“Stay over there. Sip. Look gorgeous.”
Paola leans back into the couch, smirking.
“Madonna mia, such drama.
“Pan’s fine, nobody died.”
Then Andrew waves the spatula through the air—“While we’re at it—this goes for all’a you. She walks outta here ‘cause one of you made her feel some type’a way? I swear to God, you’ll never hear the end of it.”
Andrew disappears into the hallway.
Uncle John leans back in the recliner,
shaking his head, amused?—
“Look at this guy—talkin’ tough all of a sudden.” He tips his beer toward the kitchen, eyes dancing. “Chef Boyardee over here gets himself a girlfriend, now he’s got balls.”
Andrew reappears, socks balled in one hand.
“Listen, old man.
“She scares me more than you do.
“Had to grow a pair just to get her.”
He slides the pair of socks across the island for me.
I’m halfway to the kitchen island,
when Aunt Lisa intercepts me,
clutching my arm,
eyes wide with performative panic.
“Be honest, sweetheart?—
“he got somethin’ on you?
“‘Cause I can get you outta it, I’m a lawyer.”
Her nails linger too long,
her breath is merlot and menthol.
Aunt Fran leans in next?—
“You safe, hon? Need us to call someone?”
Then Andrew’s behind me—“You’re all horrible. Every single one’a you,” he says over my shoulder, hand sliding to my hip as he leans in, swatting Lisa’s arm with the spatula. “Hands off,” he warns, drawing me in close as he steps us back. “C’mon, angel. Let’s get you away from the maniacs.”
I slide onto a barstool at the island,
grab the socks, slip them on.
Andrew’s back in the kitchen.
He takes out a blender,
