Then we erupt into another round of giggles, followed by another round of drinks.
6
My hangover pounds against every inch of my skull, but it’s Sunday. Which means no matter what state I’m in, if I have a pulse I have to pull my sorry ass out of bed, gulp down a river of water and go to my parent’s house for lunch. It’s tradition, and there’s no excuses. My five-year-old nephew was born on a Sunday morning so my mum relocated lunch to my sister-in-law’s hospital room that day. If Lia can handle a room full of in-laws chowing down on pasta after she’s just pushed a baby out her hoo-ha, then my fragility can handle a hangover.
I pull on an old, oversized hoodie, scrape my hair into a messy pile on top of my head, and wince when I look into the bathroom mirror. Why, oh why, did my drunk ass not think to remove my makeup last night?
R.I.P to my white silk pillow-case.
After a minute of attacking my face with a wet-wipe and achieving nothing except moving the makeup around on my cheeks, I give up and trudge out of my ensuite, straight past my unmade bed and to the front door, proud of myself for remembering to snag my keys on the way out.
Thirty minutes, a packet of breath mints and a tram ride I’d rather forget later, I let myself into my parents’ house, dump my keys on the console and head down the hall into the dining room. My dad, olive-skinned from years of concreting out in the sun, is wearing his usual white singlet under suspenders and sitting in the same place I find him every Sunday. His spot at the head of the already-set table, with an open newspaper spread between his calloused hands.
“Hey, Dad.” I lean down to kiss his shaved head and a wave of nausea roils through me, prompting me to dump myself into the chair next to him.
He barely looks up from the paper. “Hello, my darling.” His voice is deep and gravelly, wrapping around me like a warm hug.
“Anything to report?” I ask Dad the same question I ask him every week as I lean back and rest my head against the chair. The room spins, so I close my eyes for good measure.
“Nothing good.” He sighs. Same as always. This is why I don’t read the news. The world is a depressing place.
My big brother Tony, who looks like a younger version of my dad with slightly longer hair, strides in from the kitchen and I hear him place something down on the table before taking the seat diagonally to me.
“Jeez, Gia,” he comments, amusement lining his voice, “you smell flammable.”
I give him a kick under the table that connects with his shin.
“Ouch!”
Cracking open an eye, I see a feast laid out on the table more suited to a banquet for twenty than lunch for six, which is standard for a Sunday here. At least I’ll be able to take home left-overs and save some pennies. Whichreminds me: I really need to sell another bag. Or better yet, get a real job.
“You look like shit,” Tony chuckles.
“Must be like looking in a mirror,” I throw back, albeit weakly, forcing another laugh out of him. My brother and I never pass up an opportunity to insult each other. It’s our love language.
My nephew comes bounding in from the kitchen, followed by his heavily pregnant mother, Lia.
“Aunty Gia! I’ve been waiting for you to play monster trucks with me!”
“Leo, baby, Aunty Gia doesn’t look well. Let’s save monster trucks for next week hey?” Lia croons to him, pulling out a chair and placing him on top of it. I throw her a grateful smile and she winks at me in return, mischief plastered all over her gorgeous face, and I just know she’s dying to ask me about my night. Since my separation, Lia has been living vicariously through me while her belly and her feet slowly swell by the minute.
“Yeah, bud,” Tony pipes up, ruffling his son’s hair. “You don’t want Aunty Gia spewing on your trucks.”
“Gross!” Leo scrunches his cute button nose and covers his mouth with his little dimpled hands. “Have you got the gastro, Aunty Gia?”
“Nah, bud, she has the Sunday scaries.” Tony laughs, and I offer him another kick. Tony is like my dad in so many ways, even following in his footsteps with the family concreting business.
My family is very traditional. Growing up, Tony had so much more freedom than me, being a boy and all. I was the one that had a curfew, the one that was expected to help cook and clean around the house, and I wasn’t allowed a boyfriend until I turned eighteen. And even then, it waspretty much expected that I married the first boy I dated. Tony came and went as he pleased and didn’t have to lift a bloody finger around the house. When we were kids, I didn’t think too much of it because that’s just the way it was; I was a girl so certain things were expected of me. But I definitely feel the sting of it as an adult.
Even now, the stigma of being a twenty-eight-year-old almost-divorcee with no children is a thorn in my mother’s side. One she constantly reminds me of.
As if my thoughts conjured her, Mum breezes into the dining room with a stack of plates and starts placing them around the table. The second she eyes me, she does a double take, her hand holding a plate frozen mid-air.
“Gianna, what on Earth happened to you?” Her eyes are round with shock as she takes in the current state of me. She looks immaculate, of course, her black hair twisted perfectly into its usual chignon.
“Drank half a bottle of tequila by the smell of it,” Tony mutters jovially.
Mum looks appalled as she continues placing dishes on the table.
