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We’d agree to try and act as if we’d had a normal relationship — at least at dinner.
And surprise, surprise, my mother had broken our agreement first.
But the anger that had swamped me went as quickly as it came. For once, I hadn’t wanted to get into a massive fight, so I instead closed the door softly. Padding across the blue tiles, I’d gone and grabbed a blanket, then gone back and tossed it over her.
My mother jolted awake, her posture immediately defensive, and when she whipped around, she almost knocked a glass of water onto her laptop.
“Watch out,” I said as I reached to steady the glass. My mom blinked up at me, going to reach for me and then stopping.
“Lia,” she said in a soft voice, sweetened from sleep.
All it did was piss me off even more.
“Geez, Mom, that’s why you shouldn’t keep a freakin’ glass of water right next to your computer. How dumb is that?”
“Hello to you, too,” she responded and moved the glass to the side. “What time is it?”
I rolled my eyes as something rose inside of me; a mixture of pain, resignation, and worry that made me spit, “You don't know?”
For once I’d been on time but I wasn’t going to tell her that. Let her yell at me and freak out — then realize that I’d been on time. I’d upheld my end of the bargain.
Ugly satisfaction filled me as I watched Mom fight the instinct to yell at me, to demand where I’d been, and then she looked down, pulling the blanket tighter.
“Thank you for the blanket, Lia. And I’m sorry I lost track of time.”
“So, what else is new?” I asked. “And it’s seven p.m.”
“Geez,” my mother said and leaned on her hand. “I really lost track of time.”
“So, what else is new?” I asked again.
“Well, we’re both starving, so it’s no wonder why we’re both so cranky,” my mother said with a small smile. “Let me finish this, and I’ll make dinner.” She paused. “And Lia, thank you for upholding your end of the bargain. You’re right on time.”
I deflated a bit. “Whatever.”
She picked up her glasses and slid them back on, waking up her laptop and typing in her password. I lingered for a moment, fighting the urge to go to my room and paint instead of talking to my mother. I’d barely seen her all week.
“What are you working on?” I asked.
“Putting criminals where they belong,” she answered dryly and as she rubbed at her eyes under her glasses, I peeked over her shoulder – first at her hot pink nails flying across the keys, then at the screen. My mom was labeling a folder under the name “Tyler Michaelson.” Then she swung around, frowning and I flinched back, anticipating her anger.
Instead, she had laughed and waved me away. “Get out of here, nosy. Go do your homework, and I’ll make dinner.”
“Fine, whatever,” I huffed, and my mother’s eyebrows descended, a flicker of annoyance going over her face. I felt a pinch of guilt but flounced away, muttering that we better not be having burgers again.
As I walked out of the kitchen, I thought back to the folder’s name, the name that my mother, Marina Fioreno, wonder cop had given the folder.
Who was Tyler, and what had he done?
The following morning found me restless and pacing the kitchen, anticipating and dreading the heavy tread of footsteps that would announce Ty’s return.
Even though I’d been exhausted, I’d barely been able to sleep. I’d tossed and turned, waking with a start and not remembering where I was — and then shaking from head to toe when I did.
My brain wouldn’t stay still either as it kept bouncing from memories of my mom to Mickey getting shot and then waking up in the cell.
And against my best efforts, as I’d nodded off, I’d remembered how Ty had made me forget about everything except for the wicked, sinful pleasure offered to me by his lips and fingers.
When Flora noiselessly arrived, we both scared each other and then she scolded me in Italian before ordering me out of the kitchen, going so far as to yell for Pasquale and Artie to help.
