I dragged my tongue across the front of my teeth and nodded. It didn’t go unnoticed that my father was having dinner with his personal secretary and the son of the man he hated almost as much as he hated me.
“What about Anthony Sr.?”
My mother shook her head.
“Right.” I cleared my throat.
“And you?” she glanced at me before arranging the last shell in the dish and sliding it into the oven.
“Not invited.”
I gave her a fake smile that I hoped was passable, but she knew me better than anyone else and could see right through me. She exhaled loudly and washed her hands, drying them on a clean towel before coming back around to where I’d perched to watch her. She took my face in her hands and raised my chin so she could inspect the cut on my face. In the light, I could see a scar on her cheek that I’d never noticed before and it looked a lot like the one I was sure to have when this cut managed to heal.
My blood boiled.
My mother let go of my face and stepped back, wiping her hands on her apron and looking away.
“You should get stitches,” she said softly, “so it doesn’t scar.”
“I don’t mind a scar.”
She chuckled and shook her head. “I didn’t think you would. Come on then, at least a butterfly bandage.”
She set off down the hallway, knowing I would trail behind her, which I did. In the downstairs guest bathroom, I sat down on the shag-covered toilet lid and let my mother fuss over my face. Alcohol and peroxide and two butterfly bandages to hold my face together.
After she was done, she stepped back and let me stand. Without warning, she hugged me, slipping her slender arms around my waist and pressing her cheek against my chest. Instinctively, I stiffened, but let out a breath and returned her embrace, holding her until she was done with the hug.
“Be careful, Sage,” she said quietly.
“Sssh,” I returned her shushing from earlier. “You know he hates when you call me that.”
“He’s upstairs. He can’t hear us.”
“I’ve always been a disappointment,” I reminded her. “He’ll get over this just like he’s gotten over everything else.”
“Mixing up basil and sage in the sauce is one thing.”
“I was six.”
“Peppino.” She slipped back to the endearment she’d called me since I was a baby.
“I’m fine, Mama.” I cradled her face in my hands and gave her a look that I hoped was convincing. “I’ll be careful.”
I gave her a gentle push and she shook her head before opening the bathroom door and stepping into the hallway.
“Since I’m not invited to dinner, I’m going to make myself scarce,” I said.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“Out,” she mocked, slapping my chest with minimal effort. “I need to go start the salad.”
“You be safe,” I told her.
Her steps faltered and she paused, like she was going to turn around and say something to me, but after a beat, she continued her retreat to the kitchen.
Thankful for the reprieve, I practically ran to the front door and off the porch. My car was parked in the driveway and I slipped into the driver’s seat, tossing my keys into the cup holder before pushing the ignition button. The engine roared to life and whatever song I’d been listening to blasted through the speakers. I unrolled the windows, flipping off my father’s second floor office window before backing out of the driveway and heading toward my apartment.
