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My bedroom door clicks shut behind me, a physical barrier against the chaos that continues to rage in my head. The humid air from the open window continues to bathe my skin with pearly beads of sweat, but I don’t move to close it. I love the smell and sound of the ocean. It smells like an ancient lullaby whispered by the waves through the ages. I take a deep breath, letting the salt seep into my lungs as if to turn it into brine to preserve my soul.
I stare at the reflection in the mirror, wondering what’s left of the person who entered that dinner date with a heart full of resentment and a mind set on revenge. Revenge, they say, is a dish best served cold. Well, it’s been fifteen years.
This pot of revenge is cold, alright, and even though I feel such resentment toward Liam, sitting across from him at that table and being so close to him made me realize one thing. I can hate him all I want, throw insults at him, even a hot bowl of soup, but the bottom line is, I don’t have the capacity or might to do to him what he did to our family. I could hurt him, if I threw hot scalding French onion soup, complete with caramelized onions, but what would that do? It wouldn’t hurt him half as much as I am hurting . . . it would never be apples-to-apples.
I came home thinking I’d just set my mom up with hospice and then go back to school, as all my siblings are local and cancheck on her, but after seeing her, I have decided to take time off school till this is over.
I’ve just walked away from my studies . . . from my future. I am here now, watching my mother waste away slowly, locked in a heart-wrenching tango with death. There is only so much pain a human vessel can withstand.
Now, all I can do is hate Liam Dexter and wake up each morning praying a piano falls on his head, or he gets hit by a bus, or he finds green, slimy grass growing on his tongue. I refuse to spend any more waking minutes on the Dexters. I’d rather spend them on Mom.
Chapter five
WHAT THE HELL.
LIAM
The house is eerily quiet, like the calm before the storm. Being in prison teaches you a lot of things, one of them being able to smell trouble before it hits you. It’s called survival.
Even as I sit in the study nursing a scotch and a headache, I can tell a typhoon is headed my way. A sixth sense, or a guilty conscience? What do I have to be guilty of?
I dropped a cool million in the auction pit to score one date with her. That alone is enough to earn me a one-way ticket to solitary confinement—grounded in the Dexter dungeons for a week.
A dinner date with a Ricardo? That move could land me right back in the Union Correctional Institution, where they don’t just toss the key; they smelt it.
I had dinner with the entire Ricardo clan. For that, even the guillotine would be too merciful. It’d be death by fire ants,pinned to a burning tree . . . a slow, and excruciatingly painful demise.
Here comes the typhoon. Mother dearest bursts into the room, screaming, “Liam, what did you do? What did you do . . . why?”
“If I knew what you were talking about, Mother, I would answer you,” I reply.
“Don’t be a smart mouth with me. Your father wants a word with you. You have never seen him so angry . . . I have never seen him so angry.”
“So, what else is new, Mother?” I whisper under my breath, hoping she has temporary deafness or something. When you grow up in Italy, I suppose it is inevitable to be excessively dramatic and animated.God . . . she can be such a drama queen —such a diva.
I step into the sun-room, and the poison darts shooting from orbs on people’s faces welcome me, few people bothering to disguise their discontent. My family’s faces are a mixture of anger and disappointment, their eyes boring into me like daggers. I swallow hard, forcing the rage I feel boiling in me down, and brace myself for the storm I sense brewing.
“Nice of you to join us, Liam,” James says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Noah just shakes his head, lips pressed together in a thin line of disapproval, making his face look like chiseled marble . . . unyielding and cold.
I glance around the room, trying to maintain an air of nonchalance.
“What’s going on, guys?” I ask, though I have a sinking feeling that I already know the answer.
My father clenches his jaw so tightly I can practically hear his teeth grinding. His face is a sickly shade of purple—a well-known telltale sign that he’s reached his boiling point, and I should tread carefully if I like my head where it is.
“Care to explain why we’ve been receiving calls about your little stunt at the charity auction?” Dad finally erupts, his anger barely containable.
I wince inwardly, knowing there’s no escaping this confrontation. What do I go with?Aren't we supposed to be philanthropists, Dad? OrIt’s my money, Dad. I can do with it what I want. Which one shuts this thing down instantly. I don’t have time for this crap.
“Your money? You think I care about the money?” Dad bellows, veins popping all over his face, even his hair, I would swear at this time.
“The Ricardos? Liam? You’re jeopardizing everything our family has worked for.” Mother throws in her contribution.
“I don’t care how much money you think you have, Liam. Your actions have consequences for all of us, whether you like it or not,” my darling brother Noah interjects . . . the very brother who once told me he would do anything for me, even die for me.Well, why aren’t you dying now?
“Bev told me that a friend of hers saw you having dinner with the Ricardos,” James chimes in, his voice low and dangerous, “And it sure didn’t look like you were fighting.”
“Is that true?” My sister Muriel asks, her eyes wide with fear. What has she got to be fearful of? What is powering these people?
