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“That’s cool,” Liza gushed. “I can’t draw a stick figure.”
“I shared her interest in art for a while. She and I had a sketchbook that we shared. We passed it back and forth. She’d start a drawing, then I would finish it. Then I’d start one and give it back to her to finish.”
“Wow. I love that.”
Matt nodded, his throat constricting. He hadn’t thought about that sketchbook in years. The last time he’d seen it was right after Dad had destroyed his drawing of his brothers playing football. He’d taken the sketchbook back to Mom without finishing her drawing. He told her he was done with art, that it was a stupid thing to do, a waste of time. Every word he’d spoken was channeled straight from Dad, and he’d seen how much they hurt her.
He couldn’t tell her that he was trying to save their art, certain that if his father ever found the sketchbook, he’d burn it. When he looked back now, he wondered if his cruel comments that day weren’t just his attempt to preserve the art but to keep Mom safe as well. Dad had already curtailed the amount of time Matt spent with her, claiming he couldn’t “suck at that tit forever.”
Had Matt pulled away so that Dad wouldn’t find another, more permanent way to separate him from Mom?
Mom had accepted the sketchbook, telling him, “You know who you are, Matt.”
Unfortunately, asshole Matt had been in full force that day, so he’d turned around, sneered, and tossed back a pitch perfect Dante Russo reply.
“I know exactly who I am, Mother. I’m a Russo.”
Mom shook her head, holding his gaze for a moment or two. “Look deeper,” she’d whispered.
He’d had to turn away quickly because the disappointment in Mom’s eyes had cut deep. After that, he’d avoided his mom as much as possible, and the rift he’d torn grew until it was as wide as the Grand Canyon.
“Where’s the sketchbook now?” Liza asked.
Matt shrugged. “I haven’t seen it in years.”
Liza, an astute listener, then recalled something he really shouldn’t have said. She tilted her head. “What happened when you were twenty-three?”
Shit. Matt hadn’t meant to share all of that. He’d decided in Hawaii that he didn’t want to keep fighting this thing between him and Liza, but old habits died hard. Because here he was, still trying to warn her, still trying to save her…from him.
Her question reminded him why he never cracked the door on the past. Because he’d just given Liza the opportunity to fling it wide open.
Matt refused to step through. He couldn’t. Not if he hoped to hold on to this thing between them. Losing her would snuff out the tiny bit of humanity he still possessed.
“Life happened,” he said dismissively, making it clear he’d said as much as he was going to. “So your dad taught you to fish?”
Liza hesitated. He could see she wanted to push the subject, but—on this—he wouldn’t budge. He recognized the moment she realized.
“My family vacations were a lot simpler than yours. Mom and Dad own a cabin in the Poconos, so when we traveled, we went there. Fishing and swimming in the pond in the summer, ice skating in the winter. Lots of hiking and campfires with s’mores. That cabin is still one of my happy places.”
The way Liza described her family was so different from the memories he had of his. His happy times and places had been erased by all the pain and remorse that came after.
“One of your happy places, huh?”
She nodded. “Yep. Where’s yours?”
Matt didn’t have a response for that because he didn’t have a happy place. Then he realized, he did. His happy place was with her…but that wasn’t a confession he was ready to make, so he lied. “My penthouse, I suppose. The perfect bachelor pad.”
“Let me guess…black silk sheets, mirrored ceiling above the bed, mood lighting, and soft jazz playing at all times. Maybe Kenny G?”
“Clearly, I’ve decorated all wrong. I have white Egyptian cotton sheets, no mirror on the ceiling, a bedside lamp, and my white noise is the TV—finance shows mostly, so I can keep up-to-date with the stock market.”
Liza rolled her eyes. “God. That’s even worse than what I described. What are you? Ninety?”
“Not quite, but at least I can make a definite decision and narrow my happy place down to just one. You need two?” Matt was amused by their back-and-forth. He spent too much of his time around sycophants. It was nice to have someone unafraid to give him shit.
She leaned forward. “Absolutely. Because the second is my nonna and nonno’s house. They throw the greatest celebrations ever—holidays, birthdays, special life-changing events. You name it.”
“You Morettis seem to find a lot of reasons to overindulge in food and drink.”
