Page 13 of Forbidden Girl

That’s an Italian thing, too. And even though my father is annoyingly proud to be Irish, that’s one of my mom’s customs he adopted; all the most important conversations in Italian households happen around the kitchen table. It’s where I told my parents I wanted to go away to college. And where I told them I was gay. Now I have something I can’t tell them. Someone I can’t tell them about. The thought hits me like a sledgehammer wielded by a mugger I didn’t see coming. “I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask if you were hungry, topolina, I asked if you’d eaten.”

Topolina. Little mouse. She hasn’t called me that in a long time. There is no escape, so I shouldn’t bother trying. I follow her through the dining room—the clicking of my heels against the tile floor grates my nerves more and more with every step—and into the kitchen.

“Frittata?” she asks, already in the fridge.

“Whatever you want. You’re the chef.” I take my usual seat at the glass table.

“With spinach and mushrooms. They’re already cooked from dinner last night,” she says, more to herself than to me, but I give her a nod anyway.

She makes quick work of mixing the ingredients in a bowl and heating a deep skillet on the stovetop. This is the quiet part. Well, the part where I’m quiet. She hums to herself when she cooks. I’ve always thought it was adorable. I use the silence to think up answers to the questions I know are soon to follow, but all my brain can conjure are lies.

I’m good at lying. Or telling half-truths, at least. All the most convincing lies have a hint of truth to them. My dad usually bites because he doesn’t want to believe that I could be dishonest with him. I can never seem to get one past my mother, though. She can sniff out bullshit like a bloodhound. Sometimes she lets me slide, other times she pries. Today she’s going to pry. I’ve given her good cause to.

She slides a plate full of egg concoction in front of me, along with a knife and fork, then joins me at the table. “So…”

And “so” it begins. “So?”

“How are Rose and Shannon?”

She’s fishing. “They’re okay. Shannon’s going back to New York next week.” Truth.

“Oh, Columbia’s semester starts early.”

Perfect set-up. “Yeah. She mentioned taking a girls’ trip this weekend; her parents bought that house on the Vineyard last year.” Half-truth. “Think you could convince Dad to let me go without the Garda following me?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“On if you tell me what’s been going on with you. You’re not normally such a ‘slippery eel.’ You used to like spending time with Teague and Gino, but now you seem bothered by them.”

“I liked hanging out with Teague before he decided to work for Dad. Gino has a kid sister of his own to look after; it isn’t right that he’s stuck looking after me so often.” Whole truth. Surprising.

“Alright. That’s fair. But there’s more to it.”

“There isn’t.” I sigh. I can tell by the way she’s looking at me that she’s not buying it.

“Mangia prima che faccia freddo!”

“Okay, okay!” I slice into the omelet with my fork, take a bite.

“You’ve been disappearing without telling us you’re going out,” she continues, “and I’ve had to hear your father complain about it.”

Another bite. Masticate. Swallow. Rinse and repeat.

“And when you come home from these secret outings, you’re in a very good mood.”

Because I’ve had multiple orgasms. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, it’s a fantastic thing.” She gives me the Mom Look, that expression of clairvoyance, like she’s an all-knowing oracle. “In fact, I’d quite like to meet the woman who’s been making my daughter so happy.”

I almost laugh. Almost. Because that’s impossible. The more I think about the idea, the more impossible it seems. “Okay, fine. I am seeing someone. But you meeting her is not going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“Because Dad would have a conniption,” I let slip before I have time to take another bite of my food.

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