“Sweet mother of marinara,” I breathe, watching as they navigate to a table without Loretta actually touching the ground. “She’s like a very glamorous python.”
Coop groans at the sight.
Flip, to his credit, just stands there and takes it like a man who’s accepted his fate as a piece of furniture. His vintage bowling shirt strains across his considerable belly, and his mustache twitches with what might be pleasure or panic. It’s hard to tell from this distance.
They settle at a table where Loretta immediately begins feeding Flip olives with a sensuality usually reserved for Italian art films.
“I just love a man with such an impressive appetite!” her voice lands on every table like an uninvited guest.
Come to think of it, he probably can’t hear her without the shouting.
Watson tilts his head like he’s trying to understand why humans make eating so complicated.
The waiter has just delivered their appetizers when the restaurant door bangs open with enough force to rattle the wine glasses.
Nona Jo storms in like an avenging angel in sensible shoes, her beehive hair practically pulsating with righteous indignation. She’s wearing a black dress that makes her look like she’s either attending a funeral or planning one, and her eyes snap to Loretta—sharp, steady, and not letting her out of sight.
“THAT’S MY MAN, YOU RED-HEADED HARLOT!” Nona Jo bellows, pointing at Flip and the entire restaurant goes silent except for Sinatra crooning about doing things his way, which seems oddly appropriate for what’s about to unfold.
Loretta looks up from her olive-feeding performance as if she’s just been challenged to a duel. “Your man? Honey, I’ve got dibs on him and he’s not going anywhere!”
“Dibs?” Nona Jo screeches, advancing on their table like a tiny Italian hurricane. “DIBS? I’ll show you dibs!”
What follows can only be described as the most chaotic catfight in the history of Italian cuisine. Nona Jo launches herself at Loretta with surprising agility for someone collecting Social Security, while Loretta defends herself with her purse, which appears to be large enough to house a small family.
“Ladies, please!” Flip pleads, caught between them like he’s one wrong word away from not surviving this.
Cooper and I leap from our table, leaving Watson to guard our linguine, and rush over to intervene before someone gets marinara sauce in their eye.
“Nona Jo, stop!” I grab my grandmother’s arm while Cooper attempts to separate Loretta from what appears to be an Italian flag she’s somehow acquired as a weapon.
“She started it!” Loretta shrieks, her hair now resembling a red haystack that’s been struck by lightning.
“And I’ll finish it, too!” Nona Jo retorts, waving her purse like a threat.
Flip’s phone buzzes and he glances at the screen.
“Oh no,” he says, reading the text. “Plumbing emergency at the diner. Pipes have burst! I have to go!”
The relief on his face is immediate and dramatic. He sprints toward the exit, pausing only to throw money on the table and the promise to call both Loretta and Nona Jo later. We all know he’s lying, but nobody calls him on it because honestly, the man deserves hazard pay for surviving dinner with these women.
“Well,” Nona Jo sniffs, smoothing down her dress. “I have bingo in twenty minutes anyway.”
She turns to Loretta like she’s delivering a death sentence. “You stay away from my man, missy, or next time I won’t be so gentle.”
“Gentle?” Loretta squawks, touching her disheveled hair. “You tried to scalp me with a breadstick!”
Nona Jo exits like the senior gangster she is, leaving the rest of us standing amid the wreckage of what was supposed to be a romantic dinner.
“Listen here,” Loretta says, pointing her weapon-grade fingernail at me. “I need a man with money, and Flip’s got potential. Unless you can find me someone better, your little bingo-hall granny better watch her back. I didn’t survive three divorces to lose to a senior citizen.”
With that, she storms out, leaving Cooper and me standing in the ruins of what was supposed to be a peaceful evening.
“Is it always this dramatic with your family?” Cooper asks, helping me back to our table where Watson has been faithfully guarding our now cold pasta.
“You do realize that’s your sister.”
He sighs. “I like focusing on your family better.” Cooper takes my hand. “Your place or mine for dessert? Because I’m thinking we should skip the tiramisu and get out of here before any more relatives show up.”
