Page 30 of Come Back to Me

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Miss Giana.” Mama tugs her hand away and wipes it on the front of her long, fitted skirt.

Giana notices, but she’s too polite to call my mama out on her bullshit. I should, but I want to get her out of here as fast as possible. And the best way to do that is to not start something.

“What are you doing here, Mama? And since when do you find it acceptable to barge into someone’s house without knockin’?”

The expression she conjures up on her face is insulted, even though I know that’s fake too.

“I did. No one answered. And what do you think I’m doing here, Leonardo? I came to meet the lady that has you so head over heels that you can’t even return home after hearing your daddy had a stroke.”

“Mama,” I scold, frowning at her.

“And I came to see thisso-calledinvestment you’ve pouredyour inheritance into.” She glances around, turning this way and that. “Or should I say, the inheritance you’ve squandered?”

“Um…” Giana perks up, and it draws in both my and my mama’s attention. “I’m going to visit the restroom. Leo, why don’t you offer your mama something cold to drink. I believe we have some lemonade in the fridge. Please excuse me.”

My first instinct is to snatch her hand and keep her here with me. I need her strength by my side when dealing with my mother. Giana gives me a soft but confident smile, and I reluctantly release her.

We both watch her until she’s closed the bathroom door.

“How ’bout some lemonade?” I offer, knowing damn well she doesn’t want lemonade. It doesn’t stop me from offering or going to the fridge to hide my head in it.

“Leonardo, don’t you think you’ve been playing house long enough?” she snaps.

I spin around to face her, slamming the refrigerator door shut. I narrow my eyes at her where she stands, glaring right back at me, fists stuffed onto her hips. “I’m not playing, Mama.”

“Don’t give me that, Leo. You and I have been butting heads since you were knee-high to a grasshopper. But this time, son, there ain’t no wiggle room for arguing. This isn’t about me. It’s about your daddy. And right now, he needs you.” She finally stops talking long enough to suck in a measured breath.

I scrub a hand down my face. “He doesn’t need me, Mama. He never has.” The toilet flushes and it jolts my memory. I was supposed to give her the lemonade. “Just hire someone.”

“That’s not the same. He needs you. Hewantsyou.” She swipes the plastic tumbler I hold out to her, but not without judging it first.

You’re serving your mama a drink in a plastic cup?is what I imagine she’s thinking. But if she knew anything that was goingon here, if she cared at all, she’d know we’re in the middle of a home renovation.

So sorry we don’t have the crystal you’re used to, is what I want to mutter, but instead, I shout, “Well that’s too damn bad.”

“Excuse me?” Her accent always comes out thicker the angrier she gets. “After all he’s done for you? Ya’ll jus’ gonna say, too damn bad?”

I’ve probably heard my mama cuss maybe five times in my entire life.

“I’ve been working at the ranch practically since I could walk. I’ve put in my time, despite having zero interest in cattle. Now, I’ve found something—someone—I’m passionate about. And you want me to what? Throw it all away? Just like that?”

“I’m sure this Jul-Julia is a fine woman.” She pauses to clear her throat, though it’s not needed. I already know what she’s insinuating.

“Giana,” I correct her.

“Whatever.” She waves a hand dismissively, and I grit my teeth. “But it doesn’t disregard the obligations you have back home.”

“Fuck obligations.” I pound my fist onto the counter so hard tingles shoot up my arm.

When I glance up, not only does my mama look genuinely horrified, but Giana also stands there with an expression smeared on her face that says she’d rather be anywhere else than here right now. I don’t blame her. So would I.

Since no one else speaks, I continue, forcing back all reservations. I’m done playing the good son. “You’re the one who filed for a divorce. You’re the one who’s quitting on him. Not me. So why don’t you turn that finger around and point it at who’s really to blame here. ’Cause it ain’t me.” I swipe an ice-cold beer from the fridge, abandoning my lemonade on the counter, and retreat to the front porch.

Leaving Giana alone with Mama is probably not the best idea I’ve had. But if I stayed in there any longer, I’d say the rest of what I’ve had bottled inside for far too long. I don’t think either of us is ready for that shitshow.

I sit on the porch swing and take a long pull from my beer. The cold liquid coats my throat, and after I swallow, I exhale a satisfying breath. Two birds swoop low as they chase one another before returning to the blue sky and zipping near the tops of the trees. As I run my thumb along the wood of the porch swing, a sliver catches. The timing couldn’t be more perfect.

Sanding and painting the swing is on my long list of projects I have left to finish at the cabin. Just the thought of being unable to complete it has my stomach twisting in knots. The thought of leaving Giana makes me nauseous.

---