Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Romeo
Ivy is kinder than most clients. She doesn't wake me up.
No. That honor belongs to my mother.
My phone rings five times in a row.
I answer with a sleepy voice. "Good morning to you too."
"It's past nine a.m. sweetheart," she say, in Italian. "I thought you had a job."
"I set my own hours." That's true.
"I need to talk to you," she says. "About your brother."
"What about him?" I ask.
There's a gentle knock on the door. "Hey, Romeo."
"Oh, I see. Of course." Mom laughs. "Mija, do you really think you're going to meet the one this way?"
"Mama. I'm not. Hold on." I put my phone on hold and meet Ivy at the door. She’s already dressed for work, whereas I’m naked in her bedroom.
She doesn't hide her stare.
"Can you give me ten minutes?" I ask.
"Five." She checks me out one more time, then she closes the door.
Where is she going?
She's an adult. She has a job. Of course, she wants me out of her house. Not everyone falls in love with me the first time we have sex. Despite popular belief, plenty of women enjoy sex for the sake of it. Plenty of women enjoy sex without strings, without getting confused about their feelings.
Sure, I'm good, but—
Dammit, I'm getting distracted.
"Sweetheart?" My mother asks. "Who is that? Or do you even know her name?"
"What's wrong, mom?"
"Your brother. He didn't tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
"No. Of course he wouldn't." She tsk-tsks in the way she does. "You know he's always worried about you and Cynthia."
"What's there to worry about?"
"Romeo." She puts so much emphasis on my name. The way Daniel does, but without the condescension. It's all in those three syllables.
She's right, of course. She doesn't have to explain.
Cynthia didn't start out as Daniel's fiancée. She was my best friend. My very platonic best friend.
She fell for him right away. He's the one who didn't see her that way. Mom says we have a romantic love story, two friends who never realized they love each other. Or she did. Until she and Daniel got serious.
Well, until a few years after she and Daniel got serious.
This is Mom’s story, isn’t it? Daniel doesn’t care.
"He's in a tizzy, darling. He's having visions of Cynthia walking down the aisle, seeing you standing in the best man spot, realizing she's marrying the wrong brother," she says.
"This isn't a telenovela," I say. This is her vision, not his.
"He thinks you feel it too," she says. "And that's why you've never found someone."
"That's ridiculous."
"Then why haven't you found someone?" she asks.
So, he didn't believe I have. Or he didn't relay that to her.
Ivy knocks again. "Hey, Romeo—"
"Who is that?" Mom asks.
Has it already been five minutes?
No. I was supposed to leave last night. I was supposed to leave after an hour. I'm the one who needs to go. "Mama, I need to go. My—"
"Don't bother to lie, sweetheart. We both know you're not good at it. I don't care what you do as long as you do it well. And use protection. There’s a reason I never took you to mass.” She mutters a curse in Italian. Unusual for her. She’s usually the sort of Catholic who never criticizes the church. “Calm him down. I love you."
"I love you too," I say.
She hangs up.
Ivy moves into the room.
I'm still naked.
She's still staring.
There is something sexy about it, the doctor in her business casual slacks and blouse, in stylish, simple shades of olive.
The color of the leaves on the tree, not the olives themselves. One of my favorite colors.
We had a tree in our front yard when I was a kid. Before we got all that money and moved into that ridiculous mansion. Well, I suppose we had the money for a few years. Great-Aunt Marisol helped out for a while.
We weren’t rich until she died. That’s when we moved into the ridiculous mansion. Dad’s dream. Not that he got to enjoy much time there. The change killed him.
"Girlfriend?" Ivy asks.
"Mom," I say.
"Oh." Her lips curl into a smile. There's something disarming about it. She's back into that poised professor mode, but she's still charmed by my mother calling me at the crack of dawn. Okay, the crack of nine a.m.
Well, and then some. "I'll get—" My phone interrupts me with another ring. "Sorry. Mom again." What does she want? "Mama, I'm busy. What is it?"
"Daniel says you have a girlfriend now," she says. "But he doesn't believe it. Who would?"
"Can I call you back?" I ask.
"No. That's her, isn't it?" Her voice drops to a different tone. The difficult woman who always gets her way. "If you're sticking to that story," she says in Italian. Then she goes off with a string of curses that would make Dante weep. This woman is a true Italian poet.
She’ll do this for a while. I can mute myself for thirty seconds. "Can I ask you for a weird favor?” I ask Ivy. “I'll give you an hour, free."
"Depends what it is," Ivy says.
"Can you talk to my mom?" I say. "Tell her I'm a great boyfriend."
"Right now?" she asks.
"Or I could call back. If you have work," I say.
"I'm not a good liar," she says. "And I don't know anything about you. Is Romeo your real name?"
"It is," I say.
"What does she think you do?" she asks.
"Consulting. Business," I say.
"And how did we meet?" she asks.
"Make up something fun," I say.
"And the basis of our relationship?" she asks.
"You don't have to stretch the truth too far," I say. "She'll think it started with sex."
"Your mom will say that?"
"She's Italian."
She looks at me funny. Ivy isn't Italian. Or Latin. She's distinctly American. U.S. American. Orange County, California American.
Even though she's a professional, she's a little uptight about things like sharing details with family.
Not that Mom would ever ask details.
She just wouldn't shy away from the subject either.
Girls want Daniel for his brains.
They want me for my looks.
Though he's got the same looks. So, I suppose that says more about what she thinks about my brains.
"Romeo!" She lets out another string of curses.
"I tried to stay on your side with your brother.
He said it was lies. Or is it worse? Are you sleeping around on her?
That isn't how I raised you. Don't throw around that bullshit that Italian men have to cheat.
Do you know how many men told me that when I was your age? "
"Didn't you marry Dad at that age?" I ask.
"Before that," she says. "They act as if it's in their blood.
" She makes a spitting noise. "Disgusting.
And your father's friends were no better.
But your father…" She lets out a long sigh as she drifts into poet mode.
After all, who could ever compare to her late husband. What love story could be better?
This might take a while.
I better speed things along.
"Do you want to talk to her?" I ask. "She has to work soon. It will need to be quick." I motion five minutes to Ivy.
She nods. "There's tea in the kitchen. And coffee… somewhere. I keep it for Meredith. My best friend. Never mind. It’s not important."
I hand her the phone.
She takes it awkwardly. "Is your name really Bonito?"
Shit, am I going to have to tell her my last name already? No. I can give her Mom's. She goes by that, usually. "Call her Mrs. Galante."
"Your name is Romeo Chivalry?" she asks.
"Not exactly," I say. "Dad is from Mexico. It's complicated."
"So, it's Romeo, Middle Name Chivalry, Dad's Last Name."
That's about it. I nod.
"Still." She laughs. "That's a lot."
"She's a lot." I grab a pair of boxers. Decide against the rest of my clothes. I'll be more persuasive in this state.
I hang near the door while Ivy speaks to my mother.
Not that Ivy speaks much.
It's mostly my mom going on, half in Italian, while Ivy says, yes, of course, Romeo is a great guy. (She’s loud enough I can hear, even without the phone on speaker).
I give her a little space, get ready in the bathroom—I still pack a disposable toothbrush—search for coffee in the kitchen. It's small, like most California kitchens, but it's warmer than the rest of the house. Filled with herbs, spices, teas.
One bottle of gin. One bottle of tonic. One bag of limes.
She knows what she likes.
Mom would like that. Like her.
The instant coffee, not so much, but a craftsman never blames his tools. Even instant coffee can make something good, if you know what to do with it. I brew it extra strong. Look for milk or sugar, something to take off the edge of bitter and sour sure to come through with cheap beans.
Regular milk. Full fat. Mom will love that.
Good cheese.
Tomatoes. Eggs. Fresh fruit and vegetables. A well-stocked kitchen for one. Another point for Ivy. She takes care of herself, knows how to cook, uses fresh food.
There isn't a single prepared sauce in her kitchen, actually.
Only a salsa. And dad, well, he never was the chef in the family.
He never was picky. He bought all his salsa at Trader Joes, because it was cheap, because it was good enough.
But he certainly wasn't Mr. Authenticity. He put pineapple salsa on everything.
I miss him.
I do.
I just wish I didn't have another Flores man to fail to stack up to.
Ivy finishes the call with my mother and moves into the living room. "That was different."
"Sorry. My mom is a lot."
"She sounds sweet."
"She is." I take a sip to test the black coffee. Over brewed. I can taste it. I need to balance with milk. "Do you have to get to work?"
"I have some time." She looks at the jar of instant coffee. "Is it that bad?"
"Does it show on my face?" I ask.
She nods. "I guess I'll take it as a sign you weren't faking anything last night."
A laugh spills from my lips. She's funny. I like that in a woman. That's what I liked about Sasha, right away, but we never had that chemistry.
"I thought about getting a coffee set up for my best friend, but I sort of like rebelling against coffee's cultural dominance. It already has the country. It doesn't get my house too."
She's cute. She really is. "It's a nice place."
"Do you, uh, need something or—?"
"Can I get dressed and get the fuck out of your house?"
"I'm enjoying the view, don't get me wrong. But I do have things to do."
I like her. Actually like her. It’s not smart. She’s a client, not a real date, but at the moment I don’t care. I need to bring someone to the wedding and she’s perfect. "I want to ask you a favor."
"Another?" she asks.
"A continuation."
She moves to the kitchen, sits at the little round table, sips her cup of amber tea.
"You know how you played my girlfriend this morning?"
"Sure."
"How would you like to do that at my brother's wedding?"