Chapter 21

It’s the dead of summer, and without a distraction, the days slog on longer and longer. Admittedly, I didn’t enjoy organizing the Raymond St. George Charity Baseball Tournament, but it was a reprieve of sorts. A mental vacation from my daily grievances. But I’m back on my bullshit.

Every day’s more of the same. Work, unsuccessfully convincing Mom to get out of the house, work, wondering if Dad will come home, work, Price is Right! Which is why when Vince calls me on the Fourth of July to invite me to a picnic, I agree. At least, I tell myself it’s a distraction and nothing more.

Not even when he smiles at me as I open the door to him.

His T-shirt matches his eyes, which are locked somewhere around my lips. I have my Russian Red on, and my body hums at his reaction. When his gaze finally finds mine, his mouth slants up. “You look beautiful, sweetheart.”

“Thank you.” I cross the long strap of my purse over my chest and shut the door behind me, unconsciously reaching for Vince’s hand, almost like we’re on a date or something. Halfway to his fingers, I stop, leaving my arm dangling inelegantly between us, and I force a giggle then stick both of my hands into the pockets of my black dress. It was too hot for anything else, and my legs look like hot dogs in shorts, so sundress it was.

He doesn’t notice this awkward display. Or if he does, he doesn’t act like it. What a gentleman.

“Are your parents home today?” he asks on the way to his car.

“I haven’t seen my dad since the day before yesterday, and my mom’s with my aunt.”

He opens his car door, his eyebrows furrowed in question.

“Her condo has a pool, so I guess the way to pry her out of the house is the promise of a floaty and a Xanax.”

“Sounds good to me.” He laughs, and I open the passenger side door with a smile.

The last time I was in this car was after Ray’s funeral, and I push that day out of my mind as I plug my phone into the stereo system to play Jack White.

“Help yourself,” he deadpans.

Then it falls uncomfortably silent, and it’s all my fault. I ruined it when I stupidly kissed him. It’s been weeks since the fundraiser, but we’ve only texted a handful of times. I’ve shut down any type of flirtation to the point that he had stopped messaging me. That was, until yesterday.

I wasn’t happy about giving him the silent treatment, but I wanted to be clear. That kiss was a bad idea, and I don’t want to lead him on.

“How’s the Underworld been treating you?” I ask to fill in the space between us.

“Well, everyone I work with is pretty quiet, so…”

“Terrible joke.”

He glances at me with a shrug. “I don’t have your natural wit.”

“And charm,” I add.

“And charm.” He offers me a magnanimous head bow then taps my knee with the back of his hand. “How’s everything with you? How’s work?”

“All beers and boobs.”

He huffs. “Why do you stay there?”

“Because they pay me.”

“You hate it there.”

I stare at the side of his face, waiting for him to turn to me. When he does, I raise my eyebrows. He’s not going to lecture me.

“What?” he asks, as if I couldn’t read the thoughts written on his face. The same ones everyone else has too.

I preempt him. “I have no skills suitable for this economy. No one wants to hire a graduate from Columbia who can talk at length about the feminism of Virginia Woolf but can’t send a fax.”

He bites back a smile. “That can’t be true.”

I lean my elbow on the door. “I don’t even know why people send faxes anymore.”

“Can’t you be a teacher or something?”

“No, Mom, I can’t.” He throws me a sarcastic glare, but I continue. “It costs money to go back to school for any kind of degree, and I’m already drowning in debt. Plus, high school kids are rude.”

“What do you want to do?”

Thinking, I watch the trees and telephone poles zoom by outside of my window. “When I was real little, I wanted to be a TV game show host, like on Price is Right or something. I wanted to hold one of those long microphones.”

He lets out a squeaked, “Really?”

And I don’t know whether I should be offended or not. “You don’t think I’d be a good host?”

“Nah, I think you’d be a great host. You’re really fun when you aren’t trying to scare people away.” At a red light, he shifts in his seat. “You have a lot more to offer than you think you do. You’re smart.” He pins me with an impatient raise of his brow, as if I should know this. “Like, really, really smart. You’re able to speak about so many topics, have philosophical conversations.”

I wave his words away. “You make me sound arrogant.”

“Maybe you should be a little bit more arrogant. You don’t see yourself clearly, and it’s why you’re working at a restaurant that forces you show your ass every time you serve a burger.”

My skin heats at his chastising words, and it takes me a few seconds to recover from what feels like a physical blow. “Gee, thanks.”

He parks the car in front of a brick and beige-sided home then unbuckles his seat belt and grasps my hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound like that, but I don’t know why you sell yourself short. You could do anything you want to, but you put up these walls. You pretend like you can’t do anything else, when I think you’re just afraid of trying.”

His eyes roam over me, and I don’t like the way he’s able to turn me inside out. I’m ashamed for what he’s accusing me of, but I also want to be the best of what he thinks I am.

“What are you so afraid of people seeing?” he asks, his thumb smoothing over my knuckles.

What am I so afraid of? Isn’t it obvious?

I’m afraid of this. Of someone looking deep into my eyes and seeing my heart. I’m afraid because when they do, they’ll find a withered and bruised lump of clay that’s been torn apart and mashed back together, kneaded and rolled to resemble a heart. Barely an imitation.

I’m afraid of him.

And he doesn’t care. He pushes on. “I see a woman who’s one of the strongest people I know, who cares deeply about her family, and who has been selfless at a time when she shouldn’t have to be.”

No.

He’s wrong. I’m weak and selfish, overly sensitive and filled with rage. It’s not pleasant to have this hurricane living inside me, and I don’t know how Vince can possibly think these things about me.

He forces me to look up when he tugs on a strand of my hair. “I know you don’t like being vulnerable, but you’ve been putting yourself out in the world through your posts. Do you read all the comments? Because I do. People love it. Imagine what you could do if you did it without a screen, if you really offered up everything you have.”

I shake my head. The idea is outrageous. He wants me to, what? Be some kind of motivational speaker? Writing a few words on social media on my phone is a lot different from what he’s suggesting. I’m not going to cut myself open to show the world how I bleed.

Nope. No thank you.

“Look, I don’t care what you do,” he says, letting go of my fingers. “I only want you to be happy.”

“What about you?” I snap. “Why aren’t you doing what really makes you happy?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Baseball. You had a scholarship. I saw you playing at the tournament. I can tell you love it. Anyone could. But you gave it up to be a funeral director?”

“Cass, you know?—”

“I know. You gave it up to do what you had to for your family, right?” I tilt my head. What he did isn’t all that different from me. We’ve both made sacrifices for our families. “Why don’t you coach? You did a good job with me at the batting cages.”

With his chin down toward his chest, his lips tip up. I assume he’s thinking about that night. When I spent over an hour swinging a metal bat, sending my aggression into baseballs flying through the air.

“I never thought much about it.” And my clumpy, withered heart shrinks even more. Until he meets my gaze again. “Coaching, I mean.”

“Well, why don’t you?”

If he wants me to be introspective, he’s not getting off scot-free.

He nods and opens his door to step out of the car.

I wait a minute, brushing my hair aside, checking my makeup in the mirror, making sure my outward appearance isn’t as messy as my insides. I mean, really, I thought I was going to drink beer and eat chips at a picnic, not receive a Come to Jesus.

“You mad at me?” he asks when I finally meet him at the front of the car.

“A little,” I answer honestly. He’s helped me through everything with my brother and is more or less my best friend—my only friend—but I hold on to that little bit of anger. It’s easier than dealing with the other, more treacherous emotions. “You’re not the first person to tell me I’m wasting my life.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Who said that? I didn’t say it.”

“My brother, my parents,” I tell him. “You insinuated it.”

He brings his head down closer to mine. “I’m sorry. I don’t ever want to hurt you.”

His voice is low and slow, his meaning something much deeper than I want to face. And I don’t mean to, but when he kisses my temple, I lean into him. Keeping my hands at my sides is a fight as my pulse echoes all over my body.

He backs up a bit, gazing expectantly at me, yet I can’t say anything. I know any words I may have are insufficient, so I give him a friendly elbow instead. “Okay.”

His defeat is palpable, and it reminds me why I’m not fit for relationships. I can’t give myself to others like he can. No matter how much I wish I could, I can’t until I have my life sorted out. But I’m not sure how to do that right now.

The last cruel joke from my brother was him telling me to move out of Mom and Dad’s house and get a new job. Then he went off and died.

Threw me in the deep end with no floaties.

I walk ahead, and Vince catches up to me as we reach the porch. Voices carry from inside the house and the backyard.

“Sounds like a lot of people,” I note.

He nods, and I watch as his face morphs from sullen to the bright-eyed and easygoing smile I’m used to. “Hope you’re hungry.”

He opens the front door and ushers me in front of him. There are festive red, white, and blue steamers everywhere and a couple little kids lingering in the hall, giggling. When they see Vince, they scurry away out through the sliding door by the kitchen.

“Hey, Vinny!” A gray-haired man in a tank top and gold chain holds his arms open. “How are ya?”

Vince hugs him. “Hey, Uncle.”

“Who’s this?” his uncle asks as he opens the refrigerator.

“This is my friend, Cass. Cass, this is my uncle Dominic.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

“Here.” He hands a twelve-pack of beer to me and piles wine bottles, cans of soda, and limes in Vince’s arms. “Bring this outside. Your aunt needs her spritzer,” he says with a roll of his eyes.

I follow Vince outside and laugh when I notice Uncle Dominic carrying nothing. Although, after showing us what coolers to put everything into, he pats my back and sticks a Corona in my hand.

“One of my mom’s brothers,” Vince whispers in my ear before accepting a hug from another woman, I assume the aunt with the spritzer. He receives a hug and a kiss from every person we pass. I meet them, trying to shake hands, but they mostly push my palm away for embraces.

“Cassandra.” Mr. Mancini greets me with a light squeeze, his hand rubbing my back. “How are you?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“How’re your parents doing?”

“They’re okay,” I lie.

“Good. You have a drink?”

I hold up my beer.

“Make sure you grab some food. My sister makes the best pasta salad, but?—”

“Hello.” A woman with a sleek two-tone pixie cut sidles up next to Mr. Mancini, and he introduces us.

“Cindy, this is Cassandra St. George. Cassandra, this is my wife.”

“Oh, Cassandra.” She presses her palms against my cheeks. “I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through. My heart aches for your parents.”

I force a smile.

“I’m happy you’re here,” she goes on, gently patting my cheek.

Vince’s attention is on a toddler showing him some kind of motorized plane with blinking lights. He’s of no help to me.

“Cindy, let the girl breathe,” Mr. Mancini says.

“Of course. I’m sorry.” Cindy catches herself, pressing her hands to her chest. “Vinny’s always yelling at me about personal space.”

Vince butts in. “I’m what?”

“You always say I smother people,” she says, running her hand down the side of his face. “But I can’t help it, you know. It’s how I show love. And I’m your mother, I can do whatever I want with you.”

Vince rolls his eyes but presses his cheek into her hand, and I’m actually jealous of the exchange between them. There’s so much love there.

“So, you’ve met my mom,” Vince says to me as he wraps his arm around his mother’s shoulders.

“Thank you for having me over.”

“It’s absolutely my pleasure. Make yourself at home.” She waves her hand in an arc encompassing her whole house, and I use this moment to take my leave.

Vince follows me to the six-foot-long table covered with a flag tablecloth. “Sorry ’bout that.”

I pick up a plate and scoop pasta salad onto it. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Mom’s a hugger. I know you aren’t.”

I grab a cheeseburger. “She’s not the only hugger around here.”

He agrees and fills his plate high with food before we go to a table where his cousins Nick and Tony are. Since I’d met Nick at Sassie’s, we all fall into easy conversation. Tony’s pregnant wife, Annie, tells me stories about the hard time she’s having. Normally, I’d be totally put-off by the baby topic, but it doesn’t irk me so much now. I haven’t been around many women—or people, for that matter—my age since I’ve moved home, and especially since Raymond died. I’ve cut myself off from the outside world completely. I’ve had my head buried in the sand, so I like being here.

I like talking with Annie and grow some secondhand excitement for her baby. I don’t even mind when they ask me personal questions about my childhood with Ray and how I’ve been dealing with his death. I’m honest, for the most part. I tell them about the time Ray “accidentally” lit the carpet on fire in the basement and how his pyromaniac tendencies continued into adulthood with the time he put so many birthday candles on Lucy and Lara’s cake last year, his kitchen curtains caught fire.

Vince brags about my growing social media and how I write “so eloquently” about my grief, and they all pull out their phones to follow me. It’s oddly satisfying to watch them read through a few posts and witness their physical reactions to it in real time.

“It’s beautiful and sad,” Annie says. Nick and Tony agree, and Vince raises his eyebrow at me in a See? look.

“I’ll think about it,” I whisper to him, referring to that idea of his.

After a few hours of being cajoled by Uncle Dominic, I finally relent and allow him to teach me how to play gin rummy. And after a couple big glasses of cousin Margo’s homemade wine, I really start to adore this huge, chaotic family. They’re nothing like I’m used to but also kind of great. Everyone has their own drama and eccentricities, so it’s easy to slip out of my own and into theirs. I cheer along as Mr. Mancini, who insists I call him Rob, sings “Mack the Knife” during karaoke, and I hold Aunt Jeanne’s hand as she describes her botched foot surgery. Then I fetch her another Chardonnay.

When the sun sets, Vince finds me next to his mom, listening as she gossips with Margo, Stella, and Aunt Mary. He holds out his hand. “Come on.”

I stare at his outstretched hand then meet his eyes. It’s different, agreeing to come here with his family, to take his hand now, to make the decision to go with him.

It’s weightier.

Meaningful.

Dangerous. For me, but especially him.

Except, when he smiles, I can’t say no.

Behind me, Cindy pats my back, pushing me to go with him, the others grinning happily. Because they know too. What this all means.

And I should not take his hand. I should ask him to take me home.

But I don’t.

Instead, I set my palm in his and let him wrap his fingers around mine.