“I’m an idiot,” I tell him, saving time.
Vinnie chuckles. “Well, at least we’re in agreement.”
I give my uncle the middle finger, and he lifts his hands. “You said it, buddy. Not me.”
“My dad wants me to look up some woman on the internet and send her a message.”
Vinnie’s face scrunches up exactly how I’d expect it to. “He wants you to stalk her?”
“See?” I say, waving a hand in my uncle’s direction. “Stalker.”
Dad shrugs. “Fine. Maybe by some miracle, she’ll show back up here at the bar.”
“If she comes back to the bakery, do you want me to ask for her number?”
Mortification overwhelms me. “No, Ma. That’s not any better.”
Tate giggles. “I would love to watch that conversation unfold. You’d totally lose your man card if Ma asks a girl out for you.”
“I think it’s sweet,” Gram adds.
“Ma, I think Daphne needs help in the back,” Vinnie tells her.
“Oh,” she says before peeling away from me and disappearing.
“Why’d you do that?” Tate asks our uncle.
“Because Daphne literally texted in the group chat that she needed Ma,” he says, showing Tate his phone screen.
“I thought you were just trying to get rid of her,” Tate tells him as he places his phone in his back pocket.
“Nah. Ma’s cool. She put up with all my insanity. She can handle a conversation about romance, although her idea of relationships and acceptable behavior may be a bit wonky.”
“A bit?” Dad says to his brother and snorts. “It’s a lot wonky.”
“Dad was such a dick back in the day,” Vinnie replies.
“That’s my grandpa,” Tate says, lifting her chin at their negative conversation.
“He is that, but he was still a dick,” Dad says. “Thank goodness he’s not that man anymore.”
“Can we get back to talking about Brax and not Grandpa?” Tate says.
“Food’s ready,” Gram says as she walks out into the bar from the kitchen.
I’ve never been so happy to eat. As long as everyone is jamming food into their mouths, they won’t be able to talk about me.
Like we do every week, everyone files into the kitchen to grab the food, along with the plates, silverware, and everything else we need.
After I dish out a small amount of food, I find a table near the window and hope no one will sit next to me. I am already talked out.
“What’s shakin’, bacon?” Lucio asks as he sits down next to me, killing any hope of a quiet meal.
“Not much, Unc. You?”
“Eh. Same shit, different day.” He stabs at his pasta like he’s starving to death and hasn’t had a decent meal in days. “Wish it were summer.”
“Same,” I say with a mouthful of rigatoni.
