Page 94 of Ruthless Rustanovs

And that was when I remembered not only did I have the mascot for my favorite band tattooed on the back of my neck, I also happened to be wearing one of their concert tees under my sweater.

Antonio actually tilted his head all the way to the side to squint right along with Maria at my t-shirt.

“Is she some kind of Buddhist?” he asked Marco in Spanish.

“No, Dad…” Marco began, only to trail off, seemingly at a loss for a decent explanation of why I had a laughing Buddha with blood dripping out of his mouth on my shirt.

“That’s Death Buddha, Mom,” a voice explained from the other end of the table. “One of my favorite bands.”

I blinked in surprise and looked over to see that yes, indeed, it was Go talking. His gaze was still sharp on my face, but a little softer now.

“Mine, too,” I answered carefully, feeling exactly about this conversation the way a deep sea diver might feel about treading into shark infested waters. Fascinated but understandably wary. “I actually followed them around for a year after I finished college.”

He looked off to the side, then right back at me in a way that put me in mind of a robot having to stop to make some computations before speaking again. “You followed them around,” he repeated. “Why?”

“Why? Because they’re my favorite band,” I answered with a laugh.

Also, my pierced up boyfriend at the time had invited me to go along with him.

But that didn’t feel like an appropriate addendum for the Thanksgiving-dinner-with-my-boyfriend’s-parents table.

Especially since we’d broken up less than three months into the year I spent following them around.

“Death Buddha, oh I remember that horrible band now. What a terrible name they have,” Maria said.

“I used to say that to Go when he was home for break from Carnegie Mellon and would blast that awful music in his room. Didn’t I used to say that?

Thank goodness none of my other children like that metal music. ”

I frowned then, and cut my gaze to Marco who’d asked me out on our first date with a pair of tickets to see Death Buddha—a band he claimed to love.

As if reading my thoughts, Marco said, “They aren’t so bad, Mami. There aren’t many metal bands with Hispanic drummers out there. We should all be supporting them.”

Daniella harrumphed. “Whatever, that’s not what you said to Berger when he—”

Before Daniella could finish the sentence, Marco said, “So yeah, Nyla followed them around for year, but then she came to her senses and decided to go back to school. Now she’s got a degree in Child Psychology and a good job and a great boyfriend…”

Everyone laughed at Marco’s joke. Everyone but Go.

“Why Child Psychology?” he asked me from his end of the table.

His question was so direct, it felt like an interrogation.

“Because I like kids,” I answered carefully, that shark-infested water feeling coming over me again.

“And?”

“And what?”

“You tell me,” he answered. “Women are fond of upspeak, I know, but that didn’t feel like a finished statement. I heard an ‘and.’”

I thought about his words and asked, “Are you trying to ask me why else I decided to get a masters in Child Psychology?”

“Yes, I’m asking why you took out substantial loans to get this degree of yours, only to take a five figure job at a domestic abuse shelter where you deal mostly with women and only occasionally with children. From the outside looking in, it doesn’t seem like a good plan.”

At the word “plan,” the entire table groaned.

“Leave her alone, Berger,” Phoebe, the second oldest sister, said.

“Yeah,” Marco agreed, his face not quite so affable now. “Not everyone has a plan.”

“And our community is lucky to have a progressive shelter like Ruth’s House. In fact I’ve done quite a bit of pro bono work for them,” Daniella pointed out.

“That’s because you plan to become the governor of Indiana one day,” Go shot back. “Nyla, on the other hand, followed a band around for a year before settling into a not very promising career.”

“Hey,” I snapped back, tired of being spoken about like I wasn’t even at the table.

“I might not have a plan, but I care deeply about the good work Sam is doing at Ruth’s House, and I’m glad to be of service to the many children of the women who come to the shelter.

A number of those kids are going through the worst fucking time of their lives, and Ruth’s House provides them with counseling, tutoring, and a variety of progressive services like yoga and meditation classes. ”

“Nyla, language…” Marco said, giving the back of my neck a squeeze. His smile was barely hanging on by a thread at that point.

“Sorry,” I said, shooting an apologetic look to Maria. “I’m just saying they get a lot more than I had growing up in the foster system, so…”

But before Maria could answer, Go said, “You’re applying your degree to a low paying job because something bad happened that put you in the foster care system when you were a child.

I’m assuming death or some type of abuse.

And this Sam helps not only women, but also children who are suffering.

So instead of coming up with a plan for your own life, you’ve decided to go along with hers. That makes sense.”

“Jesus Christ, Berger!” Marco said, finally losing his cool.

“I will not have that kind of language in my house,” their mother said.

“Seriously, Mami, he’s the one interrogating Nyla, the former foster kid, about her life plan over freaking Thanksgiving dinner, and you’re coming after me?!” Marco asked.

“He’s got a point, Mom,” Daniella said. “I know he bought you and Dad a house, but we really shouldn’t let him treat poor Nyla like that.”

My gaze cut to Go then, not loving how they made me sound like some tragic head case who couldn’t handle a few questions from their younger brother. He was obviously agitated, rocking slightly and gripping his fork so tight, I could see the whites of his knuckles.

“Classic Berger,” Phoebe muttered.

“Seriously not cool, Berger,” Cat agreed. “Not everyone can make a plan for their life that turns them into billionaires.”

“Not everyone even wants that,” Marco pointed out.

And Antonio said, “I apologize for our son’s behavior, Nyla. I think you owe her an apology, Rodrigo.”

Something shuttered in Go’s eyes, and I guess you can take the billionaire out of Irvington, but you couldn’t make him not listen to his father, because he muttered, “Sorry,” before turning his eyes down to his plate of untouched food.

I should have left it at that. For a long time afterward I’d think about how I should have just accepted the apology and changed the subject. I know for a fact that was what my wonderful and beautiful boss, Sam, would have done.

But there was something about the way he was looking down at his plate. It gave me the strangest feeling…the opposite of everyone else at the table: that he wasn’t trying to insult me, he was trying to understand me.

Also, there was a question knocking around at the back of my mind. A bad one that I kind of didn’t want the answer to, but nonetheless found myself asking.

“If your name’s Rodrigo and your nickname’s Go, why’s everyone calling you Berger?”

Go looked back up then, and the table went super quiet. Which confirmed the answer without anyone having to say a word.

I pushed Marco’s hand off the back of my neck and asked his brother, “Are you, in fact, on the spectrum? Do you have Asperger’s?”

Go looked to the side. Once. Twice—as if my question was taking extra computational power on his part.

“It’s a very long answer,” he finally said. “But the short answer is maybe no. From what a team of professionals was able to assess a couple of years ago, I’m just an asshole with poor social skills and some sensory processing issues.”

“Rodrigo!” Maria admonished.

“Sorry,” Go said to her before he continued, “But as you most likely know, the line is thin. Especially when people my age get assessed.”

Now it was my turn to process the information he’d just given me. And I came to same conclusion I would have either way. “They really need to stop calling you Berger. I mean, there’s not even a ‘b’ in that word.”

A small smile flitted across Go’s lips. “Yes, I’ve tried to tell them that as well, but they don’t care about the misspelling.

And I don’t…” He looked down at his plate.

Then back up at me again. “I don’t care what they call me.

My family loves me, and they’re good people.

The best people. They loved me before my money.

When I was a kid and at my worst. They loved me. ”

“Okay,” I answered with a shrug. “Now they have the chance to be even better people and stop fucking calling you that.”

For once, the language card didn’t get thrown out. I think because everyone but Go was staring at me in horror.

Go, however, just studied me for a moment or two, his gaze almost a blank of feeling, before saying, “I don’t need defending, Nyla. Not from my family.”

Then without giving me a chance to answer, he shifted his gaze to Cat and said, “I’ll take you for a test drive in your new Tesla after dinner. But there are a few things we should go over first…”

Soon after, Marco made a joke about the time Phoebe backed their dad’s car into a pole during her very first driving lesson, and the table was off and laughing once more. No one called him Berger again, I noted. But no one really spoke to me again either.

A little while later when I was coming out of the bathroom, I heard Go saying to Marco, “Why did you bring her here? I’m sure you knew she wouldn’t fit in. I don’t understand your plan with her.”

“Not everyone has a plan,” I heard Marco say. Only to stop when he spotted me standing there.

So yes, best Thanksgiving ever.

Not even.