“Yeah, yeah.” I wave her off as I type a response, only to erase it.
“That sucks. Tell her we hope she feels better.” Michael hops onto the desk, facing me.
I nod absently, finally landing on themost basic response.
You don't need to apologize. Can I bring you anything?
Toni
I'm ok. Thank you, though.
I don't buy that for one second. The woman wasn't exactly an open book, but it didn't take much perception to clock that she wasn't a fan of asking for help.
My leg bounces as I consider. “Michael, remember how you owe me a shift?”
He groans. “Seriously? There's a game tonight.”
“There's a game tonight,” Ginelle mocks. “Baby.”
Michael sneers at her before turning back to me. “You sure you wanna cash that in now?”
“As long as Camille doesn't need you.” I wanted to be there for Toni, but not enough to pull my brother away from his pregnant wife.
“Nah,” he hops from the desk, “she's got her book club tonight.”
“Then yes, I'm cashing in that favor.”
“Fine.” He holds out his hand to shake.
“Thanks.” I leverage his grip to pry myself from the couch.
“Oh. Have you invited Toni to Sunday supper yet?” Michael's question draws me up short, pausing my hand on the drawer with my wallet and keys.
“I think that's a no,” Ginelle says.
Michael sighs. “Mom is mad she's the only one who hasn't met her.”
“She can stay mad,” I say, not looking at my brother or cousin as I grab my stuff.
“I will pay you $100 to say that to her face and let me watch,” Ginelle bribes.
The thought almost makes me shiver. “I'd rather chew glass.”
“You can't put her off forever,” Michael says over his shoulder as he heads back behind the bar.
“I can try.”
Michael just shakes his head in response as the door shuts behind him.
“Why don't you want Toni to meet Kitty?” The question once again catches me off guard, both because of Ginelle's surprising sincerity and my lack of a sensible answer.
It wasn't as if my mother were some tyrannical harpy. She could be a bit intense—unsurprising, given that she was the middle daughter of a large Italian family—and didn't share my dad's jovial nature. But my mother was kind, the 'feed the neighbors in tough times with gallons of Sunday sauce' brand of kind.
“We're just friends, Gin.” That half-assed answer lands just as poorly as I thought it would.
“People let theirfriendsmeet their parents. Especially if they've already met one of them.”
“She's probably moving in December anyway.” I avoid looking at my cousin as I pull my denim jacket off the coat rack.
