by Lisa McMann
I nod.
“He used to hit me.”
My eyes spring open wide. “Your grandfather? Didn’t your parents stop him?”
He hesitates. “No. They didn’t. My mother couldn’t, and my father was angry enough that he wouldn’t.”
“I don’t get it. Why couldn’t your mother stop him? What kind of a—”
He sets the pen down and clasps his hands together, staring down at them. I look at his hands too and remember the feel of his touch on my cheek. And then he looks up at me again, his eyes unwavering for an almost frightening amount of time.
“Your father and my mother had an affair, Jules.”
The words take a moment to register. “What?” I say, incredulous.
“My mother just told me everything yesterday, after all of this—” He waves his hand at me, at the hospital. “When I was so angry and upset, and I didn’t understand why things had to be the way they are between us. She made me promise not to tell you, but I can’t help it. I think you need to know.”
I bring my hand to my hair and try to work my fingers through it. It’s weird. I don’t feel anything about this. No emotion, nothing. And then I think about my poor mother, and my heart cracks. “When?” I say.
“A long time ago, when we were really young.”
“Wow.” I stare up at the ceiling, trying to process it.
“It was short, and Mom said both of them eventually realized it was a mistake, but it happened,” Sawyer says. “I can’t believe she told me all of this, but she’d been drinking. It was late.” He glances at the door and then says quietly, “She said they planned to leave their spouses, combine restaurant assets, and become an enterprise. Take over business from the chains, sell products commercially and all that.”
My mouth drops open. “Products? Made from secret family recipes?”
“Yes.” Sawyer takes a deep breath and can’t look at me. “From what I know, your father gave my mother his family’s special sauce recipe, which my grandfather had been after for years. When your dad and my mom broke it off, and my father and grandfather found out, they were seriously pissed off. To try to redeem herself, my mother gave them the recipe. Kind of a last-ditch effort to try to diffuse things and keep the family together.” He stares at the ground. “And my grandfather took it. And he patented it.”
“You are not serious.” I look at him in wonder. “That’s probably what put my grandfather into his big downward spiral. Betrayed by his son and his biggest rival.” A new realization hits me. “Maybe that’s my dad’s problem. It’s the guilt. Not just losing the recipe, but driving his father to kill himself. Holy shit.”
Sawyer nods. “It all sounds extremely dramatic, but that’s because it was, according to my mom.”
“Yes.”
Sawyer looks up at me, remorseful. “When you and I were in first grade, our stolen sauce line went to market, and it was a hit. Your father tried to sue us, but he didn’t have the proof he needed to win. It was a verbal recipe, handed down for generations, my mom said. He’d known it by heart. Never wrote it down.”
“Oh my God,” I say. “That’s when the hoarding started.” All the recipes and cookbooks piled up in our apartment. None of them holding a candle to the one that remained unwritten.
Sawyer doesn’t say anything for a minute, and I stare at the ceiling, letting everything sink in.
“My grandfather was furious that your dad would dare to sue him. My father was hurt and angry over my mother messing around. And your parents had plenty of reason to hate us as well. So when you and I ended up becoming friends, it practically started a war all over again.”
“Wow,” is all I can say. I struggle to sit up, and Sawyer rises to help me. He lifts me gently, and his fingers linger on my shoulders before he sits back down.
“We hid our friendship really well, for a while, at least,” he says ruefully. “Didn’t we?”
“Until I saw you—” I say as he says, “Until the day before—”
“Seventh grade,” we say together.
“My father saw you with your dad, saw your smile, and he watched my face light up to see you. He knew it wasn’t just an acquaintance kind of smile. Back at home we ‘had a talk,’ which consisted of him and my grandfather telling me I was not to speak to you again, ever. When I protested, my grandfather got so enraged, he grabbed me by the collar and dragged me to my room. And then he started hitting me.”
“Oh, Sawyer,” I whisper.
He shoves his chair back and starts working his hands together. “He beat me pretty hard, but not anywhere you could see bruises. He was very careful about that. My mother couldn’t do anything—he threatened her, too, threatened to force my dad to divorce her after what she’d done, take us kids away from her, and leave her with no money.”
“That’s insane.”
“It’s different when a man like that lives with you. Holds so much power over you—there’s no way you could understand.” He taps his fingers on the chair arms, distraught. “So I agreed to stop talking to you just to get him to lay off me. And that time,” he says, standing up and starting to pace around the bed, “that one time you and I had to do a project together, he found out somehow. And he beat me up, even though I cried and told him that I didn’t have any control over who got paired up. It didn’t matter. He wanted to make sure we never spent time together, ever again.”
I don’t know what to say.
Sawyer paces, agitated. “But the worst thing is that I let him hold that over me so long, even up until last week, even though I could probably take him in a fight now if I had to. He just kept that fear and control over me like he has over my parents, and I was just dead inside. All that time I didn’t talk to you, Jules, I wanted to. I watched you. I saw your hurt face and I made a choice against you. I didn’t do the right thing.” He rips his fingers through his hair and I can tell he’s upset at himself. “I’m so beyond sorry. And I’m not letting that happen ever again, even if it means I have to walk out on all of them.”
He comes over to the bed and grips the side rail. “I can’t believe I kept walking away from you instead of them, over and over. Even after you said . . . what you said . . . in the middle of the night. And the other day at school. It killed me, walking away from you at lunch, but . . .” He shakes his head. “It’s no excuse. But then you almost died because you wanted to save me. And it finally sank in. I’m the biggest idiot on the planet. And I’m done making bad choices out of fear.”
I don’t have any words to say. All I can do is watch him pull his heart out and set it in front of me. Watch him tell me he cared about me too, all that time. Watch him say how sorry he is, how much he wants to be the opposite of the kind of guy that his grandfather and father are. Watch him stand there, asking me to give him another chance.
And what am I supposed to do?
Thirty-Seven
But before I can say anything to Sawyer, strangers wearing scrubs come in to announce the removal of my catheter. Awesome. Thanks, guys.
Sawyer makes a hasty retreat, and before you know it, I have my faculties back, and they have me easing out of bed and standing, and then walking a few steps, and every muscle in my entire body screams at me. By the time I get back in bed and have some dinner, I’m done for. Trey comes back to say good night, and he looks tired too.
And as much as I want to continue the conversation with Sawyer, I definitely need to rest. I tell Trey to send Sawyer home. With Mom and Dad coming, there’s no reason for him to stay and make the situation worse.
I’m not really sure what to think about what Sawyer told me, and it’s a little hard to process. Maybe because it’s so weird to imagine my dad having an affair, and maybe because of the painkillers—everything is taking just a little longer to comprehend these days. But what I have comprehended is that my dad is a big rotten cheater, and my mom just keeps smiling that agonized smile all the time, and now I think I know why. Just who the hell does he think he is?
I don’t wa
nt to see Dad, that’s for sure. Before Sawyer left, I promised him I wouldn’t say anything. I don’t want to cause more problems between our families, especially now.
• • •
When my parents come they wake me up, and I remember all over again.
It’s like I’m looking at two strangers. I wonder why my mom stayed with him. I wonder why Mr. Angotti stayed with Sawyer’s mom. Maybe it was for our sakes.
I can’t actually stand the thought of talking to my father right now, so I just focus on Mom and Rowan. They made it through Valentine’s Day without Trey or me, and customers were sympathetic. Today, too, the place was packed with supporters, they said. Seems we got an unexpected sympathy rush out of the ordeal, which is awesome. I guess. Dad hired Aunt Mary’s deadbeat son, our cousin Nick, to help out for a while until Trey is feeling up to coming back.
And then there’s Rowan. Poor girl. She never gets a break. I think of all the times she’s covered for me lately, and she doesn’t complain. I try to make her feel awesome. I wish Mom and Dad would go away for a while so I can just talk to her. Find out how her boyfriend is. See how she’s doing with everything.
Before they go home, my father, who’s been agitating over in the corner all alone, apparently feels like he just has to say something.
“Now that you’re feeling a little better,” he says, “I want to make sure you only let family in to see you. Nobody else. Okay? And soon you’ll be home.”
I see my mother flash him an annoyed look, and Rowan’s eyes go wide. I think about fighting him on it because it’s stupid, but I’m also really tired and ready to sleep. “Who else is there besides family?” I say. “Of course, Dad. I don’t want anybody else seeing me like this.”
“And then we’ll talk about why you would steal the food truck just to go see that hooligan.”
I nod. “Fine.”
He hesitates, then seems satisfied. I yawn, trying not to split my chest in half. “I’m really tired, guys,” I say. “They’re talking about sending me home Tuesday. I just want to get there. So I’m going to sleep now, okay? Please don’t stay. You need your rest too. I’ll sleep like a baby with these meds. I’m fine, okay?”
“Of course,” Mom says, and she stands up. I’m a little surprised she doesn’t argue, but she seems preoccupied. “Come on, Antonio,” she says to Dad. “We’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart.” Her effervescent smile is as fake as they come.
• • •
In the morning, my task is to take a shower, and I actually see for the first time all the places I have cuts and contusions. My entire outer left thigh and butt cheek are so purple they’re almost black from the door smashing in on me. They said it was amazing I didn’t break my hip or leg. I’ve got stitches in my scalp, my chin, and one knee in addition to my stomach from surgery and my knuckle from the Crescent wrench. My black eye is less puffy but still purple with a hint of yellow.
After the shower a volunteer comes in and does my hair and makeup, which almost makes me cry because it’s so sweet. It feels good to not look like a total train wreck again. When I think of how I looked in the hospital bed, I know that Sawyer could have run away screaming, but he must really like me if he could stand to look at me that way. I feel a little extra energy today coming from inside—relief, or happiness, I guess.
Once I’m all fresh and clean, my next required task is to take a walk down the hallway. The day is full of challenges, isn’t it? Mom stops by before the restaurant opens to bring me one of her homemade bran muffins, which are amazingly delicious. She must have gotten up early to make them, and once again I feel a pain in my chest for her. She sits for a bit, and we just talk about our days, and avoid talking about anything that could get weird.
But ever since Mom told me that I wasn’t the first to have to say good-bye to an Angotti, I sense she wants to talk about something more. And for the first time, I actually think that’s a good idea. Maybe it’s because of what Sawyer told me about my father, so I feel sorry for her now or something. But maybe because I think she knows that I’m really in love with Sawyer, and she’s okay with it. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to have her on my side.
But that talk doesn’t happen.
When she leaves, I have lunch and a nap, just killing time waiting and hoping for visitors after school. Hoping Sawyer comes back.
I wonder idly what happened to my cell phone in this whole ordeal. All I know is that I don’t have it. It’s probably smashed to bits.
• • •
Trey and Rowan come straight from school. “Trey’s a freaking hero,” Rowan says as they burst into the room. “Everybody loves him. He won’t stop talking about his own awesomeness.” She flops into the chair next to my bed, and I can hardly contain my delight. I missed my sibs. No matter how crowded the house can be, it’s still fun to be crowded with them.
“I’m not surprised,” I say. “He can’t ever get enough attention.”
“Hi. I’m right here,” he says.
“See?” says Rowan. “As if seeing him isn’t enough, he has to announce his presence.”
“It’s disgusting,” I say.
Trey’s jaw drops. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll just go hang out with my new BFF, Sawyer Angotti.”
“What??” both Rowan and I exclaim.
“We had lunch today in the caf,” Trey says.
“I hate you.”
“Me too!” Rowan says, and then turns to me. “Wait, why do we hate him?”
“Because we’re jealous, dumbhead.”
“I’m not jealous. I don’t get what you two see in him. He’s so . . . broody and dark and Italian.”
Trey thinks for a moment and says, “You know, Rowan’s right. I could go for a nice Scandinavian.”
Rowan agrees with a hearty nod and a secret smile at me. “Blonds are hot.”
“You know who’s hot?” Trey asks. “Jules Demarco. Amazing what a shower does for that girl.”
I sink back into my pillows with a grin, feeling like all is well in the world.
• • •
When they leave to get to the restaurant before the rush, there’s a knock at the door, and I know it’s him. I can feel it. “Come in,” I say.
He pushes open the door and ducks his head in a shy sort of way, which makes my thighs ache, and not because of the bruises. He’s holding a bunch of grocery store flowers with the price sticker still on them. He hands them to me awkwardly. “I’m sort of new at this,” he says. “The clerk at Jewel said you’d definitely like these.”
I squelch a grin. “You asked for help?”
“Sure,” he said. “My cousin Kate said I should bring you flowers, which—I know, I know—I didn’t need her to tell me that, thank you very much. But I didn’t really know, like, what kind.”
“I love them,” I say, and I can’t stop grinning.
And then, from his shirt pocket, he pulls something else out and hands it to me. “Do you still like these?” It’s a butterscotch sucker from their candy jar.
I stare at it, take it in my hand. “Yeah,” I say. “I do.” Okay . . . that almost made me cry. And I know that there’s no question that I will give him a chance to do things differently, to stand up for the things he really wants.
I love you, I want to say. But it feels very weird today to say something like that. Now that the danger is over, that is, and it appears we’ll both live. At least until our parents find out we’re hanging out again, anyway.
I slip my hand in his like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and we’re talking like we’re sixth graders again, sitting under the slide with our suckers and doing that innocent, flirty thing. Every time he says something funny, I laugh even though it hurts, and when he blinks those long lashes and looks at me with that shy grin, my stomach flips. He stays for hours, and I want the night to go on forever.
Sadly, we lose track of time.
Thirty-Eight
When my parents come in and see that Angotti boy holding m
y hand, and they see the flowers in the crook of my broken arm, I think my father is going to have an aneurysm. Sawyer stands up faster than the speed of light and his chair topples to the floor behind him.
I struggle to sit up.
“Get out,” my father says to Sawyer.
Sawyer looks fleetingly to me, then back to my father. “Sir,” he says, and I feel a rush of warmth when he doesn’t just go. “Can we talk about this?”
“No. Out.” My father points to the door. He’s being calm. Too calm. “You are not to see my daughter again.”
“Mr. Demarco,” he says, “Trey and Jules saved our restaurant and our lives, and I’m just—”
“Well, maybe they shouldn’t have done that. Did you look at her? She almost died because of you!”
“I know, sir, and we are very grate—”
“If you don’t get out of this room right now, I will call security.”
I can hardly breathe. “Dad, stop!” I say. “Don’t be crazy.” I cringe after I say it. “He’s on his way out anyway, and I’m glad he stopped by, and I hope our families—”
“Pipe dreams!” my father says bitterly. “Our families will never be friendly as long as I’m alive, and you, young lady, had better get that figured out right now. This is over. Do you both hear me?”
Sawyer stands his ground and stays cool, and in that moment, I see him acting on his own desire to be different from the father and grandfather he described yesterday. “I’m sorry you feel that way, sir,” he says in a calm voice, yet he commands the room. “I’ll leave now out of respect for you. But I’ll never leave Jules again because of something personal that happened between other people, so you might want to get used to seeing me around.” He gives me a look that makes my heart quake, and then he smiles politely at my mother. “Thank you for what your family did for my family, Mrs. Demarco,” he says. And then he slips out.
My father slams the door behind him.
“Antonio!” my mother says, her voice raised, which is exceedingly rare.
