Brutal Vows

16

He glances up at her. After a pause, he says, “I don’t want to insult you by telling you the truth.”

“It’s never stopped you before,” I say, furious that I can’t get him out of my kitchen.

He smiles at me, his hazel eyes burning. “Corkscrew?” He managed to make that sound lewd, the pig.

I point to the drawer next to the dishwasher, then say, “Liliana is at the movies with her girlfriends tonight, so unfortunately, you won’t be able to see her. And my brother is in the city for business. If you call tomorrow morning, we can set up a time for later in the week.” “The movies?” Quinn repeats.

“Yes,” I lie, nodding. “You’ve heard of feature films, I presume? Perhaps they don’t have them in Ireland. Too many other important things to do, I imagine, what with the sheep shearing and the river dancing and all the dart throwing championships down at the local pub. But she goes every Thursday. She won’t be home until late. So you should leave. Now.”

He gazes at me in silence for a while, then says, “Sea Smoke.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

He turns his gaze to my mother. “If you like pinot noir, you should try Sea Smoke.” He holds up the bottle in his hand. “It’s better than this cheap bloody shite.”

My mother says, “My YouTube boyfriend drinks that. It’s too pricey for me, though.”

“I’ll buy you a bottle.”

She brightens, clapping her hands. “Ah, grazie mille. I can’t wait!” Am I having a stroke? What the hell is happening?

“Mr. Quinn—”

“Spider.” He smirks at me. “I’d let you call me by my real name, but you haven’t earned the privilege yet.”

I gather all the raging anger in my body and concentrate it into my glare, which I direct to a superheated laser focus on his handsome, hideous face.

He smiles wider and opens the wine.

6

RE Y

amma and I sit with my archenemy at the kitchen table, watching in silence as he devours his pasta.

I’ve never seen a man eat like this. He fell on his plate and started inhaling the tagliatelle with meat sauce like he’d been adrift at sea in a raft for six months.

I’m equal parts fascinated and disturbed.

“Mmmpf,” he mutters around a mouthful, rolling his eyes heavenward and chewing lustily. “God almighty. Mrs. Caruso, this is the best bloody food I’ve had in my entire life.”

“Looks like the only food you’ve had in your entire life. And thank Reyna, she’s the cook.”

He stops eating long enough to glance at me in surprise. “You made the meal?”

As if he wasn’t sitting right in that damn spot watching me the entire time.

“From scratch,” Mamma supplies when I only sit there glaring daggers at him. “The pasta, the Bolognese, and the focaccia. And that Caesar dressing on your salad is homemade, too. Reyna does all the cooking for the family. Once my husband died, I hung up my apron for good.”

Quinn grunts.

Somehow, it encapsulates his disbelief that I’m able to put together an edible meal along with an acknowledgment of my father’s passing. Though I shouldn’t be surprised, considering most of his vocabulary is probably composed of such nonverbal expressions.

Barnyard animals aren’t known for their witty discourse.

I take another swig of the pinot from my glass. My plate of food remains untouched. My stomach is unsettled and my armpits are damp, and I can’t wait for him to finish his supper so I can smash his plate with a hammer and dump it into the trash, ensuring no civilized person can ever eat from it again.

That fork he’s using will have to go, too.

There isn’t enough bleach in all the world to clean his germs off it.

Tearing into a piece of focaccia bread with his teeth, Quinn says,

“Does Lili cook?”

Mamma glances at me, waiting to hear how I’ll handle the question.

I go with a neutral-sounding “Yes.”

“This well?”

I hesitate, not wanting to admit that Lili has been banned from the kitchen for starting not one but two fires, one in the microwave and one on the stove.

“She’s learning. I’m sure in time she’ll master it. If you recall, she’s only a teenager.”

I say the last part acidly. I’m gratified to see it gives Quinn pause.

He looks at me steadily for a moment, a lump of bread bulging in his cheek, then chews and swallows, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

He sits back in his chair, takes a swallow of wine, then says somberly, “Aye.”

Then he exhales heavily, as if he’s troubled by her age.

Mamma shoots me another wordless glance, her eyebrows raised.

Before I can pounce on the opportunity to shame him for wanting to marry a child, he says to me suddenly, “How old are you?”

Mamma cackles. “Ah, gallo sciocco, you have a death wish, sí?”

Setting my wineglass down carefully on the table—so I don’t break it

—I hold his penetrating gaze and say, “What charming manners you have, Mr. Quinn.”

“Nearly as charming as yours, Ms. Caruso.”

“I’m not the one asking impolite questions.”

“Why is it impolite to want to know my future aunt’s age?”

“Aunt-in-law,” I correct, wanting to wash my mouth out with soap just hearing it. “And it’s always impolite to ask a woman’s age.”

“As impolite as it is to shower a new relative with such…” He regards my withering gaze and my stiff posture. “Warmth and hospitality?”

Mamma says, “Don’t take it personally, Homer. She doesn’t like anyone.”

“I like some people just fine!”

She looks at me. “Tch. Name two.”