I go to place the empty meat tray at the Beast’s feet for a lick-down and nearly bump heads with James, who is doing the exact same thing. I make a face to let him know how sickening our cuteness is.
He chuckles and leans back against the butcher block island, studying me in that way he knows makes me squirm.
“What now?” I ask, trying to match his pose, arms crossed, ankles crossed, but nearly topple sideways in the attempt. I reassess his positioning, then give up altogether and lift myself onto the counter across from him and sit on the edge.
“I’m wondering when you’re going to ask about your mother,” he says.
Ugh. He looks all concerned and kind. His eyebrows are doing the tight V thing they do when he cares. That look does more to my stomach than the smell of the roasting beef. I don’t know what to make of concerned, kind James.
I shrug. “I will. I’m just letting everyone catch up before I selfishly hijack the conversation.”
“You do realize that this is all you.” He makes a whirlwind motion with his hand. “They are here for you. For your mom. They want to tell you about her.”
“You have dinner together like this all the time,” I point out.
“True, but tonight is different.”
He didn’t shave today. The fresh shadow of stubble runs up the side of his jaw toward his hair. My fingers flex, remembering what that jaw felt like. I grip the counter edge a bit harder.
I need to deflect and distract. Distract and deflect.
“You know, we never talk about your parents,” I say, and immediately I want the words back.
The jaw I was just admiring hardens so quickly that I can hear the click.
“There’s nothing to talk about. Dad left. Mom chose chasing a dream over motherhood. The only parents I’ve ever known are Nonna, Nina, Leo, and the adults around that table.” He points over his shoulder toward the window.
It feels like someone is hanging on the bottom of my heart, tugging and pulling it down into my stomach. He told me abouthis Nonna—that she’d passed when he was young—but the parent piece had remained under the rug, until I reached my big tactless broom in there and swept it out of course. I imagine a ten-year-old James, confused and abandoned by the two people that are meant to anchor you—protect you and support you.
“I’m so sorry. I—”
“Gi! Le tagliatelle!” Nina’s voice manages to boom through my apology despite the fact that I can see her still sitting at the table through the window over James’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat softly.
He nods and waves it away.
“It was a long time ago. Don’t worry about it,” he says.
Oh, I’ll worry about it.
He pushes off the counter, takes a step toward me. The massive kitchen is suddenly far too small.La Traviataplays on. Violetta’s high-pitched voice reaches us, sad and desperate.
“Stay with me—get out of your head,” he says, running his finger along my cheek.
This is not part of the arrangement—this careful, cautious James—staring at me like I’m his camera, something he wants to handle and comfort. I want garden James. I want to be stared at like dessert again. To be teased and flirted with. That feels safer.
“The water is boiling over,” I say, clearing my throat.
He curses and grabs the oven mitts just in time to remove the huge pot from the heat before the water reaches the rim. He pours the pot into an enormous colander in the sink with a satisfying hiss.
“Are you running away again?” he says over his shoulder, but I’m already out of the kitchen, moving through the living area.
“Yes!” I holler back.
I hear his sigh from the front porch and then his operatic ringtone just after. Italians are so dramatic.
Nina throws me another unsettling smile and a wink as I start to slip back into my seat beside Aldo, freezing halfway when I see James’s face as he steps out onto the porch with the phone against his ear.
