Page 53 of I'm Your Guy
“Afraid?” I sputter. “What the fuck?”
“I know,” she says with a sigh. “It’s just smack talk. But I thought you’d want to know what they said.”
I groan. “Those fuckers. I know just what to get them for Christmas—a dictionary. So they can look up the word reconciliation.”
Gia snorts.
“The only thing I’m afraid of is putting my fist through their faces again.”
“What is this meeting supposed to be about?” Gia asks.
“They want to do some kind of photo shoot for an article about families in sport. A puff piece.”
“And you said no?”
“My publicist thinks it would be good for my image. But I disagree. They just want to use me.”
“Hmm,” Gia says. “Would it help your career, though?”
“I doubt it.” But the truth is I don’t really know. “Did Mom hear about this?”
“She hasn’t said anything. But we use the same hairdresser.”
What a fucking mess this is. “Gia—be honest. Has Mom said anything to you about Marco or Vin lately? Am I making her life harder by not doing the whole kiss-and-make-up thing?”
My sister thinks before she speaks. “Mom doesn’t complain.”
“But is that because it doesn’t matter? Or because she doesn’t know what to say?”
“I honestly don’t know. She probably sees Vin and Aunt Mimi at church.”
“True. That’s gotta be awkward.”
“But Tommy? The truth is that your spat with those guys makes my life harder.”
“Wait. Why?”
She sighs again. “Aunt Mimi and Cousin Lisa used to see Mom for lunch sometimes. They used to go to the same book group. Little things. And if you hadn’t blown up with Vinny and Marco, they’d still be around. They’d be helping out, probably.”
“With Mom’s treatment?”
“Yeah,” my sister says quietly. “Trips to the chemo unit. That kind of thing. Mom’s circle is smaller than it used to be. People took sides.”
I close my eyes in despair. My mother never told me she’d lost friends because of me. But I can see how that might happen.
“Look,” Gia says. “I don’t want to put pressure on you. But you never told us what that fight was really about. We’re on your side. It’s just that we don’t even know what we’re protesting.”
I rub my forehead where a headache is already forming. “Is Mom, like, sad about it? Or worried?”
“Not that I can tell. I’m sure she wishes our family was more like a TV comedy than a bar brawl. But she doesn’t blame you. She trusts you. To me, all she said was that whatever Marco did, it must have been bad.”
“Shit.” I sigh. “Thanks for telling me. I’ll give it some more thought. I’m sorry this is your problem, too.”
“You could just tell me what happened,” she says.
“Yeah, I’m not doing that.”
Bang bang bang. Someone pounds on my door all of a sudden. And my heart leaps.
