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I don't respond, there's nothing to say to that smug grin on his face. Besides, he's my employer, not a friend for me to hang out with.
It also doesn't help that my heart races when he's around.
“I love these old houses.” I tell him, changing the subject. “This one,” I point at the one we're passing. It's a charming two-story family home, a little run down and in need of love, but still adorable.
Gio’s lips turn to a straight line. “This has to be the worst one on the block. Why?”
I smile gazing at the house. Sure, it isn't as well maintained as the rest of the houses on the block, but it's the details that make it charming. It has an arched doorway, original brick, and ivy that grows up the side. “See the shutters?” I point to the black shutters on the front of the half with crescent moons cut out of the top and bottoms. “I love that detail.”
He stares at the house for a while, squinting his eyes. He doesn't see the charming details that I love.
“Hmm,” he hums. “To each his own.” He gives me a pitiful smile and continues walking.
“Fine,” I huff. “But it’s adorable. I stand by it.”
He chuckles. “Whatever you say, Annie.”
My childhood home holds too many memories for me.
It's a large two story family home built in a fancy Providence suburb near Federal Hill. The house is a product of the dream life Giuseppe and Maria DelGado built together, the dream that blew up the day she was gunned down.
I scrub a hand down my face as I look over the house. Mama would be disappointed if she saw it now. The landscaping is overgrown, the grass needs cut, and inside I’m sure to find piles of trash. Dad and Gemma are the only ones living here now, and neither are doing well without ma.
There used to be so much life here, and now, just humans who can’t hold themselves together for more than one meal a week.
Ma was the type of mother and wife who loved to take care of everyone. As a kid, I’d be greeted after school with the smell of fresh-baked cookies. She was involved in every committee, both at school and in the neighborhood. She volunteered, donated time and money, she helped everyone she could.
She was genuinely the best part of our family.
And they took her.
Ma and Dad, Maria and Giuseppe, had grown up a few miles away in Federal Hill, the hub of Italian immigrants and la Familia. This house was proof of the sacrifices and violence they had risen above.
Since Ma's death, everything was different in this house. Plants died, dishes sat in the sink, laundry was never cleaned. Gian and I had tried to hire help for dad and Gemma, but even with a maid the house was never as clean as ma would have liked. Dad and Gemma didn’t even notice most of the time, or if they did they didn’t care much.
I guess that’s the problem wit
h grief.
You’re too numb to care.
I grab the tray of chicken parmesan and stuffed manicotti from my car. None of us can cook. Gian and I are lost causes when it comes to cooking, dad can’t even make toast, and Gemma refused to learn because she was, I quote, a feminist. Petey, a chef at one of my restaurants makes us a whole buffet now for our Sunday dinners. It’s not the same, but it’s better than starving.
“Gem says she’s not joining us.” Gian greets me at the front door with his arms crossed and his foot tapping, a normal stance for him.
“Nice to see you too.” I push through the door balancing the overstuffed trays of food.
“Yeah, yeah.” He waves a hand.
“You know she’s struggling.” I set dinner on the counter pivot to face my brother. “You still worried?”
Gian is good at hiding his feelings around everyone but me. We have a sort of understanding of each other that no one else can match. He’s older by exactly eighteen months and those are the only months we’ve been apart. There are no secrets between the two of us. I can tell when he’s pissed, sick, moody. We’ve opened all of our businesses together. He’s my closest friend.
I can sense the anxiety radiating from him. Anyone else would look at him and only see the calm and collected made man he presents himself to be. But me? I know that underneath that facade was a brother and a son worried for his family.
“Yeah,” he scrubbed a hand over his face. Unlike mine, that has too much stubble, Gian’s face is clean-shaven. “It’s been six months.” his face is pained. “And she’s still not herself.”
“I know.”
