Twisted (Never After #4)(69)

“Mrs. Faraci, with all due respect,” I start, trying to defuse the situation. “Your son is— ”

“You know, if he were here— your father— he wouldn’t stand for it. Whoop some sense into you and remind you who made you what you are.” Her words soar across the air like finely aimed arrows, and I can tell the moment they hit their mark.

Julian tightens his fingers on mine for a second and then releases me completely, the sound of his chair scraping against the ground as it echoes off the high ceilings and beige walls.

He leans over the table, his fists pressing on the top until his knuckles turn white. “No, Mamma. He’d whoop you.”

My stomach is tangled in knots as I watch them, my fingers twisting together in my lap.

He reaches out and grabs my hand, pulling me forcefully up from the table. “We’re leaving.”

“Oh, okay, I…” I trail off as I regain my balance. He drags me away and I glance back once, not knowing if I should say goodbye or thank her for the meal or cuss her out for nagging her son instead of enjoying their time together. But I give her a pass, because if she’s sick, then I’m sure she’s confused, just like my baba, not wanting to lose the ones she loves yet not knowing how to approach them.

It’s only a few seconds and then it’s too late to say anything at all. Julian dragged me all the way out to the car, practically throwing me in the passenger seat and then driving like a bat out of hell off her property.

I sit ramrod straight, not even daring to breathe too loud.

Anger permeates the car, buzzing like a hive of wasps.

Eventually, I open my mouth, then close it again, repeating the motion two more times before I give up. I have no clue what to say.

“Are you okay?” I finally muster.

He doesn’t respond, jerking the wheel, my body jostling from the sharp left turn.

“You know,” I continue, trying to get some type of reaction out of him, “your mom seems like a peach. It’s no wonder you talk about her so much.”

His mouth twitches.

I reach out before I can stop myself, my finger poking into the side of his face. “Look at that. Your face isn’t stuck after all.”

He snaps his head to the side, chomping his teeth like he’s trying to bite my hand, and I squeal, pulling it back and slamming it to my chest.

I’m not sure why this sudden need is here, aching to make him feel better. Maybe it’s because I didn’t like the look in his eyes or the obvious strain that he and his mother have. Maybe it’s because I could tell there are things from his childhood that I could never imagine for myself. Or maybe it’s just because in this moment, I don’t hate my husband as much as I should. Whatever it is, I grab on to it with both hands, hoping that it doesn’t slip through my grasp.

“You’re an animal.” I laugh.

“Oh, gattina.” He sighs, smiling broadly now. “You have no idea.”





Chapter 29





Julian





I’m losing count of how many times I’ve let Yasmin touch me unprovoked, and I hate the way it feels.

It feels like comfort. Like a warm blanket on a cold night. Like I don’t hate it at all, which makes it a very big problem for me.

Dinner with my mother went differently than I expected, but it’s in my nature to constantly underestimate her. I knew things would be interesting, had expected the disrespectful tone of voice and the way she pricks and prods, trying to make me snap. But I hadn’t expected my reaction to the way she so callously disregarded someone I chose to spend the rest of my life with.

Forget the fact that it isn’t real, that I’m blackmailing Yasmin to even spend time with me. My mother doesn’t know that, and a normal mom— a good mom—would have had more to say than “let’s eat dinner.”

In any other situation, I’d let her get away with it. But a strange new protective energy waved its red flag in front of my face, warning me that if I didn’t get us out of there, I was going to ruin everything. Ma would deserve it, but like usual, there’s something tethering me to her even after all these years, an invisible rope that frays more with every example of disrespect, every time she brings up my childhood, acting like I don’t remember how all my scars are from her.

But it’s still there, and it’s still connected, and I don’t know how to make it snap in half.

It hurts that she couldn’t even pretend to care about me bringing home a wife. I had expected her to get angry, not bitter.

God knows why.

“You know,” Yasmin says, sitting on the family room couch in that black pencil skirt and silk blouse, slipping her heels off. “That went differently than I expected.”

I roll the glass of scotch around with my wrist as I take her in, the fireplace warming up the air and the fall leaves outside the wall of windows adding a warm feel to the space as the sun sets behind the tree line. Walking over to the couch, I sit down, placing my drink on the coffee table and grabbing the sole of her foot, running my thumbs up the arch.

She moans, her eyes fluttering, and then like she realizes what she’s doing, her hand flies to her mouth, an embarrassed look crossing her face.

I smirk.

“Can I give you some advice?” She tilts her head.