Page 3 of Bingeworthy
“You mean tomorrow morning. The last train upstate has already left.”
She scoffs. “Don’t be silly. Your ride is on the way.”
“Mom. An Uber’s going to cost $300.”
“You’re right, which is why Rocco’s picking you up.”
I freeze on the stairs. My parents’ neighbor? That Rocco?
The whiplash is intense.
“M-Matthew Burlington’s dad?”
“How many Roccos do you know?”
“But how…why…” My stomach gets that upside-down roller coaster feeling.
That kind of request is outrageous, even for Lucille. That’s over four hours of driving in one evening.
“You seem flustered. It’s simple. Rocco mentioned that he’s renting out his condo in the city and will be spending the holidays upstate this year. He offered to pick you up on his way home. I was about to call him to cancel that arrangement when you phoned back to tell me you were coming home after all.”
Over the years, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that Mom and Dad are nudging me toward giving Rocco’s son, Matthew, a second chance. Which makes zero sense to me, all things considered.
“It’s all very convenient,” I say.
She scoffs. “I thought it was nice of him to offer.”
“Since when does the man speak?” I ask, bemused. “He’s the Boo Radley of Queen of Hearts Lane.”
My mother chides me. “Not anymore. What’s past is past.”
“Is Matthew…”
“No, no,” she explains, anticipating my anxiety over that long-ago prom date. “Matthew’s in Florida with his grandparents.”
The relief I feel is intense.
And yet, I have to spend two hours in the car with the dad whose son caused my first heartbreak. The first in a long series of heartbreaks.
Which is why I say what I say next. “Are you sure you want your youngest daughter riding in a car with him?”
Lucille is horrified. “The incident was five years ago. A lot has changed. And please. You’re 23 years old now. Call him Rocco.”
This from the woman who raised me to address anyone of an older generation as Mr. or Mrs.
“You suddenly seem to know a lot about the hermit next door,” I say.
“We all grew close over the summer.”
“First I’ve heard of it,” I say, now realizing that I’ve taken all 18 flights down to the lobby.
I step out of the dank stairwell and onto the impeccable marble floor, passing the Art Deco fountain. This is the last I’ll see of it.
“I don’t know, Mom. It’s awkward,” I say, stepping outside into the cold November air.
“But tonight’s the pajamas and popcorn extravaganza! You don’t want to miss that. Elizabeth, Sam, and Juno will be bummed if you’re not here.”
Mentioning my nieces and nephew is so, so crafty of her. She’s got me right where she wants me.
