Page 5 of For Pleasure Or Worse

"Not sure how many grandkids we'll be getting that way," he offered with a bite.

What is fucking happening?

The tips of my ears reddened while three of the most important people in my life started laughing together. My body didn’t know what to do; I was still teetering on the edge of a panic attack and that rush of cortisol hadn’t evened out yet. Tally reached over, reading my stress, and massaged my thigh thoughtfully, then worked up my back to my neck and gave it a gentle squeeze, taking away the tension in increments.

"I'm so sorry we didn't hear you at the door," she said. "We don't get a lot of guests here this late, as you can probably tell." Tally glanced pointedly at the firearm beside me on the table and I pushed it farther away.

"Yeah, whatareyou doing here, exactly?" I found the courage to finally ask.

My mother, Anna, stood from her stool and resumed what I assumed she was doing in the dark like the Hamburglar, opening cabinets and pulling a glass down. "We wanted to surprise you."

My knuckles had turned white from all the fist clenching. "Well, surprise!"

"The front door was locked, so we came around the back and tried the slider. And whaddya know?”

“Iknowthat’s called breaking and entering.”

“That doesn’t apply to mothers. Or the Bronx.”

Natalia’s lips curled into a small smile. My parents were the polar opposite of what she was used to. I had been around the Russos a handful of times, brief dinners at their immaculate Palm Park mansion, enduring topical conversations about the weather and the stock market that I knew next to nothing about but faked it well enough. The plans we had with them were weeks in the making, more than likely jotted down on a calendar like an appointment and subject to rescheduling at a moment’s notice.

John Russo was an anesthesiologist, Sistine a nutritionist and self-proclaimed guru. The kind that went on podcasts and answered questions live on social media about the negative effects of random household staples on your spiritual health. They had four perfect daughters and sent all but one of them to expensive private colleges that set them up for success in lucrative career fields. That all but one was the best thing that had ever come out of that family. Bat shit crazy, the black sheep, and so beautiful most of the time I didn’t know what to do with her.

The last time we’d seen Natalia’s parents I was asking her father for permission to marry her and I couldn’t tell if he thought I was joking or was all too happy to have someone take on the burden. “All my luck to you,” John had said. “You’re going to need it.”

Then there were the Durans, a working-class, blue-collar family from the moment Enzo Duran stepped off the boat in 1914 on Ellis Island and started slinging building material. Myfather, his father, and his before him. I was the only one who joined the military when I turned eighteen and left the business to my younger, less-inspired brother and hadn’t heard the end of it since.

“We’re glad you’re here,” Tally said. “It’s about time I met the family. I mean, we’re getting married! This was so overdue.”

“When is your return flight?” I asked.

A sharp slap disguised as a caress came down on my shoulder. “Mateo needs to know how much time he has to show you all our little city has to offer.”

I actually needed to know how much time I had to hide how utterly insane my family was from my future wife so that she didn’t call off our wedding before it even happened. I could handle Mom and Dad in small, concentrated doses, with guidelines and set plans, a heads-up at the very least. When those things didn’t exist, shit like my mother and father catching me in my underwear about to get pegged started happening.

“We didn’t book one,” Dad said.

My mother found her way to the refrigerator and popped the door open, glancing inside. “Mateo, someone really might have robbed you. There’s nothing in this fridge.”

“What do you mean, you didn’t book one?” I addressed my father.

“We do a lot of takeout,” Tally answered Mom. “But we always try to cook on Sunday!”

The door to the refrigerator closed slowly. “We’ll just have to run to the store, then. Keep some staples in the house. Italian bread, tomatoes, cold cuts for sandwiches. You waste a lot of money not making him lunch for work.”

“I haven’t bought lunch in thirty years,” Dad boasted.

Natalia had never made a man a sandwich in her life and she wasn’t about to start.

“We’re getting away from my question,” I cut in. “Let’s focus on the important things here. Like what prompted this spontaneous, one-way ticket to Florida, and where you’re staying.”

We would run in circles all night long with the small talk and my parents wouldn’t think twice about it. But it was late, the kitchen was turning into a sauna, there was a catch coming I knew would knock the wind out of me, and the only place I could stand being jerked around was in the bedroom.

“We came to spend time with you and get to know Natalia before the wedding,” Mom finally said. “She’s a part of the family now; we ought to know our new daughter, don’t you agree? Your father retired, so we figured we could spend the next six months down here for the winter like the rest of the retirees and help with planning in whatever way we can.”

A distinct feeling hit me, like heartburn mixed with the stomach pain that accompanies getting halfway through your coffee and realizing if you don’t get to a bathroom in two minutes you’re going to be a grown adult who just shit their pants. The kind where you need a minute, where sweat starts to accumulate on your temples despite being in an air-conditioned house.

“When you called last week and told us Frankie moved out to Colorado, we decided to take the leap and buy the plane tickets. You finally had an extra room, and you’re always telling us the offer is on the table to come for a visit.” My father pointed this out as if updating them on my life during our weekly phone call was me summoning them to the beach.

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