And she must be if she raised a man like this.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jeff
Lesson 28: Nothing like a small car and a long ride to force your hand.
There’s no chance in hell Devon is going to talk about what’s going on here between us. I’ve never seen someone so capable of avoidance. Between her and Jenny, I feel like I’m invisible, watching reality unfold, yelling that I’m there, but no one can hear me. Whatever is going on at home is driving me insane. This powerless feeling—it’s killing me. I’ve always been the one my mom and sister turn to in a crisis. Jenny’s past aside, their dependence on me is a huge reason why I chose med school—the financial stability and ability to provide. Now they want to shut me out? If it hadn’t been for Devon’s soft, soothing grip anchoring me back to the car, then I might just be in a bar in the Meadowlands drinking off the burn in my chest.
Which brings us back to the infuriating denial Devon is choosing to wrap around her. If she’s going to roll into her shell like an armadillo every time I broach the topic of—whatever this is—I’m just going to have to find another way in.
Tara’s voice derails my train of thought and floods the interior of the car, her pitch high, her pace approaching frantic while telling us the quickest route as we crawl up Greenwich Street passing a string of high-end boutiques and art galleries.
“Now what street are you at?” Tara asks, her breathing heavy like she’s been chasing her tail for hours.
“Still at tenth,” Devon tells her. “You need to breathe.”
“I’m setting up the pre-game bar and apps,” Tara wheezes.
“And you’re sprinting because?”
“You are five blocks away!”
Devon rolls her eyes as the light turns green and we inch forward another ten feet. The traffic is as draining as listening to Tara run a marathon around her apartment.
“I’m going to send Marcello down now. You guys come up and he’ll park the car?—”
“It’s ok. I can find a parking gar?—"
“No. You’re our guest! I’ve got all the ingredients for a Sicilian mule waiting for you,” she says, and I’m surprised that she remembered our nostalgic-drink conversation from that morning on the way to Jefferson. It was such a tiny blurb, but obviously thoughtfulness runs strong in the Gallagher family blood. I glance over at Devon and she’s smiling at me like she knows I’m about to crumple like a coffee filter.
“Alright,” I say. “Where should we pull?—”
“Marcello’s already on his way! See you in five,” Tara squeals and hangs up.
“You can’t really say no to Tara,” Devon says.
I nod. “I can see that. My sister isn’t much different,” I tell her. But she doesn’t need an explanation. She got to witnessJenny’s dictatorship firsthand when she refused to tell me what the hell is going on and hung up on me as if I were a telemarketer.
We pull across 13thStreet and I’m about to ask her if she’s excited to meet this Marcello when there’s a frantic banging on the passenger side window and Devon screams and jumps onto the console so that half of her ass is on my right thigh. My foot slips off the brake on impact, but I catch my toe on the grip at the last second and push down hard to keep us from rolling under the pick-up truck in front of us. There’s another loud bang and I look to find a very tan, dark-haired man smiling like a lunatic as he presses his palms against Devon’s window. At first, I think it’s an aggressive homeless person, but Devon lets out a string of curses followed by a chuckle. She shifts back into her seat, reaching for the window button. Before I have the chance to ask her what the hell she’s thinking, the window is down and the man is leaning into the car, kissing Devon’s cheeks with the enthusiasm of a dog awaiting its long-lost master.
“Marcello,” Devon says, when she glances over at me. I must look shocked or confused because she pats my leg and tells me slowly to put the car in park, like she’s explaining how to solve a complicated equation to one of her students.
“I knew eet was you from de pictures. Bella sorella,” Marcello booms. His voice is rich and velvety, and his teeth are so white I’m hypnotized. “You must be Jeff, no?”
“Yes,” I manage to say. It’s hard to breathe around this man’s energy and the shock of having half a body hovering over Devon’s legs.
Marcello nods and slips out of the window frame then starts to walk/bounce around the front of the car. He opens the door for me. People are honking behind us and Marcello barely blinks while he motions with his hands at a man who leans out of his window behind us to scream expletives in our direction. I standup out of the car and I’m immediately embraced in the most solid man-hug of my life.
“Un piacere,” Marcello tells me, patting me on the shoulder. “I am very glad to meet you. I will take it from here. Vai. Enjoy.”
He slides into the car as Devon pops out the other side and before I have a chance to even check my pocket for my phone and wallet, Marcello has screeched away at a speed I didn’t know my car could reach.
“Holy shit,” Devon whispers. Cars are still honking. We are standing in the middle of the road staring at each other like we just survived a tornado.
I remember how to walk and grab her arm as we play frogger around the cars passing by impatiently. “He’s—wow. I mean he’s?—”
“Perfect for Tara,” Devon finishes with a laugh.
