Stop Pretending That You're Sorry

The Tuccis’ bathroom was just as fancy as the rest of their house. The walls were painted a creamy coffee color, accenting the shades of the wood flooring. There was a little chandelier dangling above my head, it was gold with lots of swirls and curves in the metal. And then there was the mirror, outlined with a breathtakingly beautiful golden frame, and about as big as my bedroom window. But of course I had to bring down the whole room by looking like shit.

My face was puffier than ever before. Mascara and eyeliner ran streaks through my blush and foundation, as well as embedding themselves in the creases of my eyelids. Dyed black hair was knotted and grungy looking. And to top it all off, there was a faint purple mark forming in the crescent of my left eye. Thank you, Anthony.

Once I was all cleaned up and feeling rather guilty about staining Mrs. Tucci’s nice linen hand towels, I headed into the kitchen where Gavin and his mother were setting up for dinner.

“Ah, Regan, I hope you like ravioli. I’m sorry, I didn’t have time to fold out fresh ones, but I had some in the freezer that I made a few weeks ago. I hope that’s okay.”

Homemade ravioli?

“Of course,” my voice came out squeaky and cracking, making it hard to understand. I tried again. “Of course I like ravioli.”

“Fabulous. Alright, Gav honey, can you help me carry this to the table.”

Gavin immediately ran over to help his mother. Already I could tell they had a wonderful relationship, even though I’d only been there about fifteen minutes. Their body language said it all. They were so comfortable around one another, like they knew each other well.

“Michael, Giovanni, come on down for dinner!” Proceeding Mrs. Tucci’s words a man appeared in the kitchen doorway. I assumed he was Mr. Tucci.

“Michael Angelo Tucci! Don’t make me ask again,” Mrs. Tucci called, this time from the foot of the staircase.

A few minutes later another boy joined us. He resembled Gavin quite a bit, only with a scruffy little beard, glasses, and much taller. That had to be his older brother.

We all sat down at the table, which I was starting to feel awkward about.

“Who is this lovely young lady?” Mr. Tucci asked, flashing me a smile.

“This is Regan, she’s a friend of Gavin.” Mrs. Tucci explained before Gavin or I had a chance to.

“Is that right? Well it’s nice to meet you, Regan. I’m Gavin’s father, Giovanni.” My guess was right, he was in fact Mr. Tucci.

“Hey, Vinny can you pass the rolls?” Michael asked, and Gavin obliged.

Vinny? I had never heard anyone call him Vinny before. Then again I really hadn’t spent much time with him around other people.

“Vinny?” The word slipped out in the form of a question before I even realized.

“Yeah, some people call me Vinny. Gavin, Vinny, it’s a nickname. Whoever doesn’t call me Vinny calls me Tucci. It can get confusing though, cause they call him Tucci too,” he pointed with his fork at his brother seated across the table.

“Vinny, I like that. It’s sweet.”

“Thanks.” At the time I didn’t notice the blush creeping up his cheeks. He was trying to hide it by looking down and shoveling food into his mouth.

This was the first time I’d had a real meal. I didn’t count the sandwiches as such, because well it wasn’t really dinner material. This however, homemade ravioli with homemade sauce, salad on the side, and fresh rolls, damn these Italians know how to eat.

“So are you in the same class as Gavin?” Mrs. Tucci asked, in attempt to make polite conversation.

“We’re in art class together. I just moved in about a week ago. I met him through Julia and Katie.”

“Ah, they’re such nice girls, aren’t they?”

I wouldn’t exactly call Julia nice what with the way she picked on and insulted everyone behind their backs. And Katie and I hadn’t interacted enough for me to make a judgment. In these situations, it’s usually best to agree, so I did.

Dinner with the Tucci’s was fantastic. I felt like a part of a legitimate family for once. They even pretended to ignore my puffy face, and the bruise forming around my eye. It felt like the genuinely cared about me, and they’d only just met me.

I could’ve gotten used to that. I really could’ve.