Another one lands in the hands of the woman with big hair, bigger voice. “Oh my God! Tony! These were your ma’s favorite! Used to keep a box in the freezer.”
Old Jersey in a tracksuit lifts his chin from the stove, caught with a pinky deep in the gravy. “Ah, classics,” he mutters, bringing it to his mouth. “Used to trade those for joints behind the pizzeria.”
Then the room’s back to loud.
Paola yanks Aunt Lisa off the recliner mid-sip, Dean crooning through the speakers as they attempt a half-ass waltz across the carpet.
Maria and Nonna are shouting Italian with their hands, Grandpa nodding like he hears every word.
Grandma’s sneaking wine.
Uncle Tony’s got the fridge open again.
And Aunt Fran’s yelling at them to get out of the kitchen from the couch.
Uncle John’s rocking in the recliner,
singing the wrong words.
The kid's pelting mini marshmallows at the elderly neighbor—Mrs. Gloria. Each one lodges in her hair, nestling into her curls, and she doesn’t notice, too busy ranting about property taxes.
Gabby’s still glued to her phone.
And sittin’ right in the middle of it all is Teddy Vale, draped across Maria’s lap, firelight glinting off his smug-ass crooner smile.
It’s chaos.
The loud, homemade,
too-much-love kind that never shuts up.
And it hits. All of it. But I’m fine. It’s fine.
I'm just not used to this many people loving each other out loud.
Then the back door creaks open.
Andrew walks in with the November chill,
right as Dean Martin belts?—
“When the moon?—”
His ears and nose are flushed pink from the cold.
His glasses are on,
a gray tee hugging his chest,
Nike joggers riding low,
waistband teasing bone,
hair fucked from the wind, or his hands.
"What the—" He sweeps the room fast?—
Mom.
