me.
But for them, for them I would try and do this as politely as possible. Because I would never want to do anything to hurt them.
And this woman had the opportunity to do that if she wanted.
“Look, you haven’t been in my life in thirty years. You’ve had zero interest in it. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. You haven’t wanted to know me, and I’m fine with that. You don’t have to explain anything to me,” I said, wishing that I had my stress ball with me.
I couldn’t believe this bitch.
“It isn’t that I haven’t wanted to know you,” she tried to argue.
“How many times have you come to Houston over the last thirty years?”
That had her face going slack, her eyes brightening, her nostrils flaring. To give her credit, she answered. “Every few months.”
Every few months.
Wow.
I couldn’t help the smile that came over my mouth as I made sure to keep my gaze on her instead of looking at Jonah. I had to straddle this line as cleanly as possible. For Grandpa. For Peter. For Maio House. “I know why you got divorced. I understand, and I don’t blame you. Neither does Grandpa Gus. But I just don’t care to hear whatever it is you want to tell me. Not when you’ve come to Houston who knows how many times over the course of my life and not cared to contact me. Not when you went to Maio House and didn’t make an effort then either, and the only reason I saw you was because I got curious and showed up. I know I’m not important to you, and I’m fine with it. You just don’t want me to think of you as the bad guy. I get it.”
My grandmother, because that’s what she was, blushed. I could see the hesitation—the anger—in her eyes. Yet somehow she managed to lower her voice as she said, “Your grandfather lied to me.”
“But I didn’t.”
“You don’t understand,” she tried to argue.
“No, I do. I’m a mom now too, and I understand better than you will ever imagine, Rafaela. You didn’t want anything to do with me or my dad, and you never will. How much more do you want to rub that in?”
Chapter 18
Subject: IMPORTANT
Lenny DeMaio:
Wed 3/22/2019 1:29 p.m.
to Jonah Collins
Jonah, please. For real. Call me back.
Email me back. I don’t care, but I really, really need to talk to you.
I don’t want or need anything: I just have to tell you something important, and I don’t want to do it over email.
“But I did pay.”
I stared at the phone sitting on my desk and pictured the face of the man on the other end of the line. A man I couldn’t stand half the time I had to deal with him. Then again, anyone who continuously lied to me annoyed the fuck out of me. He did this shit every other month. I took a deep breath in through my nose and let it back out again, feeling all my facial muscles get tight. “Damon.” I sighed. “Do you know how many times you’ve said those words to me?”
What that question got me was silence on the other end.
“I just checked Pablo’s bank account”—that was one of my rare lies—“and nothing has been deposited. It isn’t some magical glitch in the computer system that the payment didn’t go through. You haven’t transferred the money. Why do you put me through this every single time Pablo fights?” I asked him, leaning back against my chair and staring blankly at the wall in front of me in exasperation.
“Look, Lenny, I sent my assistant over, and she said she made the deposit.”
What was this? 1990? We both knew he was full of shit. She could have mailed a check if he was being cheap, wired the money if he wanted to spend the fee, or used one of those apps to transfer money across banks. I used that shit all the time.
“Let me ask her to check the deposit receipt, and I’ll call you back. You know I’m good for it, and tell fucking Pablo to call me if he’s got a problem,” the man tried to throw.
I gripped the cord of my work phone in my free hand and shook my leg under my desk. “He did call you. I saw it. He called you five times last week.” Silence. “And I know that you’re good, but you’re good at paying two months late instead of two weeks later like