Page 17 of I'm Your Guy
“Uh, I see your point.” Recliners are for guys who shout at the hockey game on TV but can’t do a single push-up. “Just, you know, comfortable. Not fancy.”
“Sure, but there’s different—”
“—types of comfortable,” I finish gruffly. “I get it. But I just don’t know what you call the stuff that I like. And reeling off a bunch of descriptions is probably not gonna be a lot of help.”
His expression softens. “Of course. I’ll grab some pictures. One sec.” He opens his laptop again.
My phone rings. It’s right on the counter in front of me, and my new house is so empty that the sound echoes. My blood pressure jumps. And then it jumps again when I see my sister’s name on the screen. Shit.
“Sorry, I have to take this.” I grab the phone.
“Go ahead,” he says cheerfully. “I’ll use the time wisely.”
I swipe to answer. “Gia? Everything okay?”
“Hi, Tommaso!” she shouts over a lot of ambient noise. “This is not an emergency call.”
My heart rate eases, but only a little. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“I know, baby bro.” I can barely hear her, because it sounds like she’s standing in the middle of a rave. But it’s just her children’s voices. Three rowdy boys make a lot of noise. “One sec. HEY! TRY TO GO FIVE MINUTES WITHOUT TOUCHING YOUR BROTHER. JUST FIVE!”
“Bad day?”
“Nah, they had too much sugar. Now I’m paying the price. Wait, let me step into the laundry room.” The background noise suddenly dampens. “That’s better. I just called to ask how you’re liking the new place?”
“It’s a work in progress. How’s everyone on your end?” I wander away from the counter and into my new guestroom for a little privacy.
“When you say everyone, you really mean Mom, right? I can hear your stress from here.”
“I mean both of you,” I argue. “You’re doing a lot, and I’m frustrated that I can’t help out more.”
“I know you are. But no one blames you for getting traded. And we all knew it would be good for you to get away from New Jersey for a while.”
Even after two years, this comment gives me heartburn. The implosion of my marriage was the most shameful moment in my life. Thinking about it still makes me want to howl.
“Even so,” my sister continues, “you’re still helping us from afar. Mom is pumped up about visiting you at Christmas. She really wants to see you. And I’m pretty excited to finally go on my cruise.”
“Yeah, awesome.” My sister’s husband bought the family a cruise, but they had to postpone when my mother got sick. “Have a strawberry daiquiri for me.”
“Oh, I plan to. Separate bedroom for the kiddies, too! Sexy times for me and Brian.”
“Gia! I don’t want to hear that.”
She cackles. “You are the biggest prude.”
I change the subject. “So how is Mom feeling?”
“She’s hanging in there. You realize that’s the best possible status now, right?”
“Yeah,” I sigh.
“Chemo is hard, Tommy. I’m not going to pick up the phone one day and announce that everything is magically wonderful and that she’s joined a kickline in Atlantic City.”
“I know,” I grumble. But part of me secretly believes that these last few months were all a horrible mistake, and that the doctor will tell us that Mom is actually fine. “Is there anything in particular I should have in the house for her? I found a guy who’ll help me furnish the place in a hurry.”
“I wondered how you were going to pull that off. But honestly, Mom would sleep on an air mattress to spend time with you.”
“That’s not happening. I’ll take better care of her than that.”
