First Came You (Fate #0.5) Page 3

  With bare feet, I search the carpeted floor for my slippers. My toes touch the plush terry cotton and almost robotically slide themselves inside. A creature of habit, I stand from the bed, reach for my robe and make my way to the bathroom to brush the sleep grime off my teeth and the bed head out of my hair. As I turn on the light, I hear the groan before I see the person it comes from.

  “Shut that, Gabby! Please. Too bright.”

  Gina is sprawled out on the floor in last night’s clothes. Not that I remember what she wore or where she went, but one can only assume that a girl doesn’t wake up first thing on a Sunday morning and throw on a sequined halter top and mini skirt.

  I rush to comply with her desperate demand, flicking off the vanity lights.

  She groans, and I scoot down next to her on the floor.

  “Rough night?” I ask, removing her matted hair from her make-up stained face.

  “The roughest,” she grunts.

  “Want to elaborate?”

  “I want to puke.”

  “How much did you drink?”

  “Too much.”

  “You gonna be okay for supper?”

  Her hand flies up in the air, trying sloppily to cover my mouth. She misses my lips and smacks my nose instead. “No talk of food. Ever. I don’t think I can eat ever, ever again.”

  So dramatic. Drunk Gina always is. I laugh at her expense, but I kinda feel bad for her—must come as part of the sister-connection thing.

  “How’d you get past the parental units like this? I swear I think you have super powers.” I couldn’t sneak in in that condition, even if I had the ability to make myself invisible.

  “I wish I had super powers right now, Gabby. Anti Hangover Man, please rescue me.”

  “Would you settle for Tylenol Man?” Giggling at her pained but hilariously pathetic expression, I get up and retrieve her relief in a bottle, handing her the pills and a glass of water.

  She’s taken care of me plenty of times. I don’t mind reversing the roles to show her I love her drunk ass. “Here, drink up. I’ll go get some comfy clothes from your bedroom and we’ll clean you up in case Mom comes looking for us. Church is in two hours, we didn’t go last week.”

  “Oh, church,” she cries. “I forgot about fucking church.”

  “Gina!” I reprimand. I’m no saint, but really? Those two words shouldn’t go together. “Come on. I’ll help you. I want to talk to you, anyway. That ought to sober you up.” I can use my strongest ally in my corner today.

  “God Himself, the Pope in all His holiness, and the Dalai fucking Lama couldn’t sober me up right now.”

  “Such blasphemy, you drunken whore.”

  “I only speak the truth. That happens after a bottle of tequila.”

  “An entire bottle?” I’ve seen Gina hobbling in and spending the morning after in Hangover City enough times to know getting drunk ain’t for me.

  “No, you literal human being you, not the whole thing,” she drawls out, wiping some spittle from her lips. “I left the worm.”

  “What worm? Ew, Gi, what are you talking about?” She’s lost me. Maybe I am as naïve as she always says I am.

  “Are you really this innocent or is it all a show? Are you telling me you’ve never gotten drunk before?”

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “It’s a rite of passage, young lady.” She winks, making me wonder where my wiser, responsible, older sister has gone. Maybe it’s the remainder of the alcohol sloshing around in her belly, but whatever it is, it’s time to wake her the hell up.

  “I don’t drink because I don’t think Tommy would like it.” I jut my chin, as if I’ve just said the smartest thing anyone’s ever spoken.

  “Huh? What does Tommy have to do with—” There’s the sister I know! Her pallid complexion loses even more color, realization setting in. “You and Tommy? Tommy Edwards and you? Are you shitting me, Gabriella? Our mother is going to light four hundred candles at church today.”

  “Oh, stop it,” I grumble, throwing a damp cloth her way. “You’re so over the top. And don’t act so stunned. You saw us kissing last week; I’m surprised you didn’t already go spill to them.”

  “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t think anything of it. I figured he was just finally giving in to those puppy dog eyes you follow him around with all the time.”

  “Well, you’re wrong. And if you paid more attention, you’d see that he has those same eyes for me, my dear. He’s even more pathetically in love than I am, so take that!”

  “In love? Gabriella.” She laughs, suddenly sober as the day she was born. “You’re still in high school. You can’t possibly be in love. You and Tommy can’t—”

  Okay, no matter how much I love my sister, her disbelief in my relationship with Tommy stings. “We can’t what, Gina? What do you know about love, anyway? Did you find it at the bottom of that tequila bottle last night or was the worm as slithery and slimy as all the losers you usually date? You’re just jealous.”

  Her eyes go wide and her posture slumps. “Jesus H, Gabby, way to knock a sista when she’s down and out.”

  The sallow look in her usually lively eyes makes me wish I hadn’t been so harsh. “I’m sorry. That was mean, but you don’t understand, Gina. This is real. I think it’s time I talk to Mom and Dad.”

  Gina busts out laughing, not even trying to hide her enjoyment. “Oh! This is going to be fun!” She rubs her hands together, wiggling her eyebrows. The effort must be too much for her still-drunk ass because she winces, bringing her hand to her head.

  “Keep it up. You’ll get yours,” I joke.

  But the joke’s on me.

  Knowing my parents—Gina’s right. If I wind up going through with telling them, dinner is sure to be a show fit for daytime drama.

  In record time and with no sign of Gina’s clash with the night before’s mayhem, we ready ourselves for twelve o’clock mass and wind up in the second pew—as always—with Mom and Dad. We’re also smack in the center of Father Owen’s scrutiny and ever-roaming eyes. Creeps me out.

  Bowing my head to say the prayers Father is reciting, I shudder at the touch of my mother’s hand on my knee. I glance up and in her direction, admiring the beautiful smile beaming from her still young-looking face. Mom’s forty-five but doesn’t look a day older than thirty. She’s timeless and elegant, and always put together effortlessly. Especially for church. Traditions and upbringing aren’t lost on her; she still wears a tasteful dress and stockings, the crucifix she was given for her baptism hanging daintily from her smooth, wrinkle-free neck.

  Still holding Mom’s cocoa brown gaze, I smile back and then focus on the priest at the pulpit. Mom nudges me this time, making me wonder why she doesn’t want me to pay attention to the sermon.

  Pinching lips and brows, I silently ask her what’s up.

  She leans lower to whisper in my ear. My stomach flip flops, knowing she never dares to speak during mass. Interrupting God’s word is sacrilege to this woman. What the hell—oops, I mean heck—is going on here?

  “Mom you’re freaking me out,” I whisper, not moving my lips.

  “We need to talk,” she whispers back.

  “About?” Jesus, save me.

  No smile, no frown, no sign or hint of this being a good or bad thing. “You know what.”

  I do?

  Crappers, I do!

  This has to be about Tommy. She saw the hickey. Or my sister told her! I swing my head to my left, glaring at a clueless Gina. I have no idea how she could have spilled the beans already. That little witch! Wait until I fill Mom in about Gina and her worm from last night.

  Before my anger towards the blabber mouth can bubble and brew any further, Mom reaches for my hand and squeezes. Not a warning squeeze but a loving squeeze. Her touch radiates compassion and nurture and all things motherly.

  “We’ll talk about it when we get home. Invite him for supper.”

  Taken aback but totally optimistic, I falter i
n the wooden seat, causing the kneeler at my feet to fall out of its upright position. The loud bang echoes throughout the church, turning a few heads and initiating a disapproving glare from Dad. “Sorry,” I whisper, still shocked by mother’s sincerity.

  I open my mouth to ask her how she knew, why now, what brought this on, but I’m left open-mouthed, like a hungry, bowled-up goldfish when Mom places a hand on my shoulder and shushes me.

  “Not now.” Blinking her eyes, she returns her attention to Father Owen with a cat-caught-the-canary grin.

  I’m left thinking about divine intervention. Staring up at the ornate crucifix hanging above the marble altar, I thank God for all the blessings that’ve been bestowed upon me. I giggle to myself, wondering if Dad will have the same mercy as Mom. I guess I’ll find out soon enough.

  In the car there is no talk of my enlightening chat with Mom. Instead, Dad complains about the traffic getting out of the lot and then the line at our favorite bakery where he purchases two loaves of Italian bread.

  When I get home, I slip out of the stockings I wore to appease my mother, and pick up the phone on my desk to dial Tommy.

  “Hello,” Tommy’s father answers, clearing his throat.

  “Oh, hi Mr. Edwards, it’s Gabby. Is Tommy home?” The man has always unnerved me, even after years of being a welcome guest in his home. I can’t tell if he dislikes just me or if he has an aversion to everyone. He’s a hard man to please, according to his son.

  Without answering me directly, I hear a muffling of the receiver and a bellowing of his gruff voice. “Son, your girl’s on the phone.”

  It makes me smile, even coming from someone as stoic as Mr. Edwards. At least he knows I’m someone.

  After a silent minute, Tommy greets me, “Hey, beautiful. I just saw you pull up with the fam. Church?”

  “Yup.”

  “How was it? Boring as usual?”

  “Nope, not today. It was actually really nice.” I can’t hide the hopefulness in my voice.

  “Father Owen finally growing on you? I thought priests were into little boys—you don’t fit the bill.”

  “Not funny, Tommy,” I scold. My boyfriend is not too fond of the Catholic Church. He doesn’t have a particular reason, I guess it was just never instilled in him like it was in me.

  “Okay, so what gives? You’re never this giddy afterwards.”

  “Mom wants you to come over for dinner. Can you?” I forgot if he mentioned any plans he may have. Sometimes he shoots hoops or lobs a baseball around with the boys from the neighborhood at the schoolyard, but I’m hoping today I can have him all to myself.

  “Sure can. My mom has some baby party thing today so she’s not cooking and I’m in no mood to watch Dad chase beer after beer while cursing at the Mets, so dinner with my favorite Guineas sounds good to me.”

  “You better not call them that while you’re here, you handsome leprechaun.”

  “Even your racial slurs are cute.” He laughs. “Can’t you insult me correctly?”

  “Never. I love you too much to hurt your feelings, shamrock lover.”

  “Meatball lover.”

  “Potato breath.”

  “Pasta breath.”

  “Four leaf clover picker.”

  Tommy breaks out in rumbling laughter, triggering my own deep giggles, snorting and all. “Can we get more immature? This is a whole new level of ridiculousness. My finance professor would not be proud.”

  “Your finance professor has other reasons to be proud. You’re acing that class. I knew summer school was a good idea for you. It keeps you out of trouble.”

  Lowering his voice to a throaty whisper, he says, “And you’re more than enough trouble for one guy to handle. Sexy trouble. Delicious, mouthwatering, I can’t wait to have my hands all over you again trouble.”

  I close my eyes and relish the closeness we shared last night. Flashes of hands and tongues and legs and skin rush through my mind and course through my burning veins. “Stop!” I snap to. “Not today.”

  “And why not?” he counters, with irritated confusion.

  “Because today’s special.”

  “How’s that? Or should I ask, how is it any more special than all the other times we spend together?” There’s my sweet boy. He’s never too far underneath his rough and tough exterior.

  “I think Mom knows,” I blurt out, unable to hide it any longer.

  “About us?” he shrieks, his voice sounding a lot like the pre-pubescent Tommy from many moons ago.

  “Calm your buns, lover boy. Yup, I’m pretty sure she knows—it shocked the crap out of me too—but I think she’s okay with it. She was the one who told me to ask you to dinner. I’m really optimistic about this. I mean, I think I am.”

  He remains silent, probably taking it all in. I can picture him scratching the top of his always gelled back head.

  “Tommy, this is good! I wanted to tell them about us today, anyway. I went to bed last night envisioning all the ways I’d have to fight them on it. Dreading their resistance. Fearing their disapproval. This is half the battle. This is so good, baby. Aren’t you happy?”

  I hear his deep breathing through the phone. He lets out a long sigh and then says, “I’m fucking ecstatic but I’m also nervous as hell.”

  “Nervous? Why?”

  “Because I never sat at your parents’ table as your boyfriend, Gabriella.”

  “Yes, you have.” I giggle. “It wasn’t even three weeks ago, you—”

  “You know what I mean,” he interrupts me. “This is different. They’ll be watching every move I make. You’re their baby, Gabby. Your dad isn’t exactly going to hand you over to me and say ‘Here, son. She’s all yours.’ I don’t know if I’m prepared for this.”

  For the first time since I’ve known I was in love with Tommy, my heart doubts his feelings. “You’re not ready? Don’t you want them to know you love me?” If disappointment had a distinct sound it would be echoing through my bedroom right now.

  Reading my reaction through the phone, my valiant Tommy is back. “Oh, no, no, of course I want them to know I love you. I want the world to know! I’m just a little scared, that’s all. I don’t know what it’s like to trust someone with your flesh and blood. I can’t imagine how your parents will feel when I tell them everything about the future I have mapped out for us. Plans that mean I want to take care of you until we’re old and gray, until the day I die.

  “Once they know that, I fear they’ll think they’re losing you to me. I never want them to think that I’ve taken anything from them, but claiming you as mine—no father of a sixteen year old girl is going to take that lightly, no matter how much he likes me.”

  Wow. I don’t know what to say to that. I should care about my parents’ feelings and worry about what it might be like to give your child over to someone else, but I can’t think past Tommy’s beautiful plans for our dream life. “I love you so much. We’ll make them understand that my being with you has nothing to do with losing anything, and everything to do with gaining the son they always wanted.” Tears fight to fall from my eyes—the kind of tears that only form from the purest of happiness. I swallow the lump in my throat and take a deep, calming breath. This day goes down in history as one of my all-time favorites and the best hasn’t even come yet.

  “Can you please pass the butter?” I ask, hoping that the quaking in my voice doesn’t give anything away. Warmness creeps up my neck, settling on my cheeks and ears with unwelcome tingles. All eyes are on me—like a dumbfounded student caught without the correct answer for her teacher. Only this is way worse.

  I was fine while I was on the phone with Tommy—full of hope and giddy anticipation. But now that it’s show time—not so much. No matter how you slice it, bringing your guy home to meet the parents is the ultimate nerve wracking moment—even if that guy has been your best friend for more than a decade and knows your parents well enough that they could be his own.

  Gina reaches over the table, smirking
as she hands me the butter dish. If I thought I could connect, I’d kick her right in those pretty little shins of hers. She knows I’m shitting a brick and she’s loving every second of it.

  Feverishly buttering my bread, I count my breaths and try to reign in my nerves. He’s had dinner with your parents a thousand times. This is no different.

  Like hell it isn’t! I want to scream, and just when I’m sure I might bust out with something—anything—to break the silence, Tommy addresses my father.

  “Did you see that catch last night?” Tommy beams at my dad, firing up a conversation about the Yankees.

  “Bellissimo,” Dad replies, kissing his fingers.

  They banter back and forth, replaying each stolen base and every run scored. I expel the breath I’ve been holding since we all sat down for supper and I take this as my opportunity to excuse myself. “Be right back,” I squeak, almost running to the bathroom.

  Once there, I stare into the mirror, gripping the edge of the sink. “You can do this, Gabby. They love Tommy. They’ll understand. You’re not a baby anymore. They trust you.”

  It sounds easy enough, but my stomach doesn’t believe it. The stress has caused such an uncomfortable gurgling and stirring in my belly that I wonder if I might be sick. “Don’t puke, you fool,” I scold myself.

  I hang my head over the sink and close my eyes, trying with all my might to rid myself of the unnecessary anxiety. When I think the queasiness has passed, I turn on the faucet and splash cold water on my heated face. With one last look in the mirror, I nod, giving myself the encouragement I need to get through this.

  “Everything all right?” Tommy whispers when I return.

  I nod, smiling. Apparently our private exchange stirs something up for Gina.

  Ping ponging her examining gaze between Tommy and me, my sister drawls, “Soooo?”

  Before I have the chance to curse her out for being so smug, Mom interrupts. “Don’t,” she orders, trailing her index finger along the ivy patterned tablecloth.

  “What? What did I do now?” Gina complains with her hands in the air.