Benny’s cocky, annoying, arrogant, and hilarious, but what makes it so frustrating is he’s a genuinely good guy. He’s got the quickest temper of all of us, but he’s driven, generous, and a lot of other good qualities that I’ll never admit to his face. He’s a brilliant cook, having picked up a ton over the years from our parents and grandparents. But when he comes home, he’s all youngest son. The brilliant cook and demanding chef in him take a back seat, and he just lets himself be served and babied. Cocksucker.
And then there’s me. The oldest. The one who moved out first—much to my parents’ horror—and who is probably the most responsible. I pay attention to my parents and what they need, even if they drive me up a fucking wall sometimes.
They’re family.
Wherever they are is my forever home, so even though I don’t live under their roof anymore, I show up early enough for table-setting duty.
But today when I arrive, the table’s already set. And not only that, the table’s set for seven.
There’s never an extra place setting.
“Why’s it so quiet in here?” I hang my keys on the wall cabinet by the front door Pops built Ma after he retired. I nod at the dining room table, which I can see from the entryway. I kick off my boots and lift my brows at Gracie, who is snuggled down on the leather sectional nibbling the ends of her hair while she watches a football game.
Gracie doesn’t bother looking up. “Franco,” she mumbles in greeting, her eyes locked on the huge screen that hangs over the fireplace.
I drop down onto the couch, annoyingly close to Gracie. A huge, warm lump tucked under a crocheted afghan shifts as I rest my head on my sister’s shoulder. “Ladies,” I say, greeting my mother’s dogs. “Soooo.” I bat my eyelashes dramatically. “Watching your man play today?”
“Shut up, heathen.” Grace reaches past the dogs to shove me away, but I grab her wrists and hold them tight, locked in an eternal brother-sister wrestling match.
“Come on, Gracie. You can admit you’ve got a crush on that boy.” I release her hands when Venus, the most vicious of my mother’s dogs, starts barking. I stand beside the armrest and lean down to kiss the top of Grace’s hair. “Serious now. Are you all right?” I ask.
Gracie looks up at me, a moment’s softness overtaking her hard glare. “Let it go, all right?” The vulnerability and sorrow in her eyes almost crack my heart in two.
My sister doesn’t normally look sad. Her happiness is infectious, and her rage is entertaining. I don’t like this other place she’s been in lately. This melancholy, withdrawn space. But since she’s flipped the switch, I’m not about to drag her back down into something she clearly doesn’t want to talk about.
Before I ask anything, she sets her lips in a line and jabs a finger into my chest. “Go change your socks. You stink, and Ma invited some girl over for dinner.”
I know for a fact that my feet don’t stink, but I lift my leg as far as I can and wiggle my toes at her. “You want to eat my sock? Keep it up.”
I drop the jokes and rest my ass on the armrest before Ma sees me and yells at me that I’m going to break the sofa. I stare daggers at the television where the most recent guy who broke my sister’s heart is playing defense for the Browns.
This past spring, my sister tattooed a customer, and after she finished, they ended up having some hot and heavy fling.
Turns out he’s a major player and not just on the ball field. Gracie’s a good girl. Smart, gorgeous. But she’s got awful taste in men.
“We could watch the news if you just want to fall into a pit of depression,” I remind her, trying to lighten the mood. I tug on the ends of her hair but can’t even coax a smile out of her.
She flicks my hand away. “Worry about yourself, Romeo,” she says. “Ma’s got a bug up her butt to marry you off.”
I sigh and quickly yank myself off the arm of the couch as I hear Ma’s voice on the phone echoing through the house. “This is going to be some dinner,” I mutter and head over to the table to inspect the settings.
Ma must have set it herself, because not only is the fall harvest tablecloth with matching napkins and bronze-colored maple leaf napkin rings already set for seven, I notice little pieces of paper with everyone’s name written out on them in my mom’s perfect cursive handwriting. I’m not even surprised when I see I’ve been assigned a seat next to Chloe.
My breath catches a little in my chest as I think about Ann’s niece. It’s a weird reaction—part resistance and maybe part something else. But I’m not sure what, and I sure as hell don’t want to think about that right now.
“What’s the bookstore girl doing at family dinner?” I bark out at no one in particular.
Ma shifts immediately from whatever conversation she’s having on her cell phone to answering me. “Shh, Franco. I’m on the phone. Go open the wine. It needs to breathe.”
I shake my head and wander into the kitchen.
My father is standing at the small butcher block island, a well-worn red apron protecting his navy flannel shirt from splatters. He’s got a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, and he’s glaring at a package of breadsticks.
“Son, what does this say?” Without even a hello, Pops shoves the glasses onto the mountain of wavy silver hair that almost perfectly matches mine in thickness and style and scowls. He scrubs a hand over the white bristles on his chin. “It might be time for something stronger than drugstore cheaters.”
I take the package from him, then lean in and kiss him on the cheek, taking in his familiar cologne that’s fighting for dominance over the massive pot of sauce that’s bubbling on the stove.
“Gluten-free rosemary garlic grissini,” I tell him, reading the label. “You cutting back on gluten, Pops?”
