I throw Ben an indignant look and hiss under my breath, "Didn't you say they didn't hear?"
"I said my parents," he says quickly, then shrugs at Mara and Paul. "Guess that makes us even?"
He means Nevada. But they don't know that, so they frown at each other.
Ben sits between Mara and me and pours himself a big Americano, probably also hungover.
His hand brushes Mara's belly and she swats him away, even though she's smiling.
Carmela's gaze sweeps across the table. "What's up with everyone this morning? You're all being very strange."
"Nothing. Everyone's still drunk," Mara laughs it off, then turns her beam on me. "You guys are coming for Christmas, right?"
Ben answers before I can, between crunching his toast. "Wouldn't miss it."
Carmela clasps her hands together, elated. "Bene!The whole family together. Finally."
"They might fire me from my job, but I'll try for New Year's too," he says.
"You went to Mount Sinai already?" Carmela asks, trying for casual and failing again.
He flicks me a glance, then back at his mother, saying something in Italian I'm sure is meant for me not to catch and then adds, "Not yet, next week."
Carmela, being her own boss, nods at him with full English, "You should go there sooner than later."
"Mount Sinai?" I ask, frowning. "As in the hospital where you used to work? In New York?"
"Mm." Brusque. He nods at the plate, his charm locked. "The eggs you made are excellent, baby. Better than Mom's."
I narrow my eyes. "Of course they're not. You're lying."
He makes an innocent face. "I'm not. They're really good. Creamy. Just like how I like them."
"Why are you going to Mount Sinai?" I whisper, my toneletting him know he's not getting away with it.
He shrugs, voice low. "Just want to see my old colleagues."
"And are you going to tell me laterwhyyou want to see your old colleagues?"
He sips his coffee. "What's there to tell? I haven't seen them in a while."
"You saw half of them at Mara's wedding."
"Yeah. Missed the rest. There's nothing more to it."
I narrow my eyes even more and give him a tight smile. "Sure, Ben."
35
I hate packing more than unpacking. At least with unpacking, you're building a life, but packing is tearing one down.
I fold dresses and t-shirts, grumbling along the way.
Meanwhile, Ben plays DJ, his playlist a Frankenstein of Nas and Frank Sinatra. And then that one slip when he played "More Than a Woman" by the Bee Gees, which I poked him about.
He's also been occasionally pacing with his phone, muttering at some app he won't tell me about, which only feeds my nerves.
I hope he's just fighting the Wi-Fi router again; that's what it is.
