“Our parents set up and blackmail people for money.”
“Gigi–“
“Seriously, I mean, who does that? They’ve probably made enough money for a lifetime, so why are they still doing this kind of thing?”
There are so many reasons I think to myself. Because they’re bored. Because they’re good at it.
“It’s not my place to ask why our parents make their money the way they do.”
“Really, because they’re criminals and I think they may have even hurt people, Knox.” Her voice drops lower, as if she’s telling me a secret. A secret that seems to be eating her up inside. “Like permanently hurt them.”
I decide that I should tell her what she needs to hear without lying about anything. There’s always a way to spin an uncomfortable truth into an acceptable story.
“Our parents run a corporation that owns and invests in nightclubs, restaurants, and apartment buildings. Occasionally, they are hired to help someone get out of legal trouble when traditional methods have failed, but they cherry pick those clients and most of them are rarely dangerous.”
“And you say I’m the drama queen? You're the real actor. How long have you been preparing those carefully rehearsed lines? You sound like their public relations manager,” she scoffs. “Do you work for them now? Is that what you’ve doing in Miami all this time? Training for the business?”
“I already told you that I was staying with my aunt in Miami because I needed to get out of town for a while and regroup. I apologize for not keeping in touch because it clearly appears as if you missed me,” I tease trying to lift the mood.
Gigi leans on her hands to lift her butt on the kitchen counter in another inadvertent attempt to distance herself from me. When I see her do this, I want to think of her as the little Gigi who used to sit on our kitchen island counter and swing her legs back and forth while my mom cooked us grilled cheeses, but all I see is big Gigi; sitting with her legs slightly apart, in a nightshirt, on this kitchen counter, and how it would be so damn easy to slide my hand…
I close my eyes and do what my therapist taught me. “Regardless of the situation, take a deep breath and count to five before you react, Knox.”
“I thought you were an independent thinker?” Gigi says. “Your own man? What happened to the Knox I grew up with? The boy who was the lone wolf? The guy that didn’t need anyone’s approval. The boy that wanted to build bikes for a living and ride across the country?”
My eyes suddenly pop open and hold hers in place.
“I’m still here, all grown up, and in full understanding of who I am and what I come from. Our parents came from nothing and worked their asses off to give us the lives we have now. That’s the difference between you and me, I’m grateful for all of that and not ashamed of anything.”
We’re in another stare off.
She thinks we’re having a power struggle, but what’s really going on is an internal battle with myself. I’m trying to quiet the loud questions that keep running through my head as she stares me down like this. Questions like, what would be the harm in me sliding my hand under that nightshirt and rubbing her clit until her angry eyes turned to needy ones. And other questions like: what will Gigi look like when she comes? How will she sound? What will she taste like?
“Are you saying that I’m not appreciative of what I’ve got? Are you insinuating that I’m a spoiled brat?”
I close my eyes and remember again what I’ve been taught.
Five, four, three, two, one.
“Hey, Jackass! Are you falling asleep while I’m talking to you?”
“I’m meditating.”
“In the middle of our conversation?”
“It’s necessary.”
“Because I get on your nerves that badly?” she questions with disbelief.
“Something like that.”
“That settles it. You’re sleeping on the floor again and you’ll be lucky if I give you a goddamn pillow.”
“That’s okay, brat, I brought my own.”
I duck as an empty bottle of sparkling kombucha flies straight for my forehead.
Crazy Queenie.
