First Came You (Fate #0.5) Page 4

  “You’re a pot stirrer and you know it. The only pot that needs stirring is full of gravy in the kitchen.” Have I mentioned how much I love my mom? I’m her favorite whether she wants to admit it or not. I’ve always been able to count on her to see my side of things.

  Biting my lower lip and grinning at Gina, I reach under the table to secretly grab Tommy’s hand. Maybe the worst is over. The rest of this dinner may very well be a cakewalk.

  But Tommy’s like a deer in the headlights when our skin connects. I know he can sense my father’s eyes on him and Mom’s soft features have now become more austere—more of what I was expecting.

  “Howa long?” he asks, not looking up from his bowl of fusilli.

  Assuming he’s talking to me, since this whole get together seems to be centered around Tommy and me, I ask. “What do you mean, Daddy?”

  “Not you. Your sorella.” Dad points to Gina, causing her to choke on her mouthful of soda.

  “Huh? How long, what?”

  “How longa you thinka we wouldn’t find out?”

  “Find out about what?” Gina asks it, and I think it. What’s this about? I’m the one who’s supposed to be getting reamed today.

  “What did I do? What are you talking about?” Gina’s arms are flailing and her eyes are so wide I can see all the white surrounding her chocolate brown irises.

  When Dad’s face turns red with fury, Tommy’s grip on my hand slackens, and Mom swallows hard before she speaks. “You think we’re stupid, Gina? Just because we’re not from here doesn’t mean we don’t know what goes on. This is the fourth weekend in a row you came home like that. Past curfew.”

  “Mom, I’m twenty-two years old. American women in college don’t have curfews.” Her tone is bordering on what my mother would call disrespectful. Shit! This is going to be quite a show. Gina was right—just wrong about which Rossi sister would be the star.

  “Stai zit!” My father shouts, banging his fist against the table. “You thinka I care what the American girls do, bella? You can no be an American girl and still have morals? Bulla shit! You live in my home, you followa my rules!”

  Oh boy! The accent’s thick today. He means business.

  Tommy leans closer to me and whispers, “Um. I ain’t telling them shit today.”

  I laugh, even if I’m a little disappointed, because he’s right. Dad would probably reacquaint my ass with the old leather belt if I told him I was in love. “Disgraziatta” he’d call me, taking his anger for my sister out on me.

  “Guess we have to wait a little longer.” I sigh.

  Tommy nudges my foot with his under the table. “Fine by me.”

  Engrossed in our own private conversation we catch the tail end of Gina’s rant. “ . . . as soon as I have enough money saved, I’m moving out. You treat me like a child. Some immigrant child, no less. I never cause any trouble. So what? I came home drunk a few times, I didn’t kill anyone. And the legal drinking age here in America is twenty-one so I didn’t even break the law.”

  “You broke our rules,” Mom interjects. “We don’t set them to be mean, bella. We set them to protect you. You want to be a lawyer, yes? You want a career, correct? Too much party is no good. You’ll lose sight of what’s important and we worry for you.” Mom tries to make up for Dad’s rage. He’s hot headed. Sicilian. Comes with the territory. But Mom always finds a way to make us understand the bigger picture. It’s not about punishing us just because they have power as parents, it’s about teaching us lessons and paving a path for our future. Or maybe it’s just that she can control her temper because she’s from Naples—the mellower breed.

  “I give a you one more chance!” Dad finally takes control of the room again. “Next time I take a the car away.”

  “But I pay for that car!” Gina shrieks.

  “I no give a shit.” Dad’s hand flies underneath his chin and makes the very familiar Italian “fuck you” gesture we’ve all grown to know and love.

  Gina excuses herself from the table—she knows better than to leave without being respectful. After she takes a few steps toward her bedroom, she spins around and levels me with a considering stare that makes my insides burn.

  Oh no! She wouldn’t. Would she?

  Addressing Mom and Dad, she throws me under the bus. “By the way, I’m not the only daughter breaking the rules. You might want to talk to these two about what they’ve been up to for the last God knows how long.” She stalks off and I contemplate following her and pulling her hair out of her scalp. But one look at my dad and I know I better stay put.

  The table falls silent, save for the forks clanking against the dishes.

  Tommy and I keep our heads down, scared to make eye contact with my parents.

  After a few minutes of uncomfortable brooding, Dad clears his throat. “You,” he finally says, pointing at me.

  Holy mother of all that’s good and holy.

  What the hell do I say now?

  Tommy’s leg starts bouncing up and down. God, if he loses his cool I’m a goner.

  Crap! Crap! Crap! There’s no turning back now.

  “Um,” I start, unable to lift my gaze from my half empty plate.

  Tommy, probably sensing my fear and always stepping in as my protector, addresses them calmly. “First, Mr. and Mrs. Rossi, can I just say how much I love your family?”

  Kiss up, Tom. Great. Good job.

  “Cut-a the shit, boy,” my father says with a slight smile. That slight smile is something we’ve learned to fear. It usually starts off warm and friendly and then rears its ugly head in the form of a maniacal “you think so” laugh.

  “Nino, be nice,” Mom says, but her tone doesn’t match her request. She’s way different than she was in church.

  God, when did I start reading her wrong?

  “Gabriella.” My mother recites my name with her flawless Italian R roll. “Just like your sister. Do you think we’re stupid?”

  “Of course not,” I say. “I could never think that.” Even as I say it, I realize I’m lying. I did think I’d pulled the wool over their eyes by hiding my love for Tommy all this time. Maybe I did think they were in ignorant bliss sometimes—joke’s on me.

  “You’re too-a young for a boya friend. No more. This ends now.” Dad remains calm when he speaks, but his request sparks an unsettling fire within my veins.

  I want to jump up and defend myself, the way Gina did earlier, but that would get me nowhere—or in my room behind a slammed door like my sister. So I silently plead with my nerves to cool off and take the high road. Inhaling slowly, I address my father. “Daddy, can I talk to you like an adult? Can I explain?”

  “Let me,” Tommy steps in with a hand on my shoulder.

  I look at him and smile, shaking my head. “No. I got this,” I implore. It’s time to prove I am indeed mature enough for all of this.

  “Go ahead, bella. Imma listen.”

  Using his pet name for his girls and giving me the floor means he’s not totally irate. Thank you for the benefit of the doubt, dear Lord. I’m not done for. Yet.

  “Before you both go pazzo about what you think is going on with Tommy and me, don’t you remember how old you were when you met and fell in love?”

  “Amore!” My father shrieks, banging the table again. He goes off into a bluster of Sicilian dialect that neither me nor my mother can understand, but the animation of his hands and the throbbing vein in his neck under his suntanned skin—clear indicators that I should not have used the L word.

  “Times are different now, Gabriella,” Mom explains. “Like I told your sister—your future, your career—I didn’t have those options at your age.”

  “Are you saying that if you did, you wouldn’t have married Daddy?” Oh, you bet your ass I’m an opportunist. I can have this conversation respectfully but let it play to my advantage at the same time.

  “No, bella. That’s not it at all.” Mom gazes at Dad lovingly. I bet she’s remembering the fondness of her younger days—the
stories she’s told me about how handsome Dad was and the way he swept her off her feet; the way she knew he was her forever from the moment she laid eyes on him. At fifteen. A year younger than I am right now.

  “I love your daughter,” Tommy blurts, his focus on my father. His friend. The man he formed a bond with since we were children.

  “I don’t doubt you do,” Dad admits, hanging his head. “But she is still too-a young. Non più! No more. This cannot go on any longer.” With that, he rises from the table and disappears into the kitchen where I know by habit that he is lighting one of his cigars. Within seconds the spicy fumes are wafting through the air, my mother waving her hands to rid our table of the stench she hates.

  Dad’s absence and Mom’s silence mean the conversation is over.

  At least for now.

  I can’t convince him in this state—he’s angry at Gina and disappointed in me. There’ll be plenty of time to work on him.

  I guess, we’ll have to hope we can win over Mom in the meantime.

  That night, long after dinner, way past Gina’s whining and then groveling for forgiveness, and an hour after Dad has passed out in his favorite recliner in front of a muted television, I help Mom wash and dry the pots and tidy up the kitchen.

  I break the comfortable silence to try and gauge her true feelings on what went down today. “Can I talk to you, Mom?”

  “Sure, bella. Always.” She doesn’t look up from sweeping the floor, but I can still see the smile inching across her pink lips.

  “Do you think I’m too young to be in love?”

  She sighs, hugging the broom handle closer to her body and cracking her neck from side to side. “I think love is a crazy thing that can make you do things you’re not ready for.”

  I’ve avoided the birds and bees chat this long. I guess it’s inevitable, even if humiliating. “Mom, this isn’t about . . .” I look around and peer into the living room to make sure Dad can’t hear. I whisper the word as if it’s dirty and disgusting, embarrassed to let it cross my lips in front of my mother. “Sex.”

  Mom laughs. “It’s always about sex for a boy of Tommy’s age.”

  My eyes go wide. Did my mom really just insinuate that Tommy’s only trying to get in my pants? Rage consumes me and I stop myself from stomping my feet, ready for a rebuttal. She can’t possibly think I’m that stupid. Or that Tommy is that shallow.

  “Calm down,” she hums, her hand at my shoulder. “I didn’t mean it the way you think.”

  “Then how did you mean it? Because if you’re second guessing Tommy’s feelings for me, you’re wrong, Mom. I know he loves me. He doesn’t just want me for sex.” I don’t falter because I believe every single word. There’s never been pressure from Tommy. He knows my limits. We’ve set them together.

  Sweeping up the rest of the crumbs, Mom hangs the broom in its rightful place and motions for me to join her at the table when she’s done.

  I’m reluctant to continue this conversation, only because I want it to go my way, but that’s not being fair. I sought her out. For her approval. I have to listen with an open mind.

  “There is nothing your father and I want more for you girls than happiness,” she starts out. “Happiness comes in many forms at different stages in your life. Right now—for you—you can’t see past this happiness—Tommy. And that’s wonderful that you can experience that with your best friend. That you’ve found true love in each other.”

  Her words mirror my exact emotions. She gets it. Maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.

  “But,” she cautions, stomping on any bit of fleeting hope.

  I cross my arms, readying myself for the lecture. I guess I should be thankful it’s coming from her and not Dad. That would be epic. And not in a good way.

  “I am worried for you, Gabriella. Just like I worry for your sister. You are so strong minded—like your stubborn father. You’re set in your ways and you think you know all the answers. But there isn’t always one right answer.”

  I open my mouth to prove her point about my tenacity, but she stops me with a finger to my lips. “No, let me finish.” The softness in her nurturing features toughens. She’s the mom. I ought to let her speak before I wind up grounded until I’m thirty five.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I think Tommy is a wonderful boy. The two of you have been friends for a long time—it’s special what you have. But now that your friendship has crossed the line—and don’t get me started on how long you’ve been sneaking behind my back—there are other factors involved. Hormones, feelings, sex.”

  Here it comes.

  I hide my eyes with my hand, slouching in my chair. God, save me from this mortification.

  “Hey, hey, I’m not trying to punish you by bringing this up. I think you’re a mature young woman. You have respect for yourself and for your family. I think I can trust you—and Tommy—and that’s why I’m telling you this.” She pauses, taking a deep breath. She steeples her fingers in front of her lips as if she’s contemplating what comes next.

  With tears in her eyes, she takes my hand. God, how I love my mother. Even in this uncomfortable moment, I know her intentions only come from a place of love. “Your father would kill me if he knew I was saying this without his support, but . . . I trust you, Gabriella. I trust you to make the right decisions so I will not ban you from what you love—if we do that it will only push you further into his arms and discourage you from being honest. But there are still rules that need to be followed.

  “I was a teenager in love once too. I remember how you’re feeling, but I also remember the things my parents instilled in me and I want the same for you.” She wipes away a tear that escapes her hazel eyes and trickles down her olive-toned cheek.

  Boring my soul with her eyes, the bittersweet joy vanishes from her face and her tone becomes more stern. “You may date him. You may bring him here without flaunting it around. You have the right to be in love, but you’re still sixteen, Gabriella and I will not stand for an illegitimate pregnancy. Your father would be devastated. Do you understand?”

  Do I ever! I have no intention of getting myself in that kind of trouble. Could you imagine? I can’t. Kids are a very long way off for Tommy and me. Eons into the future.

  Unable to contain my excitement, I leap across the table and throw my arms around my mother’s neck. “So, you’re okay with it, then?” It’s all I can think about. My mother just gave me permission to date Tommy.

  Backing away from our hug, Mom deadpans, “I’m okay with you and Tommy taking things slow. Remember what I said. I trust you. Don’t break that. Don’t do something stupid and think I won’t find out. I always do.”

  Somehow, she’s right. It’s like that old saying mothers try to scare their children with: “I have eyes in the back of my head.”

  “You can trust me, Mom. I promise. Thank you for being so cool.” I kiss her cheek, and her hands find their way to my hair.

  Petting me and holding me close, she whispers in Italian that she loves me. “Ti amo, Gabriella.”

  I hug her tighter, wondering how I got so lucky.

  Before calling it a night and heading to bed, I ask permission to walk over to Tommy’s to tell him the good news.

  When I approach his front door to knock, I hear shouting from inside.

  At first it sounds like an argument between Mr. and Mrs. Edwards. My parents have them all the time, so I don’t judge. But at closer inspection—or eavesdropping, if I’m being accurate—I recognize Tommy’s voice and his Irish temper. “You’re ridiculous! I’m busting my ass. I’ve given up my summer to show you how dedicated I am. I ask you for one little thing and you treat me like a child?”

  His father wastes no time bellowing back, “You live under this roof, you’re still a child in my eyes. End of story. The answer is no.”

  With that, there’s a loud thump—the slamming of a door. Followed by stomping—Tommy probably stalking off to his room. And finally, whimpering—Tommy’s m
other crying.

  Whatever I just witnessed is probably none of my business, but I can’t help wishing I could come to the rescue the way Tommy has for me so many times in the past. The good news about us will have to wait for tomorrow. The bad news and the mystery behind what has the Edwards’ household in such an uproar, will keep me up all night.

  Over the last two weeks, Tommy’s been super busy with schoolwork and his part time job at the bank. Figures that I finally get Mom’s permission to date and I haven’t seen much of my boyfriend. Other than him brushing off the fight I overheard, I don’t worry about his absence too much because I’ve been pretty occupied myself.

  I mean, what girl doesn’t have to prepare herself in every way imaginable for her senior year of high school? This will be the best year of my life. There’s prom, yearbook, college applications, and all the cool social status type things that come with being part of the graduating class. I’m stoked. This is my year. I can just feel it.

  As I’m organizing my closet to make room for my new outfits, Mom calls to me from downstairs. “Gabby, we’re going to the market. Is there anything specific you’re in the mood for this week?”

  “Yes!” I shout back. “Can you please get Pop Tarts—the ones with the icing? Oh, and some Diet Coke? I’m headed out in a bit too, okay?”

  “’Kay, bella. We’ll be back soon. Dad’s taking the ride, too.”

  “Okay!”

  A little while later, I stop by the bank to say hi to Tommy and to bring him a sandwich for lunch. On the walk back home, I ring Maria’s bell to ask if I can borrow a shirt of hers I’ve been admiring for a while. We get caught up in chatting about her latest movie date with Ben.

  “I think I really like him, Gabby. He’s so sweet.”

  “And super hot!” I add, giggling.

  “Not as fine as your older man, but he’s a keeper. At least for senior year. Once college starts, I have no intention of being settled down like you and Tommy. You only live once and I plan on living it up!”