"But it's the lie that allows her to keep her pride, Cal," I argued. "She doesn't want you to think she's struggling. No one likes to admit that. When my parents drove down to Florida to visit my uncle last year, my sisters and I hired a handyman to fix up a few things around their house. We said it was their Christmas gift. They appreciated it but they also hated it. They didn't want us replacing their kitchen sink. It didn't feel right to them and it doesn't matter if it's tied up in some weird layer of parent-child financial politics. People don't like feeling small."
He squeezed my leg. Lower this time, as if he knew we were nearing my parents' home and couldn't finger me in their neighborhood. "I don't disagree with you, Stella."
"Don't mention anything about cheese or concussions to my dad. If he asks, change the subject. Talk about the Patriots' depth chart. He has strong opinions on the matter."
"Should I expect that? A conversation about cheese?"
I shook my head slowly. "It could happen. Stranger things have."
It was his turn to hesitate. "Okay. Mary in the bathtub and the price of cheese. What else do I need to know?"
"Those are the biggies," I replied. "I mean, my older sister Sophia and her wife Kailey are hardcore into the dogs-as-children thing. My younger sister Serina has been known to throw hands over that but otherwise, no worries. Just don't weigh in on the dog-children topic if you want to get out unscathed."
"Right. The Madonna. Cheese. Dog-children. Got it." He nodded. "What's the long-story-short on your sisters?"
"Sophia is"—I blew out the exaggerated sigh that accompanied my older sister—"an executive life coach which basically means she helps CEOs and other high-ranking folks sort out their shit."
Cal glanced at me, his brows quirking up. "How does one get into that line of work?"
"Well, you start as a professional organizer," I said. "You go to people's houses and deal with their clutter. Then you move on from the clutter in their closets to the clutter in their heads."
"Fascinating," he murmured.
"Truly," I replied with a laugh. "She's been married about five years now. Her wife is a pastry chef and they have two dog-babies. Yorkies named Nemo and Dory. She has a low-key drinking problem in the sense lots of professional women have 'Isn't it cute that I'm drunk all the time?' drinking problems. She's functional, she never drinks before five o'clock on weeknights, and she never, ever gets incoherent or blackout drunk but she definitely needs that cocktail every night. She'll cut the bitch who gets between her and the Grey Goose. Serina and I keep going back and forth on what to do about it. We haven't solved that one yet."
I turned down the street leading to my parents' house, fighting back a quick swell of nerves.
Stella Stella Stella Stella. It's fiiiiiiiine.
"Serina runs a mom life blog. According to her, it started out as a fun thing she did to display photos of her kids. But I know she went to work on building it out and monetizing it. And she's succeeded. I don't know what she earns but I know it's decent. I think it covered their fully loaded, bells-and-whistles trip to Disney last year and it's paid for some really high-end photo equipment. To be honest, I think she started the blog as a way to cope with postpartum anxiety. She doesn't talk about it. She works hard at keeping a happy face regardless of how she's feeling, and I know she's on medication so that helps. Her husband Toby is great. He installs windows and roots for the Mets—"
"What?" Cal cried. "You allow that? You hated me because you thought I had Clemson laces."
"I did not hate you based on the Clemson laces. I just didn't have an interest in talking to you." I laughed. "Believe it or not, my father is the biggest Boston fan in my family."
"Wow," he replied. "Toby must have some balls of steel."
"I can't speak from personal experience but I'm told his balls meet expectations," I said. "They've been married forever. Serina's the youngest but does everything first. Married at nineteen. Pregnant at twenty." I shook my head, laughing. "They have three kids. Georgia, Preston, and Blaine." My parents' house came into view. "Don't worry. You'll do fine."
"Oh yeah?" he asked. "You don't sound too sure. You sound like you're feeding yourself some lies right now. How many have survived the Allesandro family inquisition without falling into the aforementioned death traps?"
I came to a stop in front of my childhood home and gulped down a surge of bile at that question. I had to press my fist to my lips to assure myself it wouldn't come back up. "You're the only one, Cal."
28
Cal
This was a big fucking deal. I'd known that going in but to hear Stella say I was the only one to make her family's acquaintance? Fuuuuuck.
Obviously, they'd met the guy from before. The fiancé turned ex-fiancé turned fiancé turned dickhead. They knew him but, as Stella liked to put it, that was half a lifetime ago.
Fuuuuuck. That was all I could think as we climbed the front steps of her parents' home.
"If you want to score some points," she said under her breath, "mention the flower boxes."
I followed her gaze to the planters overflowing with early summer blooms on either side of Mother Mary in her bathtub shrine. "Noted," I murmured, bringing my hand to her lower back.
The door opened before we reached it and a wave of noise billowed out from the house. Dogs barked, children yelled, and Stella's family crowded the entryway. They all talked at once, shouting over each other and leaning forward to make their point heard and tossing impatient glares at each other.
Stella leaned into me as we stepped inside. "This is normal," she said. "Just go with it."
"I'm good," I replied, turning my head to speak directly into her ear. Her family was still fussing around us—dogs, children, adults—all wishing her a happy birthday and asking after the traffic because there had to be traffic for us to be late. "Are you all right?"
"After two orgasms, I better be," she said. "Don't blush unless you want them to know what we're talking about."
"It's a physiological reaction," I said. "You can't turn those things off."
Stella hit me with a grin before saying, "Hi, everyone! Yes, there was traffic. I didn't expect it on a Saturday evening and it slowed us down getting out of the city."
"They're always working on something," her father muttered. "Or they shut down three lanes to change a light bulb. Insanity."
"Always," she agreed. "And thank you for the birthday wishes. Like I've said, I'm not getting older, I'm just getting more fabulous."
"But you'll always be older than me," a woman—probably the younger sister Serina—said.
"Thanks," Stella drawled. "So good of you to mention that." She gestured toward me. "And this is Cal." She scooped up a small girl, no older than four or five, and set her on her hip. "Cal, this is Georgia. She's my favorite niece."
"Only niece," a little boy bellowed.
"That's Preston," Stella said with a nod toward the boy. I waved. That seemed like a safe response. "And his older brother Blaine is over there, looking bored because he's eleven and we're really lame." She sent up a smiling eyeroll. "These are my sisters, Sophia and Serina. Serina is the youngest and she won't let you forget it."
I reached out to shake their hands. "It's great to meet you," I said. "I've heard the best things about you both."
"None of it is true," a man shouted from the back of the house. He headed toward us holding a small plate. His Mets t-shirt was hard to miss. "Hey, man," he called, a meatball halfway to his mouth. "I'm Toby."
I waved—he was too busy with the meatball to shake hands—while Serina said, "He's starved for dude friends so you'll have to forgive him if he gets a little clingy."
Sophia stepped forward, wagged a finger at Toby. He ignored her, taking Georgia from Stella's arms when she tried to wiggle free. "Kailey has served as a fine dude friend."
Glancing around the group, Stella asked, "Where is Kailey?"
"She's catering a big wedding tonight," Sophia replied. "If she
can swing it, she'll be here later."
Stella pointed at the older man and woman who seemed to vibrate with excitement. "Cal, these are my parents, George and Christina. Mom, Dad. This is Cal."
George stuck out his hand but pulled me into a hug-backslapping-handshake combo. "Good to meet you, Cal," he said. "Thank you for sharing Stella with us on her birthday."
As she'd promised, her father was wearing jeans that had survived decades. He paired them with a t-shirt heralding a Patriots Super Bowl win from a handful of years ago and a Red Sox World Series hat.
"Thank you for having me," I replied. "Your flower boxes are remarkable."
That earned me another slap on the back and thirty more seconds of handshaking.
"Cal," Stella's mother repeated. "Is that your Christian name or is it short for something?"
"Mom," Stella warned. "No one calls it that anymore. Not unless they work in a Catholic church."
"I'm only wondering because Cal seems like a nickname and I want to make sure I type the right thing into the fuckin' Facebook and the goddamn Google when—"
"Oh my god," Stella said, her fingers flying to her temples. Serina made noise about swearing in front of the kids but Christina only waved her off. "Mom, okay. First of all, don't say that. Don't do it either. Just have a normal conversation with us. Second, I, uh"—she glanced at me, her eyes wide as wine bottles.
I reached out, pressing my palm to the spot between her shoulder blades where her muscles were tight and bunched. "It's Pascal," I said.
Stella swiveled her head toward me. "How did I not know that?"
I dug my knuckle into her lower trapezious. "You never got around to taking a picture of my driver's license, I guess."
"This moment is," Sophia started, her arms spread wide, "simply delightful."
Christina reached for us, grabbing me and Stella by the hand and leading us toward the dining room. "Time for supper," she said. "We'll talk at the table." As she delivered us to our assigned seats around the oval table, she shouted to the rest of the family. "Come on, everyone. You too, Blaine. You can make that sour face at the table. Toby, you make a plate for the baby. Sophia, don't think I can't see you pouring another drink. Put the vodka bottle down. Switch to water for a bit. We don't need you face-planting in your spaghetti and meatballs."
I shot Stella an arched eyebrow. "Balls?" I mouthed. "That's your birthday dinner?"
"All about those balls, 'bout those balls," she mouthed back. "No sausage."
I dropped my forehead to her shoulder as silent laughs shook my entire body. "Don't worry, Stel. I'll give you plenty of it later."
"I should hope so," she said, feigning some indignation. "But I really do love balls."
And I love you.
I almost said it. Almost ripped that truth from my mind and thrust it into existence. But a pair of dogs chose that moment to attack the hem of my jeans and Georgia shrieked about requiring a different bowl and Sophia slammed a cabinet shut and I wasn't certain she'd believe me. If I knew Stella, I knew she'd look at this everyday chaos and laugh away my words.
Hell, if she said those words to me right now, I'd laugh too. I'd hear "I love you…for coming here. I love you for putting up with this crazy. I love you for letting me make songs about balls—and sausage. I love you for walking past that Mary on the Half Shell without batting an eye."
But wasn't that it? Wasn't that the heart of it?
So, I did. I said it. I lifted my head from her shoulder, stared into those dark chocolate eyes, and whispered, "I love you."
Her cheeks tightened, her dimples popped. And she laughed, just as I'd suspected. Hoped, even. "Good," she replied. "Hold on to that sentiment. You're going to need it."
She didn't speak them back to me and I hadn't expected that. But it wasn't bittersweet. No, that response was perfect. It was everything I needed from her.
"What can I getya to drink?" George called to us.
"Red wine," Stella whispered. "Red wine and no one gets hurt."
29
Stella
"What are you thinking about?" Cal asked, rumbly-grumbly as ever.
I glanced over at him as we drove back to the city. He had his arm on the lip of the passenger window, his head leaning on his palm. A smile played on his lips and his eyes sparkled with heat and I felt things. Big things. Really big things. Storage locker the size of Vermont things.
He'd told me he loved me. That didn't escape my notice. And he said it in that rumbly-grumbly way of his, a little bashful, a lot sweet. I just couldn't help myself with him.
But I said, "Nothing much. I have a busy week coming up. I'm due in New York for a few meetings on Tuesday and Wednesday." I looked at him again. I wasn't sure what I hoped to see there but he went on smiling and sparkling and making me feel things. "If everything goes as planned, McKendrick should be pitching next weekend."
"That will be a relief," Cal said. "For both of us."
I nodded. "Yeah." But then, thinking better of it, I asked, "What do you mean?"
He held up a hand, let it fall to his lap. "I mean, he's sucked up a ton of your time. You're always getting calls and texts. Running off to rescue him from himself. Chaperoning his ass all over town." He lifted his hand again. "I want him in the game just as much as you do. That's all."
I stared at the road ahead for a moment, lost in my feelings. There were so damn many of them. None I'd asked for, none I'd invited. But they were here now, crawling over me and gobbling up the air between us. If I had my way, I'd live a happy life without any of this hassle. And I wouldn't devote a single second to wondering whether Cal was wrong about this. Whether he was wrong about me. Whether I was the last stop on his way to finding the woman he was supposed to love. Whether I was the one before The One.
I'd be fine without all of this. Totally fine.
I avoided these feelings and attachments because I didn't want to be left behind anymore. But more than that, I didn't want to have this only to lose it. And that was the problem on my hands now. I had Cal and his bites and his grumbles and his quiet declarations at all the wrong times. I couldn't do without those things now. I had them and I wanted to keep them, claim them as mine—only mine.
Stellllllllllla. Easy there.
I had to hold on real tight, blink back the fear of being passed over, and trust I'd make it through. I would. I'd make it through.
Eventually, I said, "You knocked it out of the park tonight."
"I had a good coach," he replied. "You sent me in warmed up and ready to hit."
I shrugged off his praise because Cal would've nailed it regardless of whether I schooled him on matters of the Madonna of the Bath and dog-children and pricey cheese. My family loved him because I loved him.
I wanted to panic at that. Pull over on the highway, jump out of the car, and shake the love bugs off. I wanted my life back, my happily calendared existence where I didn't have to think or care or do anything but smile my way through. But yet, I didn't. I didn't want that at all.
"The game did go into extra innings," I said, stepping all the way into this metaphor. "I figured the little rookies would've hit the benches sooner."
"The infusion of triple chocolate cake kept them in the game," he said. That cake wasn't on my birthday menu—I favored Dominican cake—but when my mother had the chance to coax a fudgy smile out of Blaine, she went for it. She also liked sending her grandchildren home buzzed on sugar and chocolate because Serina barely allowed either. "It kept me going after your father opened that fourth bottle of wine."
I laughed at that. "My parents were freaking out over the wine. They hung up on me the other night so they could argue about it."
"It is your birthday," he said mildly. "They're allowed to freak out over spoiling you."
That earned him another laugh. "It wasn't me they were worried about. It was you," I replied. "That's why the flower boxes were overflowing and the bathroom ceiling was freshly painted and my parents basically flailed over you f
or three hours."
"It's still about you, Stel," he replied. "They want you happy."
"Is that what I am? Happy?"
He paused, tilted his head to stare at me from a different direction. "I hope so," he replied.
I stared at the highway ahead. Delivering Cal to his Beacon Hill apartment meant meandering through Chinatown or taking the Tunnel to Storrow Drive. But the exit leading to Brookline's Buttonwood Village neighborhood was up ahead, beckoning us home.
My tiny Cape Cod style house was my sanctuary. A little spot I'd made my own over the years, fixing it up as much as I could, hiring out for renovations when I had the money. It was mine and never anyone else's. No calendar boys. I preferred it that way. I liked that separation of church and state.
I frowned at the exit one more time.
And then I took it.
As we traveled down the ramp, Cal asked, "Detour?"
"Sort of," I said.
We drove the rest of the way in silence, me with my gaze fixed on the road and Cal shooting curious glances at me. I didn't meet any of those glances. I couldn't. I couldn't see the fascination and adoration and love in his eyes without losing my will to do this. To bring him home and give him the last hidden pieces of me. Not yet.
When I pulled into the driveway, I wanted that panic back. I wanted to grab onto it and remind myself of all the reasons I'd reached this point. I wasn't broken. I was not. But I was afraid of breaking. I was afraid Cal would love me and leave me, and I didn't think I could bear that.
But I couldn't reach that panic. I couldn't get it back.
"Do you want to go in?" I asked, finally shifting toward him.
Cal studied the darkened house. "Maybe," he replied. "It depends on whether this is the super-secret lair of Stella Allesandro or you'd like to commit some birthday breaking and entering."
Before Girl Page 22