A Lot like Love
Page 19
When he was a kid, Nick had seen the look of relief on his mother’s face every time his father walked through the door after one of his police shifts. Unlike his father, however, there were many nights, and weeks, and months, when he didn’t come home at all. He may have been focused on his career, but at least he knew not to inflict his unpredictable lifestyle on someone else.
“Lisa, look—we talked about this before I went undercover. This was just a casual thing,” he said.
“But I thought we had fun together.”
“We did. But I’ve got a few things going on with work, and some personal days I plan to use after that, so this isn’t a good time for me.”
Lisa’s voice turned suspicious. “There’s someone else, isn’t there? You don’t have to lie about it.”
“There’s no one else. I’m just not in a position to give you what you’re looking for.”
The phone went silent for a moment. As much as Nick tried to be a stand-up guy about these things, sometimes women got a little pissed when they realized that—hot sex notwithstanding—he’d really meant it when he’d said that he wasn’t looking for a relationship.
“Fine. But being by yourself all the time is going to get lonely, Nick,” Lisa said. “When that happens, you remember the good times we had together. And give me a call.”
She hung up.
Nick exhaled in relief and made sure the call had disconnected. That hadn’t been too bad. When he didn’t call Lisa back, she’d move on. After all, it had been just sex. No sweet nothings, no endearments, no promises of the future. Soon enough, she would realize that she could get a better deal elsewhere.
He had just exited off the highway at Ohio Street when his cell phone rang again. He glanced over and checked the caller ID.
Shit.
He quickly backtracked, thinking about how long it had been since their last conversation, and realized he undoubtedly had another pissed-off woman on his hands. Perhaps this was one of the reasons he preferred to stay undercover. No accountability.
Bracing himself, he clicked the button on the steering wheel to answer. “Ma—I was just about to call you.”
“Right. I could be dead and you wouldn’t even know it.”
Nick grinned. Despite being perfectly healthy and fit at almost sixty, his mother issued frequent proclamations about her death and the ways in which people would inevitably wrong her in it. “I think Dad, Matt, or Anthony would probably call me if that happened.”
His mother, the illustrious Angela Giuliano, who had once disappointed every smitten, fiery Italian man of marriageable age in Brooklyn (as the story was frequently told to Nick and his brothers) by allowing the strong, silent, and decidedly non-Italian John McCall to drive her home from the Moonlight Lounge on a fateful New Years Eve thirty-six years ago, snorted in disagreement. “What do your brothers know? They both live less than fifteen miles from this house, and your father and I never see them.”
Nick happened to know that both of his brothers, as well as practically every living relative in New York on his mother’s side of the family, had dinner at his parents’ house at three o’clock every Sunday afternoon, no exceptions. His father had long ago accepted the weekly Italian invasion as the price one paid for marrying into the Giuliano family.
As happened every time he spoke to his parents or his brothers, Nick felt a pang of guilt. He was more independent than his two younger brothers, and in that sense, the thousand-mile separation from his parents wasn’t entirely a bad thing. But still, he sometimes missed those Sunday dinners. “You see Matt and Anthony every week. You see everyone every week.”
“Not everyone, Nick,” his mother said pointedly. Then her voice changed and turned warmer. “Well, except for this upcoming weekend.”
Nick paused at this. It could’ve been a trap. Perhaps his mother suspected something was up with her birthday and was fishing for information. Although it was surprising that she’d come to him—she usually went after Anthony, who had the secret-keeping skills of a four-year-old.
“Why? What’s happening this weekend?” he asked nonchalantly.
“Oh, nothing much. I just heard something about a sixtieth birthday party your father and you boys are planning for me.”
Fucking Anthony.
“And don’t go blaming Anthony,” his mother said, quick to protect her youngest. “I’d already heard about it from your aunt Donna before he slipped.”
Nick knew what her next question would be before the words left her mouth.
“So? Are you bringing a date?” she asked.
“Sorry, Ma. It’ll just be me.”
“There’s a surprise.”
He pulled into the driveway that led to the parking garage of his condo building. “Just a warning, I’m about to pull into the garage—I might lose you.”
“How convenient,” his mother said. “Because I had a really nice lecture planned for you.”
“Let me guess the highlights: it involved me needing to focus on something other than work, and you dying heartbroken and miserable without grandchildren. Am I close?”
“Not bad. But I’ll save the rest of the lecture for Sunday. There’s going to be a lot of gesturing on my part, and the phone doesn’t quite capture the spirit.”
Nick smiled. “Shockingly, I’m looking forward to it. I’ll see you Sunday, Ma.”
“Lisa, look—we talked about this before I went undercover. This was just a casual thing,” he said.
“But I thought we had fun together.”
“We did. But I’ve got a few things going on with work, and some personal days I plan to use after that, so this isn’t a good time for me.”
Lisa’s voice turned suspicious. “There’s someone else, isn’t there? You don’t have to lie about it.”
“There’s no one else. I’m just not in a position to give you what you’re looking for.”
The phone went silent for a moment. As much as Nick tried to be a stand-up guy about these things, sometimes women got a little pissed when they realized that—hot sex notwithstanding—he’d really meant it when he’d said that he wasn’t looking for a relationship.
“Fine. But being by yourself all the time is going to get lonely, Nick,” Lisa said. “When that happens, you remember the good times we had together. And give me a call.”
She hung up.
Nick exhaled in relief and made sure the call had disconnected. That hadn’t been too bad. When he didn’t call Lisa back, she’d move on. After all, it had been just sex. No sweet nothings, no endearments, no promises of the future. Soon enough, she would realize that she could get a better deal elsewhere.
He had just exited off the highway at Ohio Street when his cell phone rang again. He glanced over and checked the caller ID.
Shit.
He quickly backtracked, thinking about how long it had been since their last conversation, and realized he undoubtedly had another pissed-off woman on his hands. Perhaps this was one of the reasons he preferred to stay undercover. No accountability.
Bracing himself, he clicked the button on the steering wheel to answer. “Ma—I was just about to call you.”
“Right. I could be dead and you wouldn’t even know it.”
Nick grinned. Despite being perfectly healthy and fit at almost sixty, his mother issued frequent proclamations about her death and the ways in which people would inevitably wrong her in it. “I think Dad, Matt, or Anthony would probably call me if that happened.”
His mother, the illustrious Angela Giuliano, who had once disappointed every smitten, fiery Italian man of marriageable age in Brooklyn (as the story was frequently told to Nick and his brothers) by allowing the strong, silent, and decidedly non-Italian John McCall to drive her home from the Moonlight Lounge on a fateful New Years Eve thirty-six years ago, snorted in disagreement. “What do your brothers know? They both live less than fifteen miles from this house, and your father and I never see them.”
Nick happened to know that both of his brothers, as well as practically every living relative in New York on his mother’s side of the family, had dinner at his parents’ house at three o’clock every Sunday afternoon, no exceptions. His father had long ago accepted the weekly Italian invasion as the price one paid for marrying into the Giuliano family.
As happened every time he spoke to his parents or his brothers, Nick felt a pang of guilt. He was more independent than his two younger brothers, and in that sense, the thousand-mile separation from his parents wasn’t entirely a bad thing. But still, he sometimes missed those Sunday dinners. “You see Matt and Anthony every week. You see everyone every week.”
“Not everyone, Nick,” his mother said pointedly. Then her voice changed and turned warmer. “Well, except for this upcoming weekend.”
Nick paused at this. It could’ve been a trap. Perhaps his mother suspected something was up with her birthday and was fishing for information. Although it was surprising that she’d come to him—she usually went after Anthony, who had the secret-keeping skills of a four-year-old.
“Why? What’s happening this weekend?” he asked nonchalantly.
“Oh, nothing much. I just heard something about a sixtieth birthday party your father and you boys are planning for me.”
Fucking Anthony.
“And don’t go blaming Anthony,” his mother said, quick to protect her youngest. “I’d already heard about it from your aunt Donna before he slipped.”
Nick knew what her next question would be before the words left her mouth.
“So? Are you bringing a date?” she asked.
“Sorry, Ma. It’ll just be me.”
“There’s a surprise.”
He pulled into the driveway that led to the parking garage of his condo building. “Just a warning, I’m about to pull into the garage—I might lose you.”
“How convenient,” his mother said. “Because I had a really nice lecture planned for you.”
“Let me guess the highlights: it involved me needing to focus on something other than work, and you dying heartbroken and miserable without grandchildren. Am I close?”
“Not bad. But I’ll save the rest of the lecture for Sunday. There’s going to be a lot of gesturing on my part, and the phone doesn’t quite capture the spirit.”
Nick smiled. “Shockingly, I’m looking forward to it. I’ll see you Sunday, Ma.”
