Page 100 of For Pleasure Or Worse

“One…two…” I counted on my fingers.

A deep shriek rang out, followed by a tormented, equally as boisterous “What the fuck!” Ophelia buried her face in the crook of her elbow. Mateo hid his own in his hands.

“Well don’t scream at it,” I shouted back. “It’s not going to jump off the mirror and fuck you.”

chapter thirty-eight

Mateo

Partof me wished that if I ignored the problem long enough it would just go away. If I ignored my parents in my home, hanging their towels on the clothesline that was definitely not there before I left for Vegas, it would just go away. If I ignored the freezer full of frozen loaves of bread, or the mini goat milk soaps on the sink in the hallway bathroom, or the new doormat with the tropical flowers on it that I had to step over with my suitcase when we returned, it would all disappear.

Poof. Gone. A figment of my nightmarish imagination.

I managed it for a week, because I couldn’t muster up the energy to have the conversation that needed to be had as soon as we got home from Nevada. I had to recover, return to some sense of normalcy at work, which was kicking my ass, and evaluate the situation. To be honest I was waiting for one of my parents to tell me about their newfound homeownership first. But after seven days of radio silence, I realized it wasn’t going to happen, and the longer I walked around pretending I didn’t know the for-sale sign on the house in the development one road over had come off the lawn, the more resentful I became.

Angelo was back in New York tying up loose ends with Duran & Son and every time the phone rang with him on the other line,I felt like there was some big secret I was purposely not being let in on. He’d told me everything, and I was being updated daily on the changes happening in the Bronx, but my parents didn’t know that. So they were purposely keeping me in the dark.

Well, fuck you, Mom and Dad. I had a flashlight.

There were chicken cutlets sizzling on the stove top and a pot of sauce simmering with a delicious mix of garlic and tomato that made every porous surface in the house take on the smell of three-in-the-afternoon Sunday dinner. Dad was in the living room watching the Yankee game on the recliner, and Natalia was curled into the corner of the couch with her phone in her hand.

I hadn’t rehearsed exactly what I would say to my parents about what Angelo had told me. Them buying a house in Florida was a bigger decision than simply moving. I didn’t need to do much with the physical aspect of it, sure, but the implication was that I’d be going from seeing my parents in short visits and controlled bursts of time, to them having uninhibited access to me. If the last five months were any indication, I craved my personal space and Natalia and I needed it to function properly. It was about more than privacy. It was about sanity. If it was going to happen, which seemed inevitable given the facts, I had to grow a pair and put my foot down firmly.

Mom came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands off on a small towel and tucking it into the string of her apron. Her short curly hair was frizzy from standing over the frying pan.

“I bet Angelo can’t wait to get you back home cooking for him again.” I cleared my dry throat. “Few more weeks.”

They didn’t even look up. My mother hummed, and Dad sighed in frustration as a player struck out swinging. Tally glanced up from her phone and gave me a pressing flare of her eyes to try again.

“He was saying that work has really slowed down,” I continued, finding a spot on the couch. I put my elbows onmy knees and weaved my fingers together. “Not much going on contractually.”

That earned a sideways glance from my dad. He shifted in the chair, and a spring somewhere beneath it panged. “It’s the slow season.”

“Really?” I volleyed. “June? I remember this being the time of the year it usually picked up for you. Good weather and all.”

The next batter on the screen swung and popped a long fly ball into center field. Dad smacked his palm on his thigh, ignoring me.

“Did you notice there was a house for sale on Leatherby?” Tally tucked her feet under her thighs, sitting up straighter. My parents finally turned their heads at the mention. “Pretty sure someone bought it already.”

“Yeah,” I rushed out. “It’s hard to find a good price like that around here. Total seller’s market.” Mom inched into the room behind my father and kneaded her thumbs into his shoulders. “It got me thinking, actually.”

“Thinking about what?” Mom asked.

I shrugged, absolutely spitballing. “Thinking about selling our house.”

“What?” Dad let go of his white-knuckled grip on the remote. “Why would you do something like that?”

The chord was struck. I would needle this confession out of them with the help of my wife if it killed me. “Move back to New York,” I lied. “Be closer to family, better schools, more help if there’s grandkids.”

My mother drew in a gasping, stuttering breath as though she’d been stabbed. Her fingers dug into my dad’s shoulders, scoring his polo with her nails. The mere mention of a baby spun this woman's world on an axis. It was a low blow.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “I thought you’d be excited. We could all be back together again, a big happy family. Of course,I’d never do something like close the business I built from the ground up and sell my house to move into your neighborhood without running it by you guys first. That would be crazy.”

Dad craned his head to look up at Mom. Guilt splashed across her face in pink splotches. And not because she was overheating from the oven. “Mateo…” Dad lifted a hand, offering an explanation.

“I definitely wouldn’t pretend to be in town to visit my dear, loving parents for six months because I missed them, and wanted to spend time with them before a very important event in their lives, while I was actually scoping the realty landscape and going to open houses in secret,” I said as dryly and sarcastically as humanly possible.

Mom tutted, her hands going to her hips. “We were going to tell you, but after the wedding. We didn’t want to make it all about us. I don’t think that’s a crime.” At least they weren’t trying to deny it anymore. That made things a hell of a lot easier. I could stop speaking in metaphors, and I’d definitely garnered all of their attention because my father actually clickedoffthe baseball game, which I hadn’t ever seen happen—unless the Yankees were getting their asses kicked and he couldn’t bear witness to it anymore.

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