Page 35 of Falling for Them
Her brown eyes are irritated behind her large glasses.“Yes, but that young man upstairs is making a racket.Do you know him?”
“He’s my brother,” I say.“I’m so sorry.I’ll go up there and tell him to shut up.”
“He comes around often, doesn’t he?”she says.
“I’m really sorry if he disturbs you,” I say, then I give a wry chuckle.“He disturbs me, too, if that’s any consolation.”
“It is most certainlynota consolation.I would prefer if he doesn’t disturb anyone.Maybe he’ll go away if you ignore him.Come in and have some tea.”
I hesitate, worrying that Tommy will bother the hell out of everyone else if I don’t show up.
But he didn’t make plans with me.I’ve told him a hundred times that I prefer a head’s up when he’s coming over, because I get so little sleep as it is, it’s nice to know beforehand.
Maybe if I’m not there, he’ll take the hint and start calling.
I need to accept Mrs.Dali’s invitation—to be kind to myself.
“Yes, thanks,” I say, taking the remaining steps between us and going into her apartment.
I’ve rarely taken the time to look around her place, because usually I’m doing something fast, like dropping off her groceries or changing a lightbulb, or other things the landlord should be doing but never helps with.
It’s cheerful in here, with bright rugs and throw pillows, and loads of photographs hanging on the walls.Many of the photos are black and white, but a few are in color.
“My family and friends,” Mrs.Dali says fondly, when she sees me inspecting them.
“You must have had a big family,” I say.
“Oh, my family by blood was small, but my friend group?We were, and still are, huge and unstoppable.”The corners of her eyes crease as she flashes a huge smile.
“That sounds wonderful.”
A pang of admiration hits me, closing my throat.I want that—I want what she has—a found family that’s unstoppable.Mrs.Dali has visitors all the time, and I often pass her on the stairs when she’s on her way out to an event or gathering.
Mrs.Dali moves to the kitchen, where she makes us some tea.
“I have some food in the fridge, if you’re hungry,” she says.
My stomach growls, and we both laugh.
“I am hungry,” I say, “but I don’t want to eat your food, Mrs.Dali.”
“Oh, please, if you don’t eat it, it’ll all go to waste.I’ll fix you a plate if you pour the tea.”
A few minutes later, we’re sitting in her living room, a feast laid out before us.There’s quiche, a cold soup of some kind, a pasta salad, and little meatballs speared on toothpicks.
“Did you rob a caterer or something?”I ask.
She laughs.“No, I went to my friends’ anniversary party last night, and there were so many leftovers, they sent me home with an ice chest.You’re doing me a favor, Ella, by helping me eat it.”
We tuck in.She asks me all sorts of questions about my jobs, and about my brother.I briefly explain how our dad died, and how Tommy is struggling now.
“It’s one thing to struggle, like you are,” she says, “and another thing to struggle like he is—taking down everything and everyone around him.”
Her words are quiet and delivered with the kind of final-wisdom tone I would expect to hear from someone of her era.
“Do you think there’s any hope for him?”I ask.
She sighs.“A lot of that is up to him, dear.”Her gaze goes past me.“Did you drop something?”
