“You and your odd number fear. Fine. On four, though it seems superfluous.”
“We could always go with two.”
“Not enough momentum.”
“What was I thinking?”
“I’ll never know.”
Pen
I am allowed roughly one hour to myself. Then my mother barges into the room, looking me over with a critical eye at where I lay curled up at the head of the bed under the covers and surrounded by plump pillows.
She raises a brow. “Made a comfort fort, did you?”
With a scowl, I snuggle a pillow closer. “So what if I did?”
Yes, I make forts when I’m upset. Always have. Never underestimate the power of a good pillow or warm blanket.You could be surrounded by August’s warmth instead, you noodle.
No, I can’t. Not when August is part of the problem. To be clear, I’m not upset with him; well, not much. Irritation lingers from the way he pushed aside my concerns over the house being exposed, but I know he didn’t mean it that way. Regardless, no matter how I tilt it, he’s in the picture. And in that moment, with our family watching us, I needed to get away from him and everyone else.
“Well,” my mom says pragmatically, “it’s time to crawl out.”
I glare at her. But it doesn’t work. Mom is immune to such puny threats. She hovers by the doorway, looking vaguely amused but also sadly sympathetic. “Your father is an asshat.”
It startles a laugh out of me.
“Now get up.” With that, she pulls a two-foot-long dowel-shaped pasta roller out from behind her. “We’ve got work to do.”
“Where the hell did you get amattarello?”
“I asked Neil to pick one up in Austin.” She weighs the wooden roller in hand. “It’s not as fine as Nona’s but it will do.”
“You want me to help you make pasta?” Why can’t she leave me be? I want to wallow.
“Tortellini in brodo. Much more comforting than a pillow fort.” Mom uses her “theater” voice: clear, commanding, and brooking no argument. “Now up you get, Penny Lane.”
With a groan, I flop into a cloud of pillows and sigh. She’ll never let up until I comply. I roll over and head for the kitchen, after her.
Margo is already at the stove, attending to a big pot of broth. At the other end of the counter sits a stand mixer. They move in perfect tandem, handing over a hunk of parmigianoto grate into the blended pork filling, offering up a spoon to taste the broth. A bit more pepper is suggested.
When they were younger, they spent several holidays withmynona—who is actually my great-grandmother—in Bologna, learning how to cook, and, let’s be honest, drinking copious amounts of good wine.
I’d done much the same throughout my childhood—well, not that much with the wine until recently. “We should have started the broth and filling yesterday,” I mutter, still grumpy about being pulled from my cave, though less so now that the scents of rich broth fill the air.
“Yes, well,” Mom says. “We’ll just have to muddle through.”
“We’ve got a good starter,” Margo adds. “I left a few batches of broth with Jan when I was last here. I thought he might like to make soup for himself, but he hasn’t touched it.” Her voice is softer than usual, and she doesn’t quite look my way. I know she’s tiptoeing around my feelings. I’m horrified to wonder if she’ll think less of me after seeing me all but boot August out of sight. But she gives me a small, encouraging smile.
I return it, feeling as thin and brittle as an eggshell. “I’ll start on the dough.”
“Neil picked up a pasta board too,” Margo says over her shoulder. “It’s on the counter.”
“That was nice of him.”
Margo flashes a quick smile. “He’ll do whatever it takes for homemade pasta.”
I’d thank him, but he’s nowhere to be found. Neither is Jan. I know March pulled August out of the house—and the guilt twinges. Not just guilt; even though I asked for space, I still miss him. I still want him near.
