pineapple, mint, coconut water,
while the family’s still going on about me being here:
“So, what really happened, sweetheart?
“Did you lose a bet? Get scammed?”
“She doin' charity work? Court-ordered?”
“Yeah—this a community service thing?”
Then he flips on the blender, silencing them.
Uncle Tony’s leaning against the counter,
watching him.
And the second the blender stops,
Tony does the two-hand air spread?—
“Twenty-seven fuckin’ years, Andrew—niente. Single since birth. Then—boom!This one shows up with Dean Martin and 5th Avenues? On Thanksgiving, no less? C’mon. You think we ain’t gonna say nothin’ or ask questions?”
Andrew pours the drink into a tall glass.
“Jesus, Uncle Tony. Gotta do this now?
“In front'a her?”
He slides the drink to me, baiting me.
I stare at it.
It’s tailored. It’s pH-obsessed. It’s thought out,
pulled straight from Vice night
when I said alcohol fucks with my balance.
And now he turned a drink into a love letter.
As if my health is part of his to-do list now.
His gaze clings to me, to the chance this means something when he says—“Only reason she’s here ‘cause she lost a bet, aight?”
Then Aunt Lisa blurts,
“Wait—so she ain’t pregnant?”
And the second the wordpregnanthits the air,
Andrew’s eyes rush back to me,
checking if I flinched,
wondering if the thought of it makes me run.
But it only lasts half a second,
