Page 32 of The Plus One Pact

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?"

Shit, am I going to have to tell her my last name already? No. I can give her Mom's. She goes by that, usually. "Call her Mrs. Galante."

"Your name is Romeo Chivalry?" she asks.

"Not exactly," I say. "Dad is from Mexico. It's complicated."

"So, it's Romeo, Middle Name Chivalry, Dad's Last Name."

That's about it. I nod.

"Still." She laughs. "That's a lot."

"She's a lot." I grab a pair of boxers. Decide against the rest of my clothes. I'll be more persuasive in this state.

I hang near the door while Ivy speaks to my mother.

Not that Ivy speaks much.

It's mostly my mom going on, half in Italian, while Ivy says, yes, of course, Romeo is a great guy. (She’s loud enough I can hear, even without the phone on speaker).

I give her a little space, get ready in the bathroom—I still pack a disposable toothbrush—search for coffee in the kitchen. It's small, like most California kitchens, but it's warmer than the rest of the house. Filled with herbs, spices, teas.

One bottle of gin. One bottle of tonic. One bag of limes.

She knows what she likes.

Mom would like that. Like her.

The instant coffee, not so much, but a craftsman never blames his tools. Even instant coffee can make something good, if you know what to do with it. I brew it extra strong. Look for milk or sugar, something to take off the edge of bitter and sour sure to come through with cheap beans.

Regular milk. Full fat. Mom will love that.