“Yes.” I nod my head and stop moving as I wait for it.
“But?” She shakes her head, and then I see it when it finally dawns on her. The gasp comes out of her as her hand is lifted slowly to her mouth. “The princess girl?” she asks me and then looks over at my father. “Why are you not saying anything?” she asks him.
“Merde,” my father replies, using the French word for shit . Before we were born, he knew a couple of words, but then when we started learning, he learned with us because he wasn’t going to be left out of conversations. Also, because he thought my mother was always plotting something with us without him knowing, and she usually was. “Mon amour.” My love, he says to her, and she springs up again.
“Oh, don’t you, ‘mon amour’ me,” she hisses at him. “Tu le savais et tu ne m'as rien dit.” You knew and you didn’t tell me. “Ridicules, j'en reviens pas.” Ridiculous, I can't believe this.
“Imbécile.” Imbecile.
My father gets up and puts the phone down on the coffee table. “Ma belle.” My beautiful , he says.
“Can we just listen to what he has to say?”
“You do not even start, Markos.” She shakes her head and sits down in front of the phone. “You knew this big secret, and you didn’t think to tell me?” She shakes her head at him and starts mumbling French words that I’m not even getting for how low she is saying them. But it doesn’t sound like anything good. “You kept this from me?” she asks him. “How could you know this huge secret and not tell me?” My father opens his mouth to say something, but she holds up her hand to stop him. “How could you do this?” Again, he says something, and she side-eyes him, and he closes his mouth and then glares at me. “And you,” she hisses at me. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I don’t even bother answering her because she’s not one to be toyed with until she gets it all out of her system.
“We bought you condoms for you to use.” She throws up her hand in the air. “It’s a monthly
subscription.” She then trails off, mumbling all the bad French words.
“Are you done?” I ask her, and even my father shakes his head.
“Ne me cherche pas, Stefano Dimitris.” Don’t you start with me, she hisses at me, and she uses my full name, which anyone knows is never a good thing. Never. “Am I done?” she mimics my question.
“Do you want to meet her or not?” I ask her, my tone tight as I think she might say no. I don’t know how the fuck I will explain this to Addison. I can’t even imagine what she is going to say if my parents say no. Them saying no is really not an option.
“What kind of a stupid question is that?” my father shouts out. “Do we want to meet her or not?”
He then looks over at my mother, waiting for her to say something.
“On arrive demain.” We are coming down tomorrow, my mother declares.
“Her parents are going to think we raised a bouffon.” I have to laugh when she calls me a bouffon, but then I look down, trying to ignore the comment about her parents. I think about if I should tell them about her parents or not. It takes me over a minute of not saying anything for my father to pick up on the silence.
“What’s the matter?” I think about lying to him about what is bothering me, but I also know my parents will want to meet her parents to show them that I’m not an idiot. I also know I don’t want her to feel bad about it.
“Her parents kicked her out.” My words come out crystal clear, and the silence of the room just makes the words echo more.
My father’s hand comes up and he slams his hand down on the coffee table, the movement making the phone shake a bit. “Stefano,” he hisses out my name.
“Dad, you don’t think I know this?” I ask him, sitting on the edge of the bed as I hang my head down. “I feel.” I blink away the stinging of tears, but for the first time, I let them out. “I don’t even know what I feel, it’s like this burning in my stomach,” I tell them both and my mother uses her thumb to wipe away the tears that are coming out of her eyes. “And then my chest is tight and I feel like I’m going to throw up every seven seconds,” I say breathlessly.
“It’s called love, you dumbass,” my father says softly. “We are coming down tomorrow,” he reiterates what my mother just said. “We’ll take them out.”
“You can’t,” I tell him. “She said they are already eating out on Saturday.”