Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
"This isn't a telenovela," I say. This is her vision, not his.
"He thinks you feel it too," she says. "And that's why you've never found someone."
"That's ridiculous."
"Then why haven't you found someone?" she asks.
So, he didn't believe I have. Or he didn't relay that to her.
Ivy knocks again. "Hey, Romeo—"
"Who is that?" Mom asks.
Has it already been five minutes?
No. I was supposed to leave last night. I was supposed to leave after an hour. I'm the one who needs to go. "Mama, I need to go. My—"
"Don't bother to lie, sweetheart. We both know you're not good at it. I don't care what you do as long as you do it well. And use protection. There’s a reason I never took you to mass.” She mutters a curse in Italian. Unusual for her. She’s usually the sort of Catholic who never criticizes the church. “Calm him down. I love you."
"I love you too," I say.
She hangs up.
Ivy moves into the room.
I'm still naked.
She's still staring.
There is something sexy about it, the doctor in her business casual slacks and blouse, in stylish, simple shades of olive.
The color of the leaves on the tree, not the olives themselves. One of my favorite colors.
We had a tree in our front yard when I was a kid. Before we got all that money and moved into that ridiculous mansion. Well, I suppose we had the money for a few years. Great-Aunt Marisol helped out for a while.
We weren’t rich until she died. That’s when we moved into the ridiculous mansion. Dad’s dream. Not that he got to enjoy much time there. The change killed him.
"Girlfriend?" Ivy asks.
"Mom," I say.
"Oh." Her lips curl into a smile. There's something disarming about it. She's back into that poised professor mode, but she's still charmed by my mother calling me at the crack of dawn. Okay, the crack of nine a.m.
Well, and then some. "I'll get—" My phone interrupts me with another ring. "Sorry. Mom again." What does she want? "Mama, I'm busy. What is it?"
"Daniel says you have a girlfriend now," she says. "But he doesn't believe it. Who would?"
"Can I call you back?" I ask.
"No. That's her, isn't it?" Her voice drops to a different tone. The difficult woman who always gets her way. "If you're sticking to that story," she says in Italian. Then she goes off with a string of curses that would make Dante weep. This woman is a true Italian poet.
She’ll do this for a while. I can mute myself for thirty seconds. "Can I ask you for a weird favor?” I ask Ivy. “I'll give you an hour, free."
"Depends what it is," Ivy says.
"Can you talk to my mom?" I say. "Tell her I'm a great boyfriend."
"Right now?" she asks.
"Or I could call back. If you have work," I say.
"I'm not a good liar," she says. "And I don't know anything about you. Is Romeo your real name?"
"It is," I say.
"What does she think you do?" she asks.
"Consulting. Business," I say.
"And how did we meet?" she asks.
"Make up something fun," I say.
"And the basis of our relationship?" she asks.
"You don't have to stretch the truth too far," I say. "She'll think it started with sex."
"Your mom will say that?"
"She's Italian."
She looks at me funny. Ivy isn't Italian. Or Latin. She's distinctly American. U.S. American. Orange County, California American.
Even though she's a professional, she's a little uptight about things like sharing details with family.
Not that Mom would ever ask details.
She just wouldn't shy away from the subject either.
Girls want Daniel for his brains.
They want me for my looks.
Though he's got the same looks. So, I suppose that says more about what she thinks about my brains.
"Romeo!" She lets out another string of curses. "I tried to stay on your side with your brother. He said it was lies. Or is it worse? Are you sleeping around on her? That isn't how I raised you. Don't throw around that bullshit that Italian men have to cheat. Do you know how many men told me that when I was your age?"
"Didn't you marry Dad at that age?" I ask.
"Before that," she says. "They act as if it's in their blood." She makes a spitting noise. "Disgusting. And your father's friends were no better. But your father…" She lets out a long sigh as she drifts into poet mode. After all, who could ever compare to her late husband. What love story could be better?
This might take a while.
I better speed things along.
"Do you want to talk to her?" I ask. "She has to work soon. It will need to be quick." I motion five minutes to Ivy.
She nods. "There's tea in the kitchen. And coffee… somewhere. I keep it for Meredith. My best friend. Never mind. It’s not important."
I hand her the phone.
She takes it awkwardly. "Is your name really Bonito?"