Kidnapped By The Mafia

5

Cal

“I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That)”—Meat Loaf

Dylan was pregnant.

Eighteen months pregnant by the look of it.

With triplets.

Holy s**t, her belly was huge. Who was the father, Hodor? When had she gotten married? How come no one had told me?

“Mom,” I whisper-shouted, tugging on her sleeve, feeling the full weight of the entire continent pressing against my sternum. “Why didn’t you tell me Dylan got married?”

Terror laced through my veins. I was entirely unequipped to face the Casablancas siblings. Especially Dylan, who had ripped my heart out of my chest the last time we’d spoken and stomped on it until it had dispersed into dust. And what was Row doing here, anyway? Didn’t he have a reality TV contestant to yell at about their stew tasting like a diarrhea puddle? Because that had actually happened. I remembered watching that episode in horror and thinking, I had this man’s salami stuck in my canal.

Mom dazedly stirred her gaze from her sponge cake to the door, where people clamored around a ridiculously glowing Dylan.

“Married?” She frowned, her mouth clamping around an airy piece of buttery cake. “No, Callichka. Dylan didn’t get married.”

“She’s pregnant.” I gestured to my ex–best friend, as though this fact couldn’t be detected from Neptune. I knew I sounded judgmental. Plenty of people had children out of wedlock. This wasn’t the forties. But Dylan had always wanted a grand wedding. With a golden carriage and unicorns and white doves and five different dresses. She’d had ripped-out Vogue pages folded neatly inside her underwear drawer with flower decoration inspiration, like Pinterest didn’t exist.

“That’s right, Callichka. But the wedding ceremony isn’t how babies are made. I thought you knew that?” She frowned, c*****g her head. “We never discussed the birds and the bees, did we?”

“Whose baby?” I looked around us frantically.

She stared at me like I was insane. “Why, Tucker Reid’s, of course. Who else?”

Who else? Good question. Maybe anyone who didn’t threaten to wedgie us all throughout high school.

Were they together now? When had it started? The night she’d caught me and Row? And how had Row even agreed to this? He was very trigger-happy when it came to guys he deemed unworthy of his sister. Which was every human alive, by the way. I was pretty sure Tucker’s nose and Row’s fist were intimately acquainted.

Also—Dylan had s*x with Tucker Reid? He was a shithead but…kind of hot? I wanted to dissect that piece of juicy information immediately and at length. Problem was, it was Dylan I wanted to discuss it with.

Tucker. Freaking. Reid. I couldn’t get over the revelation.

He was our bully. Well, I guess now, technically, he was only my bully. Evidence suggested he no longer unpinned the Goosebumps pin-back buttons from Dylan’s JanSport and “accidentally” sneezed into the food on her tray at the cafeteria.

As if sensing our presence, Row and Dylan turned their heads in unison, catching sight of me and Mom.

Forever a responsible, sensible adult, I decided now was a good time to swivel toward the person behind me and launch into an avalanche of incoherent words to appear busy and unaffected. I didn’t want either of them to know how terrified I was of a showdown with them.

My poor victim was Lyle Cooper, a tiny carpenter in his seventies who used to have fish and chips with Dad every Sunday over beer.

“Lyle. Wow. Haven’t seen you in a long time. Let’s catch up!”

I was acutely aware of Row and Dylan as they sliced through the throng, ambling to my corner of the room. More accurately, Row was ambling and Dylan was wobbling. They stopped to talk to Mom, who stood right beside me, and I tried to simultaneously converse with Lyle and eavesdrop on their conversation.

“…sorry for your loss, Mrs. Litvin. Mom sends her regards…” Dylan.

“…pain can only be dulled by time, and you know we’re always here for you…” Also Dylan.

“…Artem was the first person to truly believe in me,” I heard Row say in his bottomless baritone that licked at my skin like fire. “He saw my potential, made me work for things; they say every kid needs one grown-up to love them and one to believe in them. My mother loved me. But Artem? He believed in me.”

My mouth kept on moving, and it occurred to me that I was talking to Lyle and that he was listening, though not with great enthusiasm. A troubled frown engraved his crumpled forehead, and he kept sloping his head back and forth. Was I even speaking in English?

“…all I’m saying is Meat Loaf shouldn’t have called it ‘I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That)’ because what’s even the point?” I rambled. Oh God. Someone shut me up. Immediately. “Well, Mr. Meat Loaf, clearly, you won’t do anything for love. There’s no exception to the word anything. Everything is kind of baked into the cake, you know? The song should’ve been called ‘I Would Do Most Things for Love.’ But I guess that would have been less catchy. It’s all about the marketing.”

In my periphery, I caught Row pressing his knuckles to his mouth, enjoying my first-degree murder of whatever coolness I had left.

“Ya know, I was never a big Meat Loaf fan.” Lyle took a pull of his Coors, his eyes searching for an escape route from the conversation. “The dish? Sure. Not so much the artist. Springsteen fan, myself.”

His eyes crinkled with affection, like I was a six-year-old trying to spell a new word. “Don’t worry, Calla.” He patted my arm, and I forced myself not to wince and jerk away. “You don’t need to be smart. You’re mighty pretty, just like your ma.”

Dylan chose that moment to unzip her colorful, wet windbreaker and shake it in my general direction. Raindrops caught my dress and peppered my eyes.

“Oops. Clumsy me,” Dylan singsonged, no trace of regret in her airy tone. “It’s been raining like a b***h today, huh?”

So much for giving me a break because I’m newly fatherless.

I turned around, coming face-to-face with my former best friend.

Her face alone made me want to cry again. She was so…Dylan. Her skin smooth to the point she looked like an AI figure. Every feature perfectly proportioned and Apollo-like. With a wide, dimpled Julia Roberts smile and the long, spidery legs of a runway model. She had that Eva Mendes glow that made her look sexy doing anything, including staring me down like I had just battered a baby panda with its own bamboo stick.

My gut pretzeled into itself a hundred times over.

I missed her.

I missed her, and I still wanted her forgiveness. Her love, acceptance, and quirky jokes.

“Not a problem. Mistakes happen.” My eyes twitched four, five, six times. Not even ten seconds had passed, and I already had a tic. I extended a hand for her to shake. “Thank you for coming.”

Row was standing next to her, but I had yet to muster up the courage to look directly at him. Dylan rolled her eyes, not taking my hand. “Ugh.” She looked disgusted with herself for even looking at me. “Come here, you annoying…piece…of…Cal.”

Using my outstretched hand, she tugged me forward. I crashed against her belly. She gave me a crush-your-bones hug full of reassurance. It felt like she’d put an oxygen mask to my face, breathing life into me.

“I’m still mad, but I’m also in pieces for you,” she mumbled into my hair, stroking it softly, the touch achingly familiar and comforting. “Artem was our bestie. Remember when he let us practice our makeup skills on him?”

“Yes,” I choked out, the memories flooding me like a river. “We weren’t even that young anymore. Thirteen, right? Totally past the cute stage.”

“The man could rock a winged blue eyeliner like nobody’s business.”

“So true.” My chin wobbled. “It really made his eyes pop.”

The waterworks officially began. I’m talking Bellagio fountain show. My eyeballs were leaking as she rubbed circles on my back. She smelled like old Dylan: Libre by YSL, bubble gum, and that scent that always lingered at the Casablancas’ household, of hearty Italian food.

“Dylan,” I gasped, melting into her hug, breaking into a million pieces and knowing somehow she’d hold me together. “It hurts so bad.”

“I know.” She kissed my ear, wet with salty tears. “I lost my dad three years ago.”

Doug Casablancas had died? And I hadn’t been there to comfort her?

I pulled away, wiping my face quickly. “What? I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Mom and Dad…no one said a thing to me. I would’ve dropped everythin—”

“It’s me.” She stepped back, and it seemed like we both sobered up from that hug. “I asked them not to. It fell on your second semester finals.”

“Who cares?” I asked, horrified. “I’d have dropped everything to be there for you. No questions asked.”

“I cared. One of us had to do something productive with her life. Even though…” Her eyes swept over me. “Looks like neither of us did. What happened to your fancy degree?”

Ouch. I chewed my inner cheek. “Working on a game plan right now.”

“You always needed a little push in the right direction.” A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Admit it, Dot, my pep talks were your fuel.”

“Yeah, well, I was short on those in the past four years.” My nose twitched. There was an awkward pause. My mother drifted to a nearby group of people to give us some privacy.

“Whatever, you know?” Dylan blew out air. “I mean, you were a shitbag for screwing my brother. But…maybe the timing was convenient for me too.”

“How do you mean?” I frowned.

“It was a great excuse to cut ties with you before you cut ties with me.” Dylan stared down at her Adidas Superstars, biting hard on her lower lip. “Once you realized the big city was full of supercool people you could hang out with. I didn’t want to deal with the rejection. Didn’t want to feel like I wasn’t good enough for you anymore.”

She was crazy if she thought anyone I’d met in NYC could rival the awesomeness of her, but I could tell she didn’t want to talk about us. I grabbed her hands. They were limp against my own. It was time to change the subject.

“You’re pregnant!” I announced.

She looked up, her face awash with mockery. “Whoa. What gave it away?”

I chewed on the side of my lip. “Tucker’s?”

She nodded sheepishly before awarding me with her signature eye roll. “It’s lobster season, so he’s away on the boat for three to four weeks. Depending on the catch.”

“Tucker is a fisherman?” My eyebrows jumped to my hairline. I was so far out of the loop.

“Well, NASA reached out for the aerospace surgeon position, but he said the Texas weather didn’t agree with him.” She waved her hand to her face, fighting her pregnancy sweat. Dammit, I’d missed her sense of humor. “I mean, he’s a hunk, but not the brightest bulb in the chandelier. I’m pretty sure half the lobsters he catches are smarter than him.”

“I’m sorry,” I blurted out.

“Don’t be.” She ran a hand over her belly. “Remember we did those exams in ninth grade? My IQ is above average, so I think the baby will be fine.”

“I meant I’m sorry he is out in the ocean, risking his life.”

“Oh. I’m not,” she answered airily. “All he does when he’s around is watch football, drink beer, and complain I don’t fulfill my ‘womanly’ duties. Team Ocean all the way.”

There was a beat of silence as we both stared at each other. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I mouthed, You had s*x with Tucker Reid, Dylan. Ohmigod.

That made her snort out a laugh. She slapped a hand over her mouth, frowning sternly. “Shut up. I’m still mad at you. I’m not here to make amends.”

“Not even if I beg really hard?” I wiggled my brows.

“Ask again after I eat. I’m hangry.” She glanced around the room, taking inventory of the people and dishes. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make myself a pregnant lady plate and devour it while listening to a complete stranger reciting birthing horror stories to me. Last time I socialized, Melissa told me about her two inductions, steroids shots, and emergency C-section. Hard to top that, but I have faith.”

She sauntered away, leaving me with my heart in my throat and a pathetic determination to make things right between us. I had let her down once, but I wasn’t gonna do it again. A Dylan-less life was unthinkable now that I had another taste of her presence in my universe.

“Dot.” A husky voice drifted straight into my bloodstream, and I knew exactly who it belonged to. “My sincere condolences.”

Reluctantly, I sloped my head all the way up, extending my neck to stare Row in the eye. He was nearly a foot taller than me. Nausea twisted my stomach upside down.

He was so gorgeous. I was so screwed.

Row Casablancas had always been a showstopper, but this? This was the face of my feminism leaving my body permanently, buying a one-way ticket to Bora Bora.

The chiseled planes of his jawline, the dent in the center of his lower lip, the crinkles fanning his heavily lashed eyes. What business did he have being so attractive?

His lips moved, and that was when I realized he was talking to me while I was imagining myself riding that mouth like the future of the nation depended on it.

“Can you say that again?” I cleared my throat, thunderstruck by his features.

“Sorry about Artem,” he drawled in a tone normally used to announce first-degree murder verdicts. “My aversion to his daughter aside, he was truly one of a kind.”

We were definitely not on the same page. I wanted to climb this man like a tree. And he wanted me to fall from one and break my spine. It was obvious he wanted to be polite and move on. His body was already half-tilted to give me his back and walk off. My eyes ticked.

“Yeah.” I slipped my hair behind my ear. “I mean…I, uhm, agree.”

That’s not even a sentence, Cal. Just a collection of filler words.

He turned around, about to walk off and leave me there. Something compelled me not to leave it at that. Guilt, maybe?

“Do you remember much about him?” I blurted out.

Everyone who graduated from Staindrop High knew Dad. He was that teacher. With the checked shirts, nine pens in its breast pocket, and a fanny pack he’d gotten for free from his insurance company. But Dad had never discussed his relationships with other students with me. He’d cared about their privacy just as much as he had about his own.

“All the good parts.” His eyes crinkled. “Physics and chemistry were my favorite subjects in high school.”

“I didn’t…know…that.” This was awful. Looking at his face and trying to English properly at the same time. On second thought, it was time to wrap it up. “Well! Thanks for coming, I better—”

“I visited him the day before he passed.”

He had? I hadn’t even known he was in town. How had Mom failed to mention that?

Well, she didn’t know he took your virginity and whatever was left of your soul the night before you moved to NYC.

I stared at him, too shocked to pick up my jaw from the floor. “You did?”

“He asked if I was going to attend his ‘real fun.’” Row quoted with his fingers. That was what Dad had called his impending funeral. Real fun. Because he’d wanted people to be happy that he’d lived, not sad that he’d died. “Said to remind you that he isn’t in pain anymore. That he is probably in heaven right now, playing chess with Leonid Stein and Abe Turner and eating beluga caviar.”

I blinked at him, registering his words. That was the most Dad thing I’d ever heard. “He didn’t believe in heaven.”

“He said you’d say that. And to tell you that he was wrong. The first and last time that happened.” Row half shrugged.

Tears stung my eyes, but I was smiling. “What else did he say?”

“He asked you not to call it a celebration of life because that always feels like rubbing it in to the dead person.”

I felt my chin wobbling. “And you remembered his exact words?”

“Well, it is three sentences,” Row said coolly, glowering. “And I’m not a f*****g idiot.”

“Is there anything else? Something more he wanted to tell me?”

“That’s all she wrote.”

I started laughing and crying simultaneously. Somewhere between touched and moved and completely shattered. Row said nothing. Just stared at me dispassionately with his liquid gold eyes. I wiped my face quickly. I hated that every encounter with this man involved me looking and acting like a hot mess. He twisted again, about to walk off and leave me. Man, he couldn’t stand me. I was going to keep him here and talk to him just to piss him off. How dare he? He took my virginity and it was my dad’s funeral. He was going to be nice to me if it was the last thing he did in his life.

“So how’s Paris?” I sniffled, wiping at my eyes.

He stopped midstep. Growled in dissatisfaction. Turned to look at me. “Don’t know. Ask someone who lives there.” He spun to pluck a clean plate from a stack on the table, piling it with food. He was downright arctic. Whatever grace he might’ve given me as a teenager did not extend to my adulthood.

“I asked you.” I tried peering into his face, dread blooming in the pit of my stomach. “Because you live there. Wikipedia says so. So it must be right. It’s right, right?”

“Great, another stalker.” He scowled, stabbing a piece of prosciutto with a plastic fork, loading it onto his plate.

Another? How many were there?

“You’re famous and I grew up with you. Of course I jealousy-googled you. It’s not like I stole your sperm. And hey, I actually had the chance.” I really needed to shut up. The sooner, the better. Twenty minutes ago would’ve been ideal.

“I live in Staindrop now” came the reluctant answer. “Though live is an exaggeration. This place doesn’t even have a f*****g Whole Foods.”

We were going to be neighbors? Lovely. Things just kept getting worse for me. And I’d spent this morning picking up my father’s ashes from a crematorium. Sliding over a clean plate, I joined him, pretending to examine the options I myself had arranged there only an hour ago.

I wanted to make amends with Dylan. I’d just lost an important person in my life and craved balancing it out by returning a special someone to it. The way to Dylan’s heart passed through her brother’s approval. So maybe him and me occupying the same town wasn’t such a bad idea.