During dessert, Vito excuses himself to bed. He apologizes that he’s got to sleep at odd times due to his shifts at the firehouse, and after kisses to his parents and a sleepy nod at me, he’s gone.
Even with one fewer Bianchi at the table, the conversation is no less animated. I listen in and savor the gooey, buttery cake that pairs perfectly with the strong coffee.
As he’s shoveling the last bite of cake into his mouth, Benito slaps a hand on the table and leans over to kiss his mother. “Dinner was amazing. Love you all. Got to run. Got to get back to work.”
He doesn’t bother to clear his plate, and Franco and Grace both sigh and roll their eyes.
Mario gets up to give his son a hug, and Benito waves at me. “Nice to meet you, Chloe,” he says. “I’ll treat you to some real Italian cooking if you come down to my restaurant.”
That elicits an outburst of good-natured insults from the family, and in a flash, Benny is out the door.
Franco jumps up and clears his brother’s plate.
I get up to do the same, but again, Grace stops me. “Sit,” she says, waving a hand at me. “Relax.”
I’m pretty sure if I stay any longer, avoiding Franco’s eyes like they are lasers waiting to cut into my soul, I won’t be able to relax for days.
I’m ready. It’s more than past time to go.
“I’d better head home,” I say. “I walked, and it’s getting pretty late.”
Turns out that is the absolute wrong thing to say.
“You what?” Lucia is abuzz with nervous energy, her pretty face pulled into a strained scowl. “What’s wrong with your car? You have a car, don’t you, honey? What happened to that little sedan you were driving?”
I shrug. “It’s fine. I just… It was a beautiful day, and I thought I’d walk.”
That’s not true, of course. But the last thing I want to get into is the fact that I’m so broke I don’t even have gas money at the moment. I mean, I did… I just chose to put the little money I did have into other things. There’s no point in these people getting all worried or worked up about my choices.
Mario shakes his head. “No, no, that’s no good. Where do you live? I’ll take you home.”
That starts the fight of the century—or at least it sounds like it.
Lucia is giving him the area I live in and exclaiming that I must have walked three miles to get here.
Mario pushes back from the table and tugs his glasses over his eyes while he punches my address into his phone. “Is that it? I’ve been meaning to try this new map app my kids put on my phone. I used it the other day to drive into Cleveland. Worked pretty good.”
I bite back a smile and hold up my hands. “Please,” I say. “It’s okay. I’ve eaten enough to fuel me for a marathon. I’ll be just fine.”
“Oh no, you won’t.” Lucia is acting like I’ve suggested I swim across Lake Erie nude in January. “And Mario, you’ve had two glasses of wine. You’re not driving anybody anywhere.” I follow her finger with my eyes as she points at her son. “Franco, you’re driving home anyway. You can take Chloe home on the way.”
“Oh no, I… It’s okay. I…” The words die on my lips as I meet Franco’s stony stare.
He looks annoyed, exhausted, and like he fully expected me to pull a trick like this. He probably thinks his mother and I schemed this up just as a way to get the two of us alone.
All of a sudden, all the food in my stomach isn’t sitting so well. “Really, I don’t want to be any trouble.” I push back from my chair and head to Lucia. The last thing I want is to ruffle anyone’s feathers. Especially her son’s. “The meal was amazing,” I tell her, tentatively opening my arms for a hug.
Lucia pulls me close and holds me tight. “You’re never alone, you hear me?” she asked. “You have family here, Chloe.” She kisses my cheek and releases me, shouting for her husband to hurry up and make me a plate of leftovers.
“Oh no, I…”
“It’s pointless.” Franco’s grumpy rasp sends chills along my arms. Even under my thick cardigan, I can feel every inch of my skin pebble as though a cool breeze is blowing right through every layer I have on.
I turn slowly and face his searing gaze. “I’m sorry? I…”
He holds up a hand. “You’re not going to win this one. Ma will have visions of you dying by serial killer all night, so you’re not going to walk home. And Dad won’t stop complaining that you didn’t like his cooking if you don’t take a plate.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “You may as well get your boots on. As soon as your leftovers are ready, I’ll drive you.”
He stalks up to the front door, where his boots are waiting beside mine. I keep my eyes on the floor as he walks past, hoping he won’t see I’m embarrassed by every bad choice I’ve made that’s led me to this moment. The outfit I wore, the boots, walking here. I’ve never felt more wrong or unsettled within myself.
