Page 11 of Bingeworthy
I peek at her through my fingers. Recognition registers on Mom’s face. “Oh, no! You think I’m having an affair?”
I blink at her. “You’re not?”’
“My god! No!” She looks at me like I’ve never offended her so deeply in my life.
“Then what in the hell are we talking about, Mom?”
Lucille doubles over. I wait for an explanation. Then, she rights herself, tosses her head back, and laughs maniacally. And still, I wait.
Finally, she recovers. “Last summer, your father and Rocco talked. Honey, that man has been torturing himself for years.”
“Over what?”
Mom comes at me with her arms outstretched and folds me into a gentle hug. “Oh, honey. Every year, you come home for the holidays with a different boyfriend. And every year, Rocco skips town like a thief in the night.”
My brow furrows. “I don’t get it. What does his torturing himself over what happened at prom have anything to do with me having boyfriends?”
She pats my cheek. “Baby. I’m tired. And I love you, but sometimes, you’re very dense. Now. Your father needs to butter that bird, and I’m going to take a nap. I’ll see you at dinner. Wear something cute!”
I stare at my mom when I realize what’s going on here.
Lucille and Derek had a motive for that ride in from the city. My parents are pushing Rocco and me together so we can be…well, together.
Not in my wildest dreams…
Agog, I watch her swan across the room. “You finagled everything?”
She yawns. “Yes, my love. We did.”
“But why?”
“What’s the matter? Don’t you like him?”
Chapter Five
Istare across the table at Rocco as my scheming dad carves the turkey. Meanwhile, my conniving mother refills everyone’s drinks.
Does Rocco know that I know?
“Tiffany, can you please pass the cranberries?”
Jumping at the sound of my name, my leg kicks out under the table and my socked foot comes in contact with something that’s definitely not a table leg.
But it is somebody’s leg. That leg belongs to Rocco, who’s been seated right across from me.
I don’t move my foot from where it touches Rocco’s shin.
Rocco looks up from his mashed potatoes and gives me the slightest smirk.
“Earth to Tiffany?”
I turn and see both Jill and Jen staring at me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, reaching for the bowl of my mother’s orange-infused home-cooked cranberries.
“The sliced ones. The ones shaped like the can,” Jill says. “Geez, it’s like you don’t even know me.”
Throughout the rest of Thanksgiving dinner, everyone around the table is otherwise engaged in their own side conversations. Everyone except me.
