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Opening the fridge, I rummage through the disaster of uncovered food containers of cooked meat, mystery salsas, and jars of every condiment imaginable to get to the box of spring mix. I find broccoli and carrots in the crisper, and start a pot of water to boil so I can blanch them. I know my way around this kitchen like the back of my hand, but that doesn’t help much when Dad’s always moving things around. He’s the worst person I know at organizing. After opening a few cabinets, I finally find the olive oil, honey, and balsamic vinegar, then get right into preparing the salad dressing.
Nate watches me move about the kitchen, leaning against the counter. He’s left the peanut butter and jelly out, not at all bothered by the crumbs and drippings of jam on the countertop.
“So…” he starts, mouth full of sandwich. “Your girlfriend seems nice.”
He accentuates the word girlfriend just to irk me.
“Yep. She’s nice,” I say, pouring the oil into a bowl.
“I’m just like, surprised, you know?” He takes another bite, gulping half the sandwich into his mouth. Seriously, can’t he eat like a human person instead of a Rottweiler? I don’t think he even tastes it.
“We were… keeping it secret.” I point to the fridge. “Pass me the dijon. It’s in the door.”
“Why?”
“Because the recipe calls for it. You’re right there, Nate.”
He sighs and retrieves the dijon mustard from the refrigerator door, passing it to me by stretching his arm as far as he can without moving his feet.
“I mean, why the secrecy? Six months is a long time to keep a secret from this family.”
“Ah, this family.” I shake my head, mixing the ingredients together with a whisk. “This family is the whole reason I haven’t brought her around. You’re all nuts.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I was just wondering if it was because—”
“Don’t you dare say it.” I point the whisk at him, droplets of dressing flinging in his direction.
“I wasn’t going to bring up the ‘S’ word.”
My brothers know better than to bring up that four-letter word around me, but sometimes I hear them use it as a substitute for another ‘S’ word when they don’t realize I can hear them.
S-H-A-Y. After four and a half years, I still can’t stand to hear her name.
They’ll casually say things like, “What a load of bullshay.” or “That movie was total shay.”
Dante’s personal favorite is, “This car is a piece of shay.”
I suppose using my ex’s name as a curse word is my brothers’ unconventional way of standing in solidarity with me.
“Just don’t scare Olive away,” I say, turning on the faucet to wash the broccoli. As I toss the broccoli in the colander, I mentally slap myself. Why should I care if my crazy family scares off my fake girlfriend? That might even be a good excuse to break up.
I don’t notice Nate has moved to my side until he pats his hand on my shoulder.
“Popeye, if we didn’t scare off Enrique’s fancy heiress, I think your Olive Oyl is safe.”
“Har, har.”
He sneaks a piece of broccoli and uses it to point to the spring mix.
“Don’t forget the spinach.” He dips the broccoli into the dressing and pops it in his mouth. “Needs salt.”
“That’s it.” I scoop up a damp kitchen towel and spin it from the corners, making a whip. Nate runs, flying out of the kitchen, but I’m just fast enough to snap the towel at his retreating ass.
Oh man, that whip crack is a satisfying sound—almost as satisfying as Nate screaming like a little girl, followed by the laughter of my other brothers.
* * *
“I think the Duke did love Gilda, in his own way,” says Francesca.
