“So, Chloe…” Lucia is filling my plate with food.
I shift nervously in my seat and fiddle with the buttons on my sweater.
She loads me up with some rolled thing that looks like meat drenched in sauce, forks a pile of noodles so high I’d need a week to eat my way through it, and then uses wooden salad tongs to fill a bowl beside my plate with greens. “How do you take your pasta? Swimming in sauce or lightly coated?”
“Whatever way you want to make it,” I tell her.
Mario is pouring me a very full glass of wine. “Do you drink, sweetheart? I should’ve asked before I started pouring.”
“She’ll drink if she wants it,” Lucia says as she hands me a giant plate of pasta.
I just nod and murmur, “Thank you.”
Grace holds up her empty glass for her father to fill more than the half glass he’s already poured. “Top it off, Dad. You opened two bottles.”
He fills it, and once everyone at the table has wine and a plate full of food, Lucia and Mario take their seats at opposite ends of the table.
“We like to give thanks before we eat.” Lucia folds her hands and bows her head.
I notice every head at the table lowers, so I do the same and squeeze my eyes closed. I hope I’m not expected to say anything or hold hands or any of that. I’m not from a religious family, and I don’t know any formal prayers.
I’m lost in my thoughts, staring at the steaming heap of food on my plate, when for some reason, I look up. I feel someone watching me, and in spite of the nervousness twisting in my belly, I chance a look at Franco.
It’s him.
He’s watching me.
Staring at me.
I press my lips in what I hope is a reassuring smile and look away.
“And we’re so very thankful for our new friend in Chloe.” Lucia finishes her prayer, and around me, everyone lifts their glass of wine.
“Salud,” Benito says, tapping the rim of his glass to his father’s.
Everyone around the table echoes the toast, and I just lift my glass silently and take a sip when everyone else does.
When the meal finally starts, that’s when the real awkwardness begins.
“So, Chloe,” Lucia starts.
“Ma, for fuck’s sake…” Franco has pulled a piece of actual string from the rolled meat on this plate and slices into it with a bang of cutlery against stoneware.
“Franco.” It’s his father who responds, giving his son a dark look. “We’re at the table, son. Language.”
Gracie settles back in her chair, a smug look on her face, while Benito grabs the bottle of wine and tops off his glass.
“Would you all just settle down?” Vito, the quietest of the Bianchis, is swirling a forkful of pasta in the air. He looks at me with a warm smile, and I can’t help but relax a little.
I look down at my plate piled high with hot, delicious-smelling food.
“Have you ever had braciole before?”
I assume the question is for me. I look up and feel every eye at the table on me. I grab the glass of wine and take a swig, then shake my head. “No, we, uh… No.”
Lucia gets all excited at that. “Mario’s is the best,” she explains, but then she looks at Benito. “No offense, son.”
Benito is chewing a mouthful of salad and shrugs.
