124. Riley
ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-FOUR
The private jet”slanding kills any happy orgasmic feelings I have.
Instead, it marks the beginning of what”s sure to be a hellish, emotional journey. We step out of the private jet and immediately into a waiting black SUV. Gabriel”s men flew ahead of us and are here to whisk us away, through the city and to South Boston.
”Where are they going to stay?” I hiss from the backseat at Gabriel, gesturing with a nod to the front, where the two beefy Italian bodyguards sit.
”They”re in a hotel near your parents” home.”
”Good. Because the two of them in an all-Irish neighborhood...” I visibly shudder. It was going to be difficult enough bringing a tall, muscular, well-dressed Italian to Southie. Add his Sopranos-looking bodyguards to the mix and we”ll be screwed.
Gabriel takes my hand. ”Please don”t worry. This is going to be wonderful. You”ll see.”
”We”ll see,” I say ominously, as we navigate the familiar streets toward my parents” South Boston apartment. Gabriel”s supportive presence by my side is a lifeline amidst my mounting apprehension.
The SUV pulls onto my street, one of the main drags of the neighborhood. The vehicle comes to a stop and the bodyguard opens the door for me.
I don”t move.
”Babe?” Gabriel asks.
”Uh, okay.” I scramble out, feeling completely unprepared for this visit. Maybe this wasn”t the best idea.
As I step onto the weathered street, the neighborhood enfolds me in its rawness. The brick buildings stand stoic and weather-worn, their facades adorned with remnants of graffiti and worn-out storefronts.
The streets, etched with decades of stories, ripple with a palpable energy, a unique blend of resilience and Irish nostalgia. The air carries the tang of salt from the nearby ocean, intermingling with the faint scent of hops from the pub downstairs from my parents” apartment.
Each corner holds a memory: where Lorna and I smoked our first (and only) cigarette, where we paid older guys to buy beer for us, where we played hopscotch as girls. My knees feel rubbery, my head fuzzy, like I”m going to pass out.
”I dunno about this,” I mutter to Gabriel as we walk toward the apartment door.
”What did you say? I couldn”t hear you,” he says.
”Never mind.”
Ascending the weathered steps, I hesitate at the door. Should I knock, or walk in?
Even though this was my home for a total of two decades, I feel like a total stranger. Impulsively, I try the door. It”s open. Stepping into the dimly lit apartment, the faded wallpaper and worn furniture whisper stories my melancholic past.
”Mom? Dad?” I call out, my voice echoing in the room as the scent of stale cigarette smoke lingers in the air. It”s my mother who appears first, her weary smile and distant gaze casting a disconcerting shadow over the room.
”Momma,” I greet her with a tight hug, feeling the fragility in her bones. She”s so thin. When did she lose weight? She was never heavy, but now she feels as though I could snap her in two. Her strawberry blonde hair — the same shade as mine — is pulled back into a limp ponytail. Still, she smells faintly of the same rose perfume I remember from my childhood.
It makes me hug her tighter.
Gabriel observes silently. He”s smiling and keeping a respectful distance as he surveys the modest surroundings. He must think I grew up like an animal, considering all the luxury in his life since he was born.
Mom and I stop hugging, and her eyes trail to Gabriel, who”s standing there with his hands in his pockets.
”This is Gabriel Greco. My boyfriend, er... yeah,” I introduce him formally. My mother”s distant smile barely masks her disconnection as she acknowledges him.
”Nice to meet you, signora,” Gabriel offers politely, kissing her on both cheeks.
Oh, shit. I forgot to tell him to ease up on the Italian. I paste on a smile.
”I understand why you”re so taken with him.” Mom grins, the first indication of life. She pats him on the cheek. ”Very handsome.”
I giggle, Gabriel blushes, but then Mom sobers.
My mother”s fleeting acknowledgment is followed by a momentary lapse, her eyes flickering with an unspoken melancholy. ”Let me get your father. He”s watching TV. I”m so glad to see you, dear. Glad you brought Gabriel home to meet us. I missed you.”
Mom says all this like she”s speaking underwater, but I can”t help but notice the tears pooling ini her eyes She drifts away, disappearing into the recesses of the apartment, leaving a lingering sense of unease. What is wrong with her?
I can”t meet Gabriel”s gaze. This is all too embarrassing, on so many levels. There”s still time to flee to a hotel...
Still time to return to Florida. We have a private jet. We could give Dad his gift, have lunch with them, and flee later tonight. Yes, I”ll ask Gabriel about this as soon as we”re alone.
My mother disappears to fetch my father from the dimly lit living room where the TV casts flickering shadows. Gabriel”s polite smile contrasts sharply with the thick tension in the air. Dad emerges, his eyes meeting mine with a cold, unreadable stare.
”Hey,” I say softly, going to my father and flinging my arms around him. He responds with a half, one-armed hug. Dad”s put on weight, and smells like he always does: like stale cigarettes and fresh beer. My stomach instinctively tightens.
I break away and realize Dad”s staring at my fiancée.
”This is Gabriel,” I introduce hesitantly. Gabriel extends his hand, met with a stiff nod from my father. ”He”s my boyfriend.”
”Nice to meet you, sir,” Gabriel says, the air thickening with the weight of unspoken discomfort. ”Thank you for having us this weekend, your birthday weekend. It will be great to celebrate and get to know Riley”s family.”
He puts his hand on the small of my back. My father looks like he”s going to murder Gabriel, or vomit. Or both.
An uncomfortable silence blankets the room.
Mom breaks the silence. ”Come into the kitchen, everyone. I”ve made a tea cake and we can have some coffee.”
”I”ll take a beer,” Dad says gruffly, although it”s only eleven in the morning and I already smelled hops on my father when I hugged him.
The tension thickens like quicksand as we gather around the worn kitchen table. My mother, her slender form moving with a sense of fragility, serves steaming cups of coffee and slices of her homemade tea cake.
”I missed your cake, Mom,” I say, plastering on a grin. It looks as delicious as ever, and I grab a fork.
Trying to ignore the silence, I dig in and take a huge bite.
Oh my god. It”s awful.
What”s going on? It”s as if Mom dumped salt into the mix rather than sugar. I choke down the mouthful.
Mom beams at me ”How is it, dear?”
I take a sip of bitter coffee to wash it down. ”Great, mom. Great.”
What the hell is happening here? With mounting unease I watch as Gabriel takes a bite, chews, then swallows. He gulps his coffee.
”Delicious, signora,” he says, flashing his most alluring smile.
I”m grateful for his manners, but my father snorts and rolls his eyes while cracking open a can of cheap beer.
Oh my God.
The room”s dim light amplifies the hushed tension, casting elongated shadows that dance against the faded walls. It”s bright and sunny and hot outside, but in here, it”s cool, dank, and dark.
Taking a tentative sip of the coffee, I attempt to break the ice. ”The neighborhood looks great,” I offer, trying to lighten the atmosphere.
My father, nursing his beer, grunts in response, his silence bearing the weight of disapproval. A snarky retort lingers on his lips, but he refrains from vocalizing it, opting instead for a cold, calculated stare directed at Gabriel.
Gabriel, ever the diplomat, tries to ease the tension. ”It was a great day to fly, wasn”t it? The jet was smooth, wasn”t it, Riley? We flew private.”
”Yeah,” I reply, avoiding eye contact with my father. ”And Gabriel hasn”t been to Boston in years. Have you?”
Gabriel shakes his head. ”I have a friend from college here, though. He runs a computer startup.”
He turns to me. ”Maybe we can have drinks with him while we”re here.”
”Maybe,” I say noncommittally, hoping we won”t have drinks with anyone and we”ll leave ASAP.
My father”s disapproval is palpable as he fixates on Gabriel. The room feels stifling, suffocating almost, as the weight of my father”s unspoken judgment looms over us.
”I made up the bunk beds for you both,” Mom offers. ”It might be weird sleeping in your old room, but that”s the best we can do, unless you”re planning to stay in a hotel...”
She turns to stare out the window.
”Thank you for the hospitality, we”re happy to stay here.” Gabriel offers politely, his words lingering in the uneasy stillness.
Finishing coffee, ignoring the terrible cake, I glance at Gabriel, a silent plea for an escape from this stifling situation. ”I”m just going to show Gabriel the apartment,” I announce, the tension palpable in my voice. ”Okay?”
Mom nods and Dad waves his hand at us, as if to say, have at it.
We escape the kitchen, retreating to the solace of my childhood room. I”m deeply embarrassed to discover that my mother has not taken down my Backstreet Boys poster.
”I can”t do this,” I confess to Gabriel, my voice laced with frustration and vulnerability. ”I can”t stay here. Not with this tension, this... disapproval.”
Gabriel”s reassuring touch on my shoulder offers solace amidst the turmoil. ”We can leave. We don”t have to be here if it”s making you uncomfortable,” he assures me, his voice a comforting anchor in the tempest. ”But I think we should stay a night or two. It”ll get better. You”ll see. I understand where your father”s coming from, Riley. You”re his only daughter, and you”re bringing a man into his domain. Have you ever brought a guy home? That”s gotta be tough for him.”
I shake my head. It”s impressive how Gabriel is taking all this weirdness in stride. I love him so much. ”I guess. Didn”t think of it that way.”
”See?” He rubs my back. ”Imagine what I”ll be like when our daughter brings a man home?”
I finally laugh, genuinely. ”That poor guy. He”s not even born, and already he”s screwed.”