Page 196 of Tangled Like Us
I hang in the archway, not interrupting my rosy-cheeked grandma who’s in the middle of a story for Jane. One about how her mom immigrated to America alone at twelve-years-old.
“…she sewed jewelry into her panties so no one would steal ‘em, and she had to wear the same pair from Italy all the way to Ellis Island.” Italy sounds likeit-ly.
All the women smile and laugh. Jane has her chin on her knuckles, enrapt. As soon as she sees my hardened expression, her face begins to fall and her arm drops to the table.
My mom frowns at me. “What’s wrong?”
“We need to leave soon,” I announce, and I come around to Jane’s chair next to my mom.
I bend down behind Jane, curving my arm over her collarbones, and I whisper against her ear, “Farrow is going to pick you up and take you home.”
“What?” Her voice pitches.
Staying behind her, I cup my phone in front of Jane. Letting her read the text. Careful not to angle the screen. Only Jane can see.
I press my lips to the top of her head in a kiss. She reads quickly. I feel her breastbone collapse beneath my forearm.
“Confirm,” I whisper, pocketing my phone.
She tilts her head back to meet my eyes. I clasp her soft cheek, my large hand almost engulfing her. Jane blinks back pained emotion, inhaling a breath in preparation for what needs to be done. “Yes,” she whispers. “I understand.”
We’ve been pretending that she’s an ordinary girl coming to break bread with my family. But she’s an American princess who is internationally recognizable.
I’m her bodyguard.
That hasn’t changed. It can’t change.
Her safety comes first.
But for Jane, I’m positive she’s agreeing to this order just to protect my career.
I straighten to a stance, my hands on her shoulders, and Jane looks forward again.
My mom places a hand on Jane’s. “Everything alright with your family?”
“You can’t ask her that,” an aunt snaps. “The Cobalts arecelebrities, Gloria.”
“You think I’m dumb? I know whatta celebrity is.” My mom clutches Jane’s arm. “This is my son’s girlfriend.” My mom smiles up at me, almost teasingly.
Mustering cheerfulness, Jane manages to say, “My family is well. I’m just sad I have to go so soon.”
My mom nods. “Come back around. We’ll take you to Sunday mass before the next dinner.” We all go to an LGBT-friendly Catholic church and consider ourselves cafeteria Catholics: practicing, but we dissent from less progressive teachings.
I cut in, “We’re busy next Sunday, ma, and you haven’t gone to mass since Easter.”
Everyone laughs.
My mom makes a face at me, a smile creeping. “Busy with what—?” Her voice is cut off as loud commotion comes from the front door.
A target.
I’m about to move toward the noise. But I hear the boastful laugh of Tony Ramella—and there’s no chance in any fucking hell that I’m leaving Jane’s side.
I can’t be surprised that Tony is here. Three surnames dominate the house: Moretti, Piscitelli—sometimes changed to Fish, depending on whose ancestors had to Americanize their name to get jobs—and lastly,Ramella.
My grandma reaches out to Jane, clasping her hand. “Youse already met my cumare?”
Jane wracks her brain forcumare.I can’t remember if I mentioned that Italian word.It means a friend who’s a girl.
