greets her with a kiss on each cheek and the warmth he’s so infamous for among those who know and love him. With dinner ready on the table, we sit down and enjoy our food as Papi Dean tells us stories of kitchen mishaps that occurred when my grandmother first taught him to cook. The tales broke some of the tension I felt about the real reason Gia’s here.
“Thank you for fixing this wonderful meal, Mr. Giordano.”
He waves his hand. “Please. Call me Dean or Papi Dean.”
“This soffritto reminds me so much of my mom’s cooking. She used to fix Pasta Bolognese often when Giacomo…” She catches herself, then clears her throat. “When we were children.” Gia’s mother passed away when she was a teenager. I could tell by the way she’d stare at the pictures of her around the Cervelli house that she missed her immensely.
“This is one of Luca’s favorite recipes from his grandmother’s collection.”
“I’d love to learn it if you don’t mind sharing the recipe with me. Cooking is one of my passions, and I want to make dishes that Luca loves to eat once we’re married.” She’s never once mentioned loving to cook. “Roman loves my Chicken Cacciatore, but I have to make it without green peppers. He’s allergic.”
Papi Dean gives me an amused look before returning his gaze back to her. “Who’s Roman?”
“He’s our maid Tianna’s son. He’s my little helper in the kitchen,” she explains, never looking up from her plate.
I stab a fork through a stubborn piece of pasta. “I never asked Saturday. What movie did you all watch?”
She takes a sip of her wine before answering. “The Jungle Book. It’s his favorite cartoon movie.”
“Read the book many times as a boy,” Papi Dean interjects, clapping his hands together once. “Which character does he like best?”
“He loves Baloo because he acts so silly.” The warmth in her expression when she talks about her little friend is very enduring. I’d say he’s been a beacon of light to her in the darkness of the Cervelli home.
Papi Dean pours us all a bit more wine in our glasses. “Which is your favorite?”
She scratches the inside of her wrist beneath her bracelet. “Bagheera.”
“The protector,” he adds, nodding his approval.
She bobs her head and gives us a half-smile. “Do you have a favorite?”
“I’m a Bagheera fan myself. Black panthers are very mystical creatures, you know. Fierce, loyal, protective. It complements your family’s surname.”
“You know what Cervelli means?” I ask as he raises his eyebrow at me. Asking what a person’s family name means or the motto on their coat of arms used to be a huge insult to people, especially in Italy. Anyone who questions why hasn’t read enough Poe in their lifetime.
A broad smile spreads across his face despite my faux pas. “One who is stubborn,” he muses with a chuckle. “It can also mean clever.”
Gia laughs, blushing, “I think I like the latter one better.”
“Eh, stubbornness can also be interpreted as immovable, strong…loyal. When applied in the correct way, of course,” he points out, waving his fork around to punctuate his thoughts.
A thoughtful look glazes over Gia’s deep brown eyes, before flicking them back to Papi Dean. Giving me a side glance when she refocuses on her plate, he wipes his mouth with a napkin before excusing himself from the table. “Well, I’m going to run down and grab some dessert from the bakery down the block I saw on the way here. Any special requests?”
Gia and I shake our heads as he takes his leave. “I’ll be back.”
The door to my apartment shuts quietly, leaving us by ourselves together. “I can see why you love him so much. He’s a very sweet person.”
“He’s the best
.” I grin, knowing it’s the truth. The man is amazing. Clearing my throat and setting down the fork I’m gripping a little too tight, I adjust myself in the seat to make myself appear more relaxed, even though I’m not. This could be reckless or be our redemption. With a deep breath, I start down a road I hope will be effortless. “Gia, I need to talk to you about something.”
Noticing my serious expression, she bows her head and noticeably swallows a little too hard. “I do too. The wedding planner said we need to finalize a few things this week for the ceremony.”
Okay. There’s going to probably be a few potholes in this conversation. “Gia, I know.”
She forks her pasta in a delicately controlled manner. “Know what?”
Rip the bandage off like Papi Dean said to. “I know your brother and your dad were on the outs before he passed away.”
Her wild eyes find me across the table. She swallows again before returning her gaze downward. “We don’t need to discuss this. It’s in the past.”
“No, it’s not.” I try to keep my voice level as I bring my elbows to sit on the edge of the table. Bad manners would have to excuse themselves right now. “You once told me I wasn’t like your brother and your dad. What did you mean by that?”
She lifts her left shoulder just a touch, causing the gold neck she’s wearing to sparkle in the recessed lighting. “I just meant you’re different.” She gives me a big smile that somehow doesn’t quite work its way up to her eyes. “You’re kind and you don’t have ulterior motives.”
Well, one out of two isn’t bad, I suppose. “I know we’re both in the same boat with this arrangement.” My hands rub together, adding some white noise to the growing tension in the room. “But what if I told you there was a way to set us both free?”
Her jaw ticks as she finishes chewing her bite of food. “I’m fine with marrying you.”
An odd, but telling answer. “You’re fine, not happy.”
“We don’t know each other very well right now, but that’ll change.” She bites her lower lip as if she’s dying to say something else.
Don’t let up. “No, it won’t. What if there’s a way to save you from your father? To keep you from suffering a fate like…”
Her fork clatters on her nearly empty plate. There’s anger in her eyes as she puts away all pretenses. “My brother’s death was a result of his betrayal—of him disobeying my father’s direct orders.” She scoffs, followed by a sad laugh. “You have no idea what my father’s capable of...”
And now we’re into the caverns. “I do, Gia. Which is why, beyond the marriage, I’m trying to help you. Why can’t you see that?”
Her narrow nostrils flare. “There’s so much that hangs in the balance with this marriage, Luca. I’m not turning my back on family.” She tsks. “And I can’t believe that you’re willing to do that so easily to yours.” Her words shout disapproval, but her tone borders on anger.
Okay. Let’s try a more direct approach. “I know he’s your father. But Gia, I see the way you act around him.” Her face flushes at my words, proving my point. “I know what it is to fear more than disapproval from a parent. Let me help you.”
She wipes her painted mouth with her napkin and throws it onto the table. “You can help by being at that altar in three weeks.”
“Gia, I—”
The chair she’s sitting in scoots back loudly, scraping against the wooden floor. “I’m committed to this marriage, Luca,” she huffs.
I shake my head in disbelief. How can she be so sold on following her father to her own demise when there’s a way out being offered to her? “What does he have on you, Gia?” I call after her. Her gait stutters before she collects herself, her sleek statuesque frame finding composure once more. “What is so important that you’re risking your own freedom—and mine—for this sham?”
Turning to face me, I’m met with her stony gaze. “This marriage is my freedom. It’s the only way now…” Angrily, she grabs her purse by the door and flings the large slab of mahogany wide open. “Tell your grandfather it was nice to meet him. I’ll return the favor by not telling my father you’re planning to stab us all in the back if you promise me you won’t mention this again.” She punctuates her leveled statement with a slam of the door.
I run my fingers through my hair, knowing that I’ve just royally screwed the pooch. What’ve I done?
Papi Dean returns a few minutes later with an unmarked white box in hand. The apartment is eerily quiet because I’m the only one here and I’m too busy internally cursing myself ‘til a fly won’t light on me to make a sound. He glances around as he puts the box on the countertop. “Where’s Gia?”
My laugh is sad, so damn sad. “I fucked up, Papi Dean.” I beat my fists on the island as I recount our discussion, knowing it’s game over. “She’s so sold on being loyal to that asshole, I didn’t even find out what he has on her to tell the DA.” Mrs. Redmond is going to be pissed. And everything I planned with Ev? Gone.
He very calmly pats my shoulder as he gets out two plates and opens the box before reaching in. “Then, my boy. You weren’t listening very well.” I look up at him, perplexed by his accusation. Preparing to take a big bite out of a maple bacon donut, he grins over the sweet-and-savory confection. “Because that girl just told you everything you need to know to save you both.”
31
Everleigh
Four days later, I’m still numb from what I saw.
That woman with her arms around my dad, her legs wrapped around his waist…
No. I don’t even want to finish that thought. I can’t without wanting to throw up again. Or wanting to fillet them both.
The most fucked-up part about it? My dad had the nerve—the fucking gall—to sit there and smile like everything was okay at my birthday dinner. The dinner my mom, his wife, spent half the day making. It was so fucking hard not to call him out on his deceit. The presence of a little redheaded toddler and a woman nearly old enough to be my grandmother helped tremendously, but my right hand was aching to throw anything and everything sharp in close proximity at my father.
I wanted to scream at him and beat on his chest.
Yet, I sat there with a plastered-on smile and pretended like everything was hunky-dory. You’d think with me wearing a mask multiple times a week, I’d be tired of having two faces. But make no mistake… My inaction wasn’t for my own protection—it was for my mother’s and our guests’.
Mom.
God, I don’t even know how the hell I’m going to tell her. How do you even go about explaining to someone that the person they love and trust more than anything has betrayed them on such a deep level—like Mariana Trench-deep? And how do you not crumble with them because the act of treason in question has changed your own family’s landscape? I may not live with my parents anymore, but given how close I am to them both, what hurts them hurts me.
And this will absolutely destroy my mom.
I wish my fucking brother could be here right now because it would be nice to have someone to level this burden up a bit and take some of this yoke from my shoulders. The past two days at work have been sheer misery because all I wanted to do during story time was educate those sweet babies on how everything they’ll ever believe about the goodness and the righteousness of true love is a fucking farce. It’d be kinder to tell them the truth than to fill them with rainbows and wishes that most people aren’t in fact asshole-flavored assholes with a little dusting of bastard for extra pop.
Then last night, I went to RISE and found out that Maxine had packed her stuff and ran off with Alex Leiderhoff. Here I honestly thought she was better than that, but no. Add her to the list of disappointments in my life. Deirdre gave me the stink eye today on her way out of the office today, assumedly after she came by to explain the situation to my principal. Like it’s my fucking fault that her husband’s a dick who found someone just as selfish as him. I heard from one of the other teachers that Deirdre caught them as they were trying to leave and go
t in a few licks on them both before they got away. The thing is though, as much as I loathe Deirdre, I would never wish this on her. Not in a million years.
And poor Marc. He’s going to have to transfer schools because his grandmother, who had to come to get him after school yesterday and explain what’s going on, lives too far away from the district to make the drive every day. That little five-year-old pile of hopes and dreams sat and cried all morning today because his dad didn’t even tell him he was leaving. Literally packed his shit and ran off with Max like a fucking couple of horny teenage cowards.
All I wanted to do was tell him everything would be okay, but I couldn’t because in many ways, it wouldn’t. His life has been upended by the selfishness of two adults who should know better—who should be better. Because their happiness came at the cost of his. So, when the kids went outside for playtime today with my para-educators, I got down on the little rug he was on, pulled him into my lap, and cried with him until both our tears ran dry.
With how I’m feeling right now, if Deirdre wants to form a posse and go beat the shit out of them both because they destroyed a marriage in addition to a young child’s life, I’m calling shotgun—and will probably bring one along for the after show.
Motherfuckers.
Getting this heated is never a good thing for anyone around me, so I’ve imposed self-isolation until I can work out this seething frustration and anger. I pace in my kitchen, needing something, anything to take my mind off of this. I told the girls I wouldn’t be at RISE tonight because until I get out this anger, I’m liable to seriously hurt the dumb fuck who gets too drunk or too arrogant with one of the girls. Or if Keisha acts a fool.
Then it won’t be just heads rolling. It’ll be balls and ovaries too if necessary.
I was born under the right sign because the Celtic wolf within me howls for vengeance. It craves blood. It desires to maim and obliterate those who seek to harm others for their own selfish gain.