Page 84 of That Reilly Boy
“What game is that?”
“The game where you’re behaving like the worst roommate ever in an effort to get Gin to move out faster.”
“Is it working?”
“You’re not funny.”
“Not always, but you should hear me after a few drinks. I’m hilarious. And I think it’s starting to work. I’m pretty sure people across town could hear her yelling about that plastic bag of old twist ties she was saving.“
It’s not working fast enough, though. It’s been three weeks since I showed up on their doorstep with my bag and my dog, unofficially moving in, and we’ve fallen into a routine. I leave for Boston on Sunday night, spend four days in the office, and then return Thursday night to work remotely and torment Gin Gamble. While she fought me at first, Cara finally agreed to scheduling appointments only for the days I’m in Boston and I pay her the difference as a retainer for Penny. It looks better for our marriage and, as a bonus, I get to spend a lot of time with Cara.
But it’s exhausting and the sooner Gin surrenders, the better.
“I understand what you’re trying to do, Hayden, but maybe you could take it down a notch. Or maybe you could give us all a break and claim you have a work crisis that can only be dealt with from Boston and requires you to work next weekend.”
“And take the pressure off just as she’s nearing her breaking point?”
“You’re assuming that reaching her breaking point means moving out, and not clocking you with a cast iron skillet.” She snorts. “Me joining her in tragic widowhood, the two of us pining away in this decaying house together, might hold some romantic appeal for her.”
“I wish you two would stop talking about killing me.”
“Maybe stop rearranging the kitchen drawers.” She sighs. “I did notice she’s engaging more when I show her potential properties, though.”
“See? It’s working.”
“I know. It’s just… It’s a lot. And I’m hungry, so put on your best fake happy face and let’s go eat. Dinner’s on the table.”
Penny follows us into the kitchen, and she starts to head for her bowls, which are near the back door. But Gin’s in her path, so she turns back and goes all the way around the table to get to them.
Of course Gin notices. “Your dog isn’t very friendly.”
“Penny doesn’t really like people, except for me.” I pause, just for a beat. “And my wife.”
“My daughter has a name,” Gin snaps.
I’m about to say yes, her name is Cara Reilly when the woman in question catches my eye and gives me a pleading look behind her mother’s back. My goal here is to nudge Gin out the door, not make Cara throw herself off the roof, so I let it go for now. I can play nice for her sake.
Then I sit down and get my first look at tonight’s meal, which puts a serious hurt on my good intentions.
I stare down at the plate, the lump of elbow macaroni, mayonnaise, tuna and peas killing my appetite.
Tuna casserole was a constant staple in the Reilly household after my dad died. Money had always been tight, and it got tighter. Overwhelmed by grief and stress, Colleen had understandably done the bare minimum for a while. And just looking at the casserole on my plate brings me back to those dark days.
Was that Gin’s intention? Had she somehow guessed the Reilly family had lived on food that was cheap, easy and could be stretched to cover multiple meals? It’s exactly the kind of thing Gin would do in an attempt to subtly remind me of my place in her world.
Anger boils up, threatening to make me forget I’d just decided to give them a break and play nice. I look at her, a comment about bringing a personal chef with me next week forming.
Gin’s back is rigid. Her jaw’s clenched. She’s clutching her fork and her eyes are on her plate as she pokes at the casserole.
I recognize that body language, maybe because my mother looked the same for a long time after my dad died. A woman who feels beaten and is clinging to her tattered pride with everything left in her. In my peripheral vision, I see Cara, looking much the same, and my heart breaks a little.
I scoop up a forkful of the tuna casserole and shove it in my mouth. The texture turns my stomach, but I know it’s only the taste and feel triggering memories of the hardest time of my life. I shove back the emotions, swallow and then wipe my mouth with the napkin.
“This is very good, Gin,” I say, and it’s not totally a lie. As the dish goes, hers isn’t horrible. “We used to eat it as a kid, but I haven’t had it in a long time. It brings back memories.”
Not good memories, but it’s worth the half-lie when she relaxes slightly and even gives me a weak smile. The true reward is the warmth in Cara’s eyes when she gives me a genuine one.
I eat the entire plateful of tuna casserole, an excruciating experience made worse by the awkward silence around the table. Every time I glance at Penny, who’s curled up in the corner, she gives me a questioning look. Can we go home now?
