Page 54 of The Right Garza
She’s watching me with a crinkle between her brows. Having an idea of what she might be thinking or gearing up to ask, I blurt, “There’s nothing going on. We went to see Tripp fight last night in Venice. Maggie came along but Tripp invited her to a party afterward, and since we live together and I would’ve been at the guesthouse by myself, Trent suggested I come here for the night. Also, I was very, very tired. I didn’t even want to go to the fight. I told him I was tired and he begged me to go and so…yeah...”
True’s stifled laughter travels from the kitchen, while Monica blinks at me, processing my word vomit.
“Okay,” she says, slow and even. “But you know, you’re not sixteen anymore. You can do whatever you want. It’s none of my—our—business.”
“Not true,” True butts in from the kitchen. “It’s our business, ‘cause we need to like who we’re welcoming to the family. And I like Lexi for Trent.” He pops the lid on one of the containers. “Oooh,baby. Oxtail and golden fried chicken with rice and peas and fried plantains? Ma-mi, I love youuu.”
“He says that every Sunday,” Tillie says around a mouthful of Sour Patch Kids, “no matter what’s in the dish.”
Before I can ask, Monica explains, “I cook and drive down to bring them dinner every Sunday.”
“Really?”
“If it were up to me, they’d starve,” Tillie says.
Monica shrugs. “It’s the one thing I look forward to. Otherwise, the only time I get to see them is Christmas and Thanksgiving because they never come to see me unless they want something.”
“Untrue,” True calls around a mouthful of food.
“Verytrue,” Tillie affirms.
“You said Trent went to see Tripp fight?” Monica rallies back to me. “I’m surprised. Not supporting Tripp’s violent hobby is one of the few things Trent and I agree on.”
“I think it was to make good with Tripp,” I say. “He said Tripp’s been giving him crap about it.”
“And I’m assuming the woman we just left at Tripp’s place is your friend?”
I hadn’t checked in with Maggie yet to know if she went home last night or not. “Maybe.”
“Tall, skinny, high cheek bones like a runway model?” True asks Monica.
“Yep,” Tillie answers.
“Yeah, that’s Magnolia,” True says. “Our old friend from high school. She used to come to the house sometimes.”
“When you were what ages?” she asks.
“Dunno.” He shrugs. “Sixteen maybe. She even dated Trent, Mom. You really don’t remember her?”
“Trent never introduces me to anyone he dates, so, no.”
“That’s ‘cause I don’t date.”
We all swing our heads to the left to find Trent striding in. There’d been no signal of his arrival. No sounds of the door opening and closing. No footfalls. He’s just…here. Moving toward us with quiet catlike grace. In his usual all-black garb—long-sleeved thermal, black jeans, boots, and ball cap—he had to have been working.
Our eyes connect, and the immediate flutters and unfurling in my stomach are the exact reason I should have known earlier that True wasn’t him. Because I’d felt nothing whatsoever, not even when he touched me. That should have been the biggest tell.
Before, I used to be able to tell them apart by certain identifying mannerisms. But now, there’s no way I’ll ever mistake one for the other again. My reaction to Trent gets more and more visceral each time.
He goes to Monica and dips to kiss her cheek. “Hey, Mom.”
True walks out of the kitchen with a Tupperware in hand, forking food into his mouth as he regards his brother. “You went into the office?”
“Yeah. Bentley had the shits so I covered his shift.”
True points his fork. “I told him not to eat from that new food truck. Everyone who eats there get the shits. We need to report them, get an inspector up in there.”
I make a disgusted face. “How can you even talk about someone having the shits while eating?”
