His jaw tightens as he grabs a dish towel and wipes his hands.
Maria’s voice slices across the room—“He don’t got time for us no more, Paola. He’s a man now.”
Paola leans sideways on the couch, pointing her glass toward the kitchen. “Andrew—vai, kiss Nonna before she cuts you outta the will.”
He tosses the dish towel onto the counter, cuts the burner, then walks into the living room. “Nonna, se non mi dai un bacio adesso, niente dolce per te stasera.”
He bends over the back of the couch, gives Nonna a kiss.
“Ti piace lei, sì? Se dici di no, potrei piangere.”
“Quando la guardo… mi sembra di vedere mia madre. C’ha gli occhi pieni di storie, quella ragazza. Lotta sempre col suo cuore… ma si vede che è piena d’amore, solo che lo tiene nascosto.”
Andrew looks over at me.
Whatever he’s seeing,
he doesn’t want it to end.
The sun ducks behind the skyline as we scrape the last bite off our plates?—
the best Thanksgiving meal I’ve ever had.
The whole house glows molasses-orange,
warm and tucking us in.
Everyone’s melted into the living room,
half-asleep, sedated by carbs and cable.
TV’s low, game on.
Uncle John grunts when someone scores.
Feet are up. Belts are loose. Nobody’s moving.
Except Andrew.
He’s re-filling glasses,
taking out the trash,
loading the dishwasher.
I stay on my barstool, watching him out of the corner of my eye. How every muscle flexes under his tee as he moves across the kitchen. How his joggers hang from his hips, clinging just enough to outline every inch of six-and-a-half cock to be distracting. How every stretch, every reach molds to him, teasing in ways it has no right to.
When my gaze drags back to his face,
he catches me.
He lifts a brow—low and lazy like?—
you don’t want me, huh? Then why’re your eyes all over my fuckin’ waistband?
He wipes his forehead across his sleeve at his bicep. “Uncle John, did you touch the thermostat again?”
John throws up his hands—“Don’t look at me. I ain’t tryna get blamed this time."
