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He laughs as I pop his bicep. “Whatever, how many times did I say it?”
“A lot, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call mesweetheart.” I start up with a rant regarding my dad and how ‘sweetie’ and ‘sweetheart’ are terms derived from his perception of failure. Damn, this is what happens when you share. I’m now entering the transparency zone.
While I’m sitting on the stool, I drop the sponge into the water. I then place my palms on the edge of the tub before locking my arms. Sighing, my face rests between my hands.
I groan, “All I’ve ever wanted was to see my dad look at me approvingly like he does that asshole, Steven.”
“Gina, lay off of the ‘asshole’ dispute. You’re a lady.”
Looking up at him, I chide, “Check yourself, Santa. You’re familiar with my pageant wave? I’ll ghost you for taking pleasure in my misery.”
Santino’s callused, wet hand runs along the side of my face. The touch is all the comfort I can stand at the moment. The subtlety of his show of support soothes my soul. He catches my teeth between his lips. In Italian, Santino declares, “I’ll be the only man you never call asshole, my beautiful future wife.”
Chest rising, I take a slow inhale. That would be nice. While washing Santino’s muscles, I pivot the story back over to the asshole. By my concluding remarks, I’ve shared twenty instances, over the past two years, where my name was on Steven’s fuck-ups.
“He tosses you under the bus like that’s the title they gave him. Maybe your dad’s training to transform you into a super-soldier at work.” Santino says, “I thought I had a lousy brother-in-law.”
“Never thought of it like that. Anyway, You do.”
“Shit, Gina, I’ll pop yours, then . . . I’ll pop mine. That sound good to you?”
I chuckle, tossing the loofah at his chest. “Santino, that’s nonsense! I thought you were going to offer to kill the asshole—ahem, Steven for me. Then I’d murder what’s his name?”
“Tony.”
My bottom lip drops. “Damn, Antonia was named after the asshole?”
“Yes. We call ‘em Big Tony on occasion, Bella. I can’t in good faith ask you to kill that idiot. He’s bigger than me. No muscles, I assure you, but I can’t imagine you doing him in. I’m getting angry just thinking about it. Make me feel better, Bella.”
I laugh as he drags me into the bathtub with him.
Pumpkin Spice Season!
* * *
17
Gina
Though Italy wasn’t in the cards this past summer, Santino and I took a trip to Atlantic City. We haven’t quite made it to the main casino to blow any dough.
The pipelines Santino worked on this past summer are now structurally sound. He’s moved to a new location clear across the city. On my end, Steven has been given more “assignments” to go with the new golden plaque title he keeps polishing. So for the past two weekends, I’ve fixed errors he’s made.
Last week, I missed out on a brief getaway with Santino. It’s late Thursday night when I cough—like my momma didn’t raise me any better.
Mimicking the countenance of a sick person, I spread imaginary germs along the corridor outside of my father’s office. He calls me inside.Cha-ching!
“Gina, sweetie.”
Entering the room, I place a hand over my mouth and fake another bout of coughing. “Y-yes, Dad?”
“You can stand right there, doll.” He smiles.
I move one more step just to be a semi-asshole about it. I worked hard for my she-devil title and have to assert myself any way I can these days, with Steven lurking around ready tohelp out.
“Dad?”
