I almost choke on my own pasta, which is just as delicious as I remember. As Jordan gives it a taste, she clearly agrees. Her eyes flutter closed in satisfaction. I try not to let the unholy thoughts I’m thinking consume Italian family dinner. ‘Holy cow,’ she exclaims, shaking her head in disbelief before going rightin for another forkful. ‘This isphenomenal. You said centuries old?’
I’m way off my game, but I nod, a weird wobble of my head. ‘Yeah, uh, Ma used to make it for us all the time. Her family’s from Sicily, it’s a traditional recipe. But when I moved out, I never cracked it myself. Bia did. There’s a reason she’s the one who took over at Amato’s.’
‘Amato’s?’
‘The family restaurant my sisters were talking about the other day.’
Jordan swallows another bite of pasta before raising a hand in shock. ‘My god, and the food is this good? Rod, I hope we’re going to go.’
‘So do I!’ Genny shouts unhelpfully from across the table, a finger pointed in my direction.
‘Not your business!’ I yell back, and the table roars with laughter. Jordan, a hand over her mouth, holds back a snicker.
Deep into the evening, the sun begins to go low as Bia brings out her famous espresso tiramisu for dessert. After the second course, dessert completely stuffs us all. I’m in the yard with Tali sitting way up on my shoulders when a familiar, lively song blares through the massive Bluetooth speaker my sisters have set up on the porch. Bia ushers everyone over, clapping her hands with a huge grin on her face, cheers going up around her. Her big ponytail, the front bit fluffed up, practically bounces on beat. ‘Andiamo!’ she exclaims happily.
‘What’s goin’ on?’ asks Jordan from in the grass where she’s kneeling with the dogs. Scout perks up right away, Boo a bit more hesitant.
‘Tarantella,’ I reply, as I crouch so Tali can get down. Sheimmediately runs straight to Bia, the little traitor, taking my sister’s hand with a giggle. A huge circle is starting to form, spanning half the backyard as the tarantella continues.
The rest of us all stand, and we are swept into the circle, shoulder to shoulder. Even with the overstimulating thud of the bass on the speaker, I clearly feel Jordan’s fingers hesitantly lacing their way through mine beside me.
‘The left!’ yells Genny, and we all move leftward, stepping with a bounce and kick. Jordan’s arm brushes mine, her laugh both nervous and joyful as she follows me in her sandals.
‘Rod,’ she says between steps, looking up at me with the biggest glow on her face. ‘This is beautiful!’
It is. At every family gathering, every wedding, every party on Ma’s side we’ve been to, they do it, and it never fails to baffle me how this stunning part of our culture has survived so long. It’s definitely beautiful. It’s just not what catches my eye in that moment.
Her hair dances around her shoulders, her cheeks flushed from the wine, the tarantella and the heat. Her palm is warm against mine. She smiles with her teeth, blinding, carefree.
‘It is,’ I tell her.
She chuckles, but slowly, her smile turns from unencumbered joy to one of inquisition, of curiosity, as her chocolate eyes search mine. The wine-blush on her cheeks only grows, and she nods, turning back to her left as we continue dancing, our tarantella circle turning until the sun dips below the horizon.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Barns
Jordan
What. The heck?
I don’t do family gatherings. I don’t attend the family gatherings of my summer flings. That is technically a part of the definition of ‘fling’. So what in the world was I doing at a big Italian family dinner?
It took me about fifteen minutes longer than it should have to get out of Rebecca’s to commit to showing up at Rod’s, because I was literally at the doorstep, one foot in, one foot out, glancing back and forth, going in and out until I finally decided to bite the bullet and just do it. As a friend.
I’m weeding my lavender row, with a little too much aggression against said weeds as a result. Weeding is a phenomenal way to get all your anger out on something that, in any gardener’s opinion, fundamentally deserves it. I clamp my gloved handaround a really long one and tug with gritted teeth. Unfortunately, ripping it out of the ground gives me no more clarity than I had before doing so.
It doesn’t make it any easier when my phone stops playing my music and begins blaring the default iPhone ringtone instead. I grumble to myself, shuck off my glove, and check to see who it is before I pick up.
‘¿Que pasó?’
What happened? I get it. It’s a weird way to start a phone call. But my mom never calls me first. Ever. She has this policy: ‘You call whenyoucan.’ I think it’s dumb. She should call me whenever she wants. Instead, she’s too busy falling on her sword and making sure she doesn’t bother me. I tried telling her she could never bother me. Being that she’s just as stubborn as myself, she didn’t listen.
‘Nada. I just want you to know before I do it,mija. We’re going to tear down the old cattle barns.’
I quite literally sputter for words like a broken sprinkler. No segue? Just that?
‘You’re going to what?’
