The words "it's Bianca's" were on the tip of my tongue, but I bit them back. After what happened earlier, I don't want Erica to feel bad. Even just having the gelato feels like I'm parading my family in her face.
Hearing her cry about having no one in her life, no one to care for, no one to lean on, no one to call when things were good or bad. I never want to hear that tone in her voice again.
Instead, I just eat another spoonful and watch her.
But she’s setting the spoon down, and the smile she’d been wearing slips away.
I set my spoon down, too, as she shifts to face me.
“Erica?”
“Don’t do that,” she says quietly.
“Don’t do—”
“You were going to say Bianca’s,” she says dully. It’s tired and sad. “You stopped yourself. Because of me. Because I freaked out earlier.”
I hold her gaze for a beat longer, then look away. I picture Bianca shoving the extra container of gelato in the bag because she thought I’d want it, loading up our dinner with extras and sides because it makes her happy to feed people.
I think of Elena rallying us up for Sunday dinner. Giovanni checking in on everything and counting heads at every event.
Even my sister Lucia hesitantly walking back into our family home, twelve years after helping put our father in prison, with a family of her own, to try to mend fences.
Family. Noise. People who show up, even when we’re not on the best of terms.
And sitting across from me is a woman who spent the day alone in a hospital waiting room, then came home to an empty house and broke down on her living room floor.
Alone.
I don’t want to shove that contrast in her face like it’s some kind of flex.
“Whatever I was going to say—”
“Now who’s the one lying?” she says. “Are you going to spank yourself for that, Nico?”
My mouth twitches before I can stop it.
“No,” I say flatly. “But you’ve got one coming for even suggesting it.”
Her breath hitches.
Just a tiny catch.
But I hear it.
I see the flicker in her eyes before she smothers it.
“Don’t distract me from the topic.”
“I didn’t bring up spanking, sweetheart,” I say, my voice husky.
“I’m just saying,” she continues, speaking deliberately to keep her mind on the topic. “I don’t want you censoring yourself or walking on eggshells because I had a meltdown. Like you haveto pretend they don’t exist so I don’t feel… whatever the hell I’m feeling.” Her throat bobs. She swallows it down. “That’s not what I want.”
I stay still under the throw, forcing my hands to remain on my own thighs, because the urge is to reach for her again, to stop the tremor in her voice before it turns into something worse.
“Don’t make yourself smaller because I’m a mess,” she says, softer now. “You’re allowed to be proud of your family and talk about them.” She exhales. “In fact, I insist on it.”
I hold her gaze for a beat, then nod once.
