Page 38 of Lucky
“Thanks, Ma.”
“Text me when you kiss her,” she says.“Not a selfie.I’m not a creep.Just confirmation.And maybe an ETA on grandkids.”
“Bye, Ma.”
“I’m just saying, Matteo, that girl’s got future daughter-in-law potential.”
I let that settle and I’m not as wigged out by that as I should be.
“Bye, Ma.”I don’t bother addressing the potential wife thing.
“You call me after the game,” she orders.“Unless you break something.Then call the trainer first and me second.”
“Deal.”
“I’ll be watching.Good luck and I love you.”
“Love you too.”
We hang up and I stare at my phone for a while.My thumb hovers over Winnie’s name in my messages.
But I don’t type anything.
Not now.
I’ll wait.
Let her mull over her experiment.Let her test the waters and see what’s out there.
Because I know what I bring to the table.And when she’s ready?
She’ll know too.
CHAPTER 13
Winnie
Sunday dinner atmy parents’ house is a sacred event but there are rules.
You show up on time.You bring Tupperware because Mom cooks like she’s feeding a minor league baseball team, but she doesn’t want to lose her good storage containers to her heathen kids.And if you bring your pet rabbit on a leash, you better believe he’s getting his own designated litter box in the laundry room.
Which is why I’m currently kneeling in my parents’ mudroom, setting up Buttermilk’s bathroom corner while he sniffs at everything like a TSA agent.
“Don’t chew on that,” I warn as he noses a pair of my dad’s Crocs.“Those are… well, actually, you can have those.They’re hideous.”
The rabbit cocks a furry but distrustful eyebrow at me, thumps twice in annoyance and proceeds to hop into the kitchen.I follow him and am hit by the holy trifecta of Sunday dinner smells—garlic, butter and something distinctly roast-y.
My mother, Carol Shaw—library reference assistant extraordinaire, cardigan queen and podcast junkie—glances down at Buttermilk who’s snuffling around her ankles.She’s wearing her “Kiss the Cook” apron I got her years ago for her birthday, sipping red wine and chopping parsley like she’s onTop Chef.
“Oh good, you brought my furry grandson,” she says with genuine delight as she glances down.“Your father’s been worried he wouldn’t remember him.”
“He sees him every week.”
“Well, rabbits have small brains,” she says, as if this is scientific fact.“Like my cousin Belinda.”
“Buttermilk is smarter than most men I’ve dated,” I mutter, rising and dusting off my jeans.“Where’s everyone else?”
Mom tosses her head toward the hall that leads to the living room.“Oh, and just so you know,” she says casually, “don’t bring up Caleb’s new gym obsession.He thinks no one knows he hired a personal trainer named Svetlana, but your niece overheard him practicing how to say ‘protein macros’ in the mirror.”
