“So if it’s nothing, why are you hiding it?”
“It’s not nothing.” I shook that sentiment away. “But it’s not something—never mind, can we drop it? She’s not from here, she’s too young for me…”
“How old is she?”
“Not old enough.”
“Just tell us her name!” Addy fired back.
“Why—” My heels stuck into the grass at the center of the backyard, a spark of something between shock and discontent straightening my spine.
The plot of land where the garden was gnarled and dead three months ago was now sowed and replenished, fresh grass growing in bright green patches, a little sprinkler system waving back and forth over new seeds.
“The garden…” I pointed at it. “You cleaned it up.”
“I had some help.” My mother’s shoulder lifted, too small a gesture to be a shrug.
“Not me.” My sister shook her head as I turned to her. Judging by her apprehensive expression I could see I was about to be introduced to a situation I wasn’t prepared for. My skin prickled in anticipation, the heart-in-my-gut feeling returning tenfold.
“Who?” I asked sternly. The tables had turned quicker than the weather on a Florida afternoon.
“It was me.” A foreign voice ripped my attention to the sliding door off the back porch as it closed. To a man I’d never seen in my entire fucking life, standing on the outside of it, as if he just let himself in and out of my mother’s house like he owned the place.
My pulse drummed in my ears. Who the fuck was this guy? On my porch in his tailored chinos and Christmas sweater? With a dorky looking combover like a regular Clark Griswold?
My gaze narrowed. “Who’s me?”
The stranger stepped off the deck and joined us in the center of the yard. My instinct to protect had me sliding in front of Addy and Mom like a barrier.
“Charlie Wright.” Clark Griswold extended a palm. “Excuse the cliche, Frankie, but I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Charlie.” My mother stepped between us. She reached for him, but tellingly decided against it. “Frankie.”
“Yes, we’ve established that,” I mumbled.
“This is Mom’s new boyfriend,” Addy inserted herself. “They met at the clubhouse. He’s been helping her do a lot of updates around here. You noticed, Frankie. The paint, the camera…”
“I noticed.” My blatant assessment must have been making Clark uncomfortable, because he laughed. I suddenly couldn’t wait to tell Ophelia how funny I was. I couldn’t wait to see Ophelia, actually. I wished like hell she was standing right next to me at that very moment.
“The food is ready inside, Mar.” Clark put an arm around her lower back, and up until that point, I’d never before thought about how easily I might be able to snap an arm if given the appropriate reason.
“Perfect!” My mother clapped, waving us in the direction of the back door. “We can talk more over pasta and smelts. Charlie, Frankie bought me the most incredible flowers. You can help him plant them after we eat. Yes?”
“Of course.” He nodded enthusiastically, following her lead toward the house.
Addy nudged me onto the deck behind them, warning me to behave with a tight squeeze of my wrist. “Come on.”
I brushed her off, hurt I’d been kept in the dark for so long. Long enough for this guy to stick his claws in and claim something that clearly didn’t belong to him. Long enough for a stranger to slide into the place at the table I comfortably occupied for the entirety of my adult life, and before me, the father that raised us and loved the woman he married with all of himself. Long enough for the gutters to be replaced, and the walls to be painted, and the garden to be fucking replanted.
Mateo knew something before I did. It was one thing for her to be dating around. A dinner here, an afternoon coffee there. Casual companionship—that’s what I was expecting to be briefed on. But a place setting at Christmas dinner, playing fixer upper, nicknames? What kind of bullshit was that?
This was my home, that was my sister, my mother. My family.
I wasn’t an asshole for feeling disrespected.
Loyalty. One thing I would never falter on, and one thing I’d been so sorely stripped of by the people I never expected it from in my life. First Vanessa, now this.
The muscle in my jaw clenched and my teeth ground together as I tried not to let my emotions get the best of me. But the little voice in my head decided that sewing my mouth shut would only make the outburst worse later on.
I passed my mother on the way to the table, then cold as ice and loud enough for the room to hear, I said, “That is my father’s garden.”
25
It’s usually a great sign when everyone is silent during a meal. Only the occasional comment about the sauce or seasoning, a beckon to pass the pitcher of water across the table. It means mouths are full and the food is delicious.
The sounds of metal utensils clinking against the decorative Christmas dinner plates my mother only brought out once a year were not that of content, though. The air was so thick in the small, crowded dining room I could taste Addy’s wine as she swirled it around in the glass next to me.
I shoveled food into my mouth from the head of the table, keeping my back hunched and my head down, unwilling to field any type of small talk. It was a bit late for that. Poor Malia caught the ass-end of everything when she skipped through the front door with three bottles of wine, ready to celebrate, and was immediately muzzled by the deafening silence.
A stabbing pain erupted in my shin, and I dropped my fork, slowly realizing it was Addy kicking me underneath the table. Visibly she remained indifferent, sipping her wine and acting impressed with the notes of fruit and herbs to satiate her partner. Her eyes flickered across the table toward Mom and then back toward Malia.
My mother ate quietly over her dish, shoulders slumped like the branches of a willow tree, a tired, disappointed shadow over her usual bubbly body.
I hated that. It made my stomach roll like an unruly tide.
It was two days before Christmas, and I hadn’t seen my family in months. I wanted this to be a perfect, relaxing day where we could reminisce and laugh and enjoy one another's long-awaited company, and now it felt so unbelievably fucking ruined.
I didn’t regret what I said. It could have been worse—fucking hell of a lot worse if I decided to put the master’s degree in colorful vocabulary I’d gotten in the military to work. The only thing I felt apologetic about was the fallout.
I cleared my throat. “This fish is delicious, Ma, you outdid yourself.” My voice cut like nails on a chalkboard through the room. Everyone stiffened instinctively.
“Really, really great, Mama,” Addy agreed, and Malia hummed her appreciation around a forkful of seafood salad.
“She’s been prepping for days,” Charlie added.
Fucking Charlie.
My mother smiled modestly, dusting her hands off on the napkin in her lap. “It’s always been your favorite, Frankie.”