Take the ride of a lifetime with this mother/son, crime/revenge thriller James Patterson praises as “audacious, addictive, highly entertaining.”?
Eighteen-year-old aspiring comic Joey Rossi just found out his boyfriend has been cheating on him for the past ten months. But what did he expect? Joey was born with an addiction to toxic jerks—something he inherited from his lovably messy, wisecracking, Italian-American spitfire of a mom (and best friend): 34-year-old Gia Rossi.
When Gia’s latest non-relationship goes up in flames only a day later, the pair’s Bayonne, New Jersey apartment can barely contain their rage. In a misguided attempt at revenge, Joey and Gia inadvertently commit a series of crimes and flee the state, running to the only good man either of them has ever known—Gia’s ex, Marco. As they hide out from the law at Marco’s secluded lake house, Joey and Gia must confront all the bad habits and mistakes they’ve made that have led them to this moment—and find a way to take responsibility for what they’ve done.
Release date:
May 25, 2021
Publisher:
Little, Brown and Company
Print pages:
304
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I should have known it would end like this. Luke was nothing if not a carbon copy of every other hypermasculine asshole I’ve swiped right on over the past four years. The only difference is that he’s the first one who didn’t run screaming the second I slipped the word boyfriend into a post-hookup conversation.
“I never liked that prick,” Mom says. I’m pretty sure it’s a lie, but I appreciate the gesture. “He was always so cocky.”
“It’s my fault.” I toss my phone across our ratty pleather couch so she can analyze the texts for me. She’s wearing a black spaghetti-strap tank top, and her shiny gold GIA necklace bounces against her Jergens Natural Glowy skin as she reaches over to pick it up. “I ignored all the red flags.”
The earliest one appeared in flirty conversation more than ten months ago, when he told me his childhood hero was Tiger Woods. A stone-faced athlete with a known fidelity problem! What the hell did I expect? Meanwhile, my childhood hero was Monica Lewinsky.
“Hmmm.” Mom stares into the dim light of my phone. Watching her absorb Luke’s empty words makes me picture them all over again in my head. Which makes me want to scream and/or sob and/or get violently drunk. I’m sure all three will happen in time. Probably within the next hour or so.
I pour myself a glass of the cheap red wine we popped open a few minutes ago. “What do you think?”
“I think he’s out of his goddamn mind.” Her voice drips with trademark New Jersey sass. “‘A complex situation.’ Really? Like keeping it in his pants is the Riddle of the fuckin’ Sphinx.”
I knew she’d be furious for me. Emotions aren’t something Mom and I are capable of experiencing separately. They’re always shared.
“And then he has the nerve to call you crazy.” She pours a glass for herself and shoots me a look of caution. “Promise me you won’t justify that with a response.”
Of course I won’t. If there’s anything I’ve learned from being on the other side of this couch all my life, it’s that “crazy” is a word shitty men use to deflect attention from their own shitty behavior. It calls the validity of your pain into question and pivots the fight into a new direction by forcing you to defend your sanity. Before you know it, an entire hour of screaming and crying and dish-throwing has somehow just passed. Wait, you finally stop to ask yourself. Why is my sanity even a topic of discussion right now? He’s the sociopath who’s been lying to me every day for the past year. But now you’ve already screamed and cried and thrown dishes, so your entire argument falls apart faster than the porcelain shards of a freshly hurled salad plate. It’s textbook gaslighting. And I’m not gonna fall for it!
“Don’t worry.” I tug at my navy-blue Rutgers sweatpants. “I would never.”
Luke gave me these pants after I got my acceptance letter last month. I didn’t want to apply anywhere — being a stand-up comic doesn’t exactly require a formal education — but my Nonna is desperate for me to be the first in the family with a college degree. So I figured I might as well just pick the school my boyfriend goes to. You know! Like a real dumbass.
“‘You win.’” Mom’s still going at it with the text analysis. “What kind of bullshit is that? Acting like his half-assed apology is some kind of prize.” Her shiny espresso hair flutters as she shakes her head in disgust. “This bitch.”
Her insult of choice triggers a bittersweet Luke-memory from just a few weeks ago.
“You guys would love Joey’s mom,” he told a few of his buddies over chicken wings. It was a Saturday and I was spending the weekend with him on campus. “She’s dope. Her name is Gia and she’s, like, young and hot. And she calls everyone ‘bitch.’”
I laughed so hard I almost spit out my Diet Coke. He was so right. To Mom, everyone falls into one of two distinct categories: this bitch or that bitch. The former is a razor-sharp insult; the latter is a God-level compliment.
“She’s never called you a bitch,” I replied.
“Not to my face,” Luke answered with a grin.
The sweetness of this memory burns to a crisp as I realize how prescient it was. I have to rub my eyes to ward off a threatening wave of tears.
“Do you think it was me?” I ask. Mom is obviously going to answer with an emphatic no, but I can’t help posing the question. I’ve never felt good enough for Luke. Which is probably why I loved him so much. “Am I too young? Too low-key fat? Is my voice too gay? Maybe it’s because I don’t know anything about golf.”
“Joey!” She hits my arm with her perfectly manicured hand. “You’re eighteen. You’re literally a twig — not that it should matter if you weren’t.” Her throat catches for a second, but she quickly composes herself. “And who cares if you don’t like golf? There’s nothing wrong with you. Or your voice. Okay? He’s the one with the problem here.”
“Yeah, yeah.” It’s just that Luke and Joshua (that’s his “straight” roommate) both have these manly voices. The kinds of voices that are never not sure of themselves. You know what I mean? Whereas mine is basically an audible question mark. I could literally be robbing a bank and it would still sound like I was asking for permission. Put the money in the bag, motherfucker! I mean… if you want to. No? Okay. Yeah, no. That’s fine. This was a stupid idea. Sorry. Please don’t hate me.
“So walk me through it,” Mom says. “How did you find out?”
“Joshua’s girlfriend messaged me on Instagram.” I guzzle the remaining contents of my wineglass. This wouldn’t be my first choice of alcoholic beverage for an occasion of this magnitude — I’d rather have a shot of tequila or maybe an IV of vodka — but Mom always keeps Luna di Luna in stock at home. It’s basically like water for us. What? We’re Italian. “She walked in on them while they were going down on each other.”
“No! Seriously?” she asks. “While they were —”
“Yup.”
“At the same ti —”
“It was an active sixty-nine situation, yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Obviously I grilled her. She gave me all the details.”
“Oh, babe.” Mom curls up under our Christmas-themed throw blanket (please note that it’s currently April) and sighs. “I’m so sorry.”
“I just can’t believe this is even happening to me,” I say. “I thought I knew Luke. You know? This is something one of your boyfriends would pull, not —” Oh. Damn. That came out way judgier than I meant it to. “Sorry. I’m not saying Richard would ever… you know.” Awkward silence. “How are things going with you guys, anyway?”
“We’re fine.” She graciously doesn’t acknowledge the fact that I just clocked her as a hopeless asshole-addict. “He’s out of town for work again ’til next Tuesday.”
See what I mean, though? Richard is exactly the type of guy you’d expect to be a cheating scumbag! Always traveling for “work.” And don’t even get me started on his marital situation. He’s separated but not divorced from his wife, because somehow he can’t find the time or money to close the deal. Meanwhile, he owns several businesses and drives a brand-new Tesla. But every time Mom brings it up, he gets mad at her for picking a fight. So she never brings it up. I’ve tried telling her how fishy this is — especially since it’s been almost two years at this point — but she insists I just don’t get it. Her connection with Richard is special, marriage is complicated, and other assorted bullshit justifications.
“Where is he now?” I ask.
“San Francisco.” Mom bites her glossy lip and wipes a strand of hair behind her ear. “I mean, yeah, it’s still frustrating. Sometimes I feel like I’ve been waiting forever.” She pauses for a second before continuing. “But we’re in the home stretch. He knows I’m dying to move into that house.”
That’s the other thing. Richard owns this HGTV-ass McMansion out in Short Hills, but he wants to wait until his career calms down and I go to college before he and Mom start living together. Short Hills! That’s basically the capital of rich-people New Jersey. Meanwhile, Mom and I live in Bayonne — the exact opposite of rich-people New Jersey — and we still struggle to get by on her hairdresser tips and the money I get from my part-time job stuffing cannolis at Mozzicato’s Bakery. Richard knows the move would be a huge life upgrade for her. Why won’t he just let it happen already?
Sometimes I worry it’s because he doesn’t want it to happen ever. Like he’s just keeping Mom on the back burner until he finds someone more wifeable. You know: hot, basic, chill, dumb. Not that Mom isn’t gorgeous — I’ve always said she looks like a brunette Lady Gaga — but “basic” and “chill” are entirely foreign concepts to her. And she’s definitely not dumb. Nonna’s always telling me about what an amazing student she was in high school. At least until junior year, when I decided to set up shop in her uterus.
“You really don’t think he’s lying to you about anything?” I ask.
I know I shouldn’t be pissing in her Richard Cheerios just because my boyfriend ended up being a dishonest douche canoe. But I can’t help it. I don’t want to see her get hurt again. Especially now that I know firsthand how horrible it feels.
“Don’t start with that shit.” Mom rolls her perfectly done smoky eyes. “I’ve told you a million times. Richard is different.”
Luke was supposed to be different, I think but don’t say out loud. So what do either of us really know?
“Sorry.” I take another swig of wine. “I’m just all messed up from the Luke thing.”
Speaking of Luke, my phone is buzzing.
“I don’t even wanna look,” I tell Mom. She grabs it from my hand as it buzzes again. And again and again. “You read them.”
“You sure you don’t wanna?” she asks. Bzzz. I nod and drink. Bzzz. She soaks up the new messages and her face instantly goes all grim. Damn. This must be worse than the first batch. “Honestly, Joey? Fuck him. You’re done with him, right?” Bzzz. “I’m deleting the conversation.”
“Wait!” I kind-of-maybe shriek. “Don’t delete anything.”
She jumps off the couch and holds the phone out of my reach. “Joey, listen! You’re better off keeping his ass on mute.”
“I will!” It’s obviously now imperative that I read these texts. “I just wanna see what he wrote first.”
“Joey.” She skips across the living room and almost knocks over our chintzy Walmart floor lamp in the process. “Trust me.”
“Mom, seriously.”
“I am serious,” she snaps back.
“Come on,” I whine.
I know! I’m pathetic. But the past ten months are now flashing before my eyes. A hundred identical visions of Luke in the driver’s seat of his tricked-out Subaru: his perfect jawline accommodating a smirk, messy black hair peeking out from under his New Jersey Devils hat, strong hands gripping the steering wheel like he’s in full control of not just his car but every other car on the road as well. There was something so safe about being his passenger. Can I really afford to lose that?
And who knows? Maybe these new texts have some kind of surprise explanation that will magically fix everything once I see it. Bzzz. Or maybe they’re just as bad as Mom is making them out to be — in which case I should also definitely see them. Right? For closure. Bzzz.
“Just give me the phone!” I wail. “Please?”
“Joey —”
“Mom.”
It’s like a game of one-on-one basketball as I chase her around the living room and she expertly blocks me from getting even the slightest grip.
“Joey…”
“MOM!”
We finally just collapse on the floor at the foot of the couch, exhausted and drunk. But I have to admit the whole scuffle was weirdly therapeutic. We’re even giggling a little bit.
“Fine,” she says. “Here.”
“Thank you.”
“Just remember what I said.” She rubs my arm like I’m going in for surgery or something. “Fuck. Him.”
I look down and immediately notice that almost every text starts with the word “you.” Probably not a great sign.
LUKE: you wanna be like this, fine
LUKE: you’re always the victim
LUKE: Poor Joey
LUKE: it’s pathetic
LUKE: you always say I don’t care about your feelings lol but that’s because you ONLY care about your own feelings
LUKE: you’ve been accusing me of cheating since day one anyway, so screw it, you got what you wanted
LUKE:
you have no idea how unattractive your constant insecurity is
LUKE: you and your mom deserve each other
“Joey…” Mom starts.
“It’s fine,” I say, but of course it’s not. I feel hollow and heavy at the same time — like I’ve just suffered multiple gunshot wounds and my body doesn’t know which one should start bleeding first. I ignored Luke for a total of — what? Six hours? And that’s all it took for him to completely give up on me. Not just give up, but unleash. “Whatever.”
“He always lashes out like this when you fight,” she says. “Don’t even worry about it. In an hour he’ll be texting you, ‘I’m so sorry, my temper got the best of me —’”
“I’m the one who should have a temper right now.” My voice cracks. How many dishes can we afford to lose? I would love to smash a few right now. “This isn’t just another fight, Mom. He cheated. And he’s never said this kind of shit to me.”
“I hope you know how wrong he is.” She pours herself another glass and squeezes my wrist. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Or us. He’s just a prick.”
He’s just a prick. Funny. That’s exactly what she used to say about Brooks White when he and his friends would terrorize me every day back in middle school. Actually? Luke always kinda reminded me of Brooks. How fucked up is that? It’s probably why getting him to be my boyfriend always felt like such an achievement. It was like a delayed seal of approval from every popular jock who’s ever called me a fag before.
And now it’s been ripped away.
“Oh, my God, Joey. Don’t cry.” Mom places her glass down and wipes a streak of eyeliner from her cheek. “Now you’re making me cry.”
Shit. I didn’t even realize I’d let myself go. I look down at Luke’s texts again in an attempt to transmute my sadness back into anger. It’s not that hard to do, actually — I just stare at the word pathetic until a current of rage begins to crackle in my bones.
“Remember the Leo incident?” I ask her.
“Joey…” she ominously warns. “Don’t even think about —”
“Why not? I have to do something to get back at Luke! This is just” — I catch my breath before it gets away from me and I melt back into a puddle — “it hurts so much.”
“I know it does.” Mom’s hand oozes pity as it rubs my back. “But we don’t do stuff like that anymore. Remember? It was stupid. I could have gotten us into so much trouble. We’re lucky Leo let it go the way he did.”
Leo is one of Mom’s exes from… like seven years ago, I guess. He cheated on her and we got him back by trashing the hell out of his luxury condo one night when he was out of town. It was epic. We took two baseball bats and four cans of spray paint and exorcised our anger from wall to wall to wall. Mom even burned a few of his precious Giants jerseys in his bathtub. I honestly thought the building might burn down, but she turned the shower on and somehow prevented the fire alarm from making even a single bleep. A professional!
I didn’t understand the gravity of Mom’s pain at the time, but the experience moved me nonetheless. All these years later, I can still see the flames — flickering, waving, dancing through a pile of charred menswear in the middle of the marble bathtub — so vividly in my mind. I would kill to create some new ones right now.
“I’m supposed to just let Luke get away with this?”
“Trust me,” Mom says. “Trashing his place won’t make you feel any better. It won’t fix anything.”
“I really think it will.”
“Let’s be realistic.” Mom sits up and tosses the blanket aside. “The kid lives on a college campus, for Christ’s sake.”
She has a point there. We’d never make it past the RA in the lobby.
Damnit.
“Then maybe we can egg his car,” I say. “Or slash his tires.” I drop my shoulders in desperation. “We have to do something.”
“Jesus.” Mom lets out a sad little laugh. “I’ve created a monster.”
It’s Monday — the first official weekday of spring break. I was supposed to spend this week with Luke on campus for a laid-back staycation kind of thing. Instead I’m sitting on Nonna’s outdated kitchen counter, nibbling on a Stella D’oro biscotti and trying to cure my hangover with a giant mug of dark roast coffee. “Volare” by Dean Martin wafts out from her ancient kitchen radio. I usually love when she plays this song, but right now it’s a little too cheery for me.
“You look like you’ve aged ten years since last week,” Nonna says to me as she hovers over a pot of lukewarm water on the stove. She’s dressed like the anti-Mom, which is to say in loose-fitting pastels. “Please don’t tell me you stayed up all night crying over that stunad.”
“Of course I didn’t,” I lie. “I just had a bad night’s sleep.”
I wish I could blame my haggard appearance on an all-nighter spent bashing Luke’s headlights in, but Mom stood firm in her conviction that it was a bad idea. So instead I retreated to my room and made a half-hearted attempt at writing some new material for my hypothetical stand-up act. My plan was to add a page or two to the running list of jokes I’ve got going in my Notes app, but I couldn’t come up with a single word. One of the reasons I love comedy so much is because it’s a way to avoid pain and choose laughter instead — but this pain refuses to be avoided.
At least I restrained myself from answering his texts. What was left to say after his vile tirade against me, anyway? It was almost like he’d been saving that outburst in Drafts for months, waiting for the right time to hit Send. Maybe he and Joshua got caught on purpose. Maybe they’re in love. Maybe he’s been wanting to break up with me all this time and just didn’t know how to go about it. I guess we had been fighting a lot. Maybe I missed something? Maybe —
“It’s all your mother’s fault,” Nonna says, as if she knows I’m searching for answers in my head. Not that this one is at all helpful. According to her, every problem I’ve ever had is Mom’s fault. “You look scrawny.” She flicks a pinch of salt into the pot. “When’s the last time she fed you?”
“I don’t know.” Which is probably why it’s past noon and I’m still hungover. In the midst of all the drama last night, Mom and I never had the chance to incorporate any solid foods into our wine-a-thon. “How is this Mom’s fault, though? Luke is the one who cheated on me. She had nothing to do with it.”
“She’s the reason you’re like this!” Nonna says. “For the past year all I’ve heard is Luke, Luke, Luke.” She lightly slaps my arm. “What about Joey?”
“What about me?”
“You give these boys too much power — and you learned it from her.” She delicately stuffs the pot with a bundle of uncooked linguine. “You don’t need a man. Look at me. I’ve been alone for eighteen years. You don’t see me crying.”
“That’s different,” I say. “You just refuse to get over Nonno.”
Nonno had a sudden heart attack and died when I was a baby.
“Because he was a good man.” She side-eyes me while adding more linguine to the boiling pot. “Not like these chadrools you and your mother go for. I swear, you think any dummy walking down the street with a pisello dangling between his legs is God himself. And you.” She points at me with a piece of raw pasta. “You have a pisello of your own! What do you need another one for?”
“Nonna, ew.” I almost choke on my coffee. “I really don’t need to hear you talking about my… pisello.”
“Oh, please. Who do you think was changing your diapers while Gianna was off at beauty school? Anyway. All I’m saying is you should learn from your mother’s mistakes. Otherwise you won’t know how to keep a good man once you find him.” She stirs the pot. “Let’s not forget about poor Marco. I could’ve strangled your mother for what she did to him.”
As if I could ever forget about Marco. He’s the closest thing Mom’s ever had to a healthy relationship. And the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father. Up until I was in fourth grade, the three of us lived together in a cute little townhouse on Franklin Avenue. It had an upstairs and everything! We played Scrabble as a family on Friday nights and even went grocery shopping on a semi-weekly basis. Can you imagine? It was all so wholesome I could puke. Mom tried really hard to be happy with him, but she eventually broke it off because he was “too boring.” I was furious with her at the time — especially because the guy sh. . .
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