“He’s said no, Jackie.”
“Did he say he doesn’t want you?” Nicole asks the onions.
I don’t answer that for a second. The potato is done. I’m just holding it.
“Matteo.” Jackie’s voice drops a notch. “Did he say he doesn’t want you?”
“No. He said he can’t.”
“Those are not the same thing,” Nicole says.
“Those are not the same thing, Matteo,” Jackie repeats, harder.
“What are you listening to?” Nicole asks, over the onions.
The whole kitchen stops.
She’s looking at my phone on the counter next to the potato bowl. I didn’t know it was playing. It’s been playing the whole time, low, under the noise. One of the songs he sent me in November. I put it on in the rental car this morning and forgot it was still going.
“It’s a song,” I say.
“Who sent it?” Nicole asks, knowing full well how sent it.
“Nobody.”
“He’s lying,” Gina tells Jackie.
“He’s lying,” Nicole confirms.
“Who sent it, Matteo?” Jackie asks.
“Brooks.”
“When did he send this song?” Jackie is like a dog with a bone here. Though if I am honest, none of my sisters are going to let this go.
“November.”
“And you have been playing it since...?”
I don’t answer.
Jackie breathes out through her nose the way Ma does when she’s trying not to say something.
Gina tilts her head and studies me over the rim of her wine glass. “What did you give him?”
“What?”
“For Christmas. You gave him something. I know you, Matteo. What did you give him?”
“Pens.”
“Pens,” Jackie repeats, flat. “I expect better of you Matteo. We have standards here for gift-giving.”
“They are nice ones. I had the Atlanta Firebird logo engraved on the clips.”
“You gave this man engraved pens,” Jackie says.
“Why is everyone shouting at Matteo?”
