A piece spun off Hemingway's Iceberg Theory

"Good morning," Liam said as he strode into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes.

He froze.

Every surface was covered in ingredients or half-finished meals.

"Gigi?"

"Hm?" she replied, her back to him.

"What’s going on?"

She slid chopped carrots into a simmering pot and turned the sizzling meat in the pan beside it.

"Today’s the 13th. Your mom’s coming."

"Okay? It’s eight a.m."

"Exactly. She’ll be here for lunch, and I haven’t even mopped or washed the guest bathroom."

Liam shot her a confused look. "I don’t get it. We haven’t even had breakfast and you’re worried about lunch?"

"You can have cereal or toast. The chicken isn’t even in the oven yet."

He picked up a spoon and leaned toward a sauce on the counter. Gigi rapped his hand with a potholder.

"Don’t touch that."

He pouted. "The chicken?"

She turned the flame down and moved to the sink, running water over the dishes.

"Yeah. I thought it’d be nice to have multiple protein options, so–"

The spoon slipped from her hand and clattered into the sink.

She turned to him, her face pulled tight with horror.

"I didn’t ask if she’s vegetarian or vegan," she whispered.

"She’s neither. Don’t get an aneurysm."

Her shoulders sagged in relief. 

"She doesn’t even eat that much. This is probably too much food," he continued.

She ignored him. 

"Can you clean the bathroom?"

"But it’s clean."

"Just… another quick clean. To make sure it’s up to standard."

"Whose standard? Health inspectors?" He smiled. "The bathroom’s fine, babe."

"I’m just asking for one thing, Liam."

"I know, but who cares about the bathroom?"

"I do!" She yelled. "What if she needs to use it and there’s like...a hair in the sink?"

He tilted his head, eyebrows raised, then crossed the space between them. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pressed his nose into her neck, kissed her softly.

She stayed rigid.

"It’s okay," he murmured. "She wouldn’t care."

She scoffed. "Haven’t heard that one before."

"What?"

"That’s what you think." She pulled out of his arms. "You won’t be there when she’s ripping me apart to her friends. Talking about the hair in the sink, or the chicken being too tender, or the curtains being the wrong shade of blue to match the rug."

"We don’t even have a rug. Gianna, relax."

"No. You get to relax." She gestured sharply. "You’re her son. You don’t know how much pressure-"

She stopped. Sniffed.

Her head snapped toward the cooker.

She rushed to the pan. There was clanging, muttering, the sharp scrape of panic. Then silence.

"Gigi?" Liam said.

She slid to the floor, curling into herself. The soup bubbled quietly as her sobs broke the silence.

Liam knelt beside her.

"She’s going to hate me," Gigi said, tears streaking down her face.

"She’s going to love you," he said softly. "She already does. You met her at Damian’s engagement party. You charmed her–like you did me. Being here doesn’t change that."

He paused. "She probably likes you more than me."

Gigi let out a small, broken snort.

"So if there’s only one protein, and the curtains don’t match the invisible rug, and there’s dust on the tables… it’s fine." He smiled. “She’ll blame me for being ‘such a boy.’Okay?"

Gigi nodded, wiping her face.

“Okay.”

~ BellaTrinitee 

I wrote this for an exercise on Ernest Hemingway's Iceberg Theory where I was to write a scene in which a character’s behavior or reaction to something is affected by a past experience — without saying what that experience was. Drop a comment if you see how it answers the prompt.