23
A S it turns out, I have more than half a glass.
Mum’s right; it’s a beautiful night. We have dinner on the balcony: Dad’s steaks, salad from Nonna’s garden, some corn grilled on the barbecue and slathered with lime juice and butter.
The jasmine from the neighbour’s garden sits heavy in the air, Paul’s beside me, and he smells so good it takes all I have not to bury my face in his chest just to inhale him.
After dinner, Mum asks Paul if he’s ever tried an affogato. He shakes his head, so I go inside to fire up the coffee machine. Mum sends Matty inside with clear instructions to stack the dishwasher. He dumps the plates on the bench next to the sink.
‘Oi!’ I say. ‘I heard Mum. Stack the dishwasher. That’s that shiny thing under the sink there. Oops, sorry, forgot who I was talking to. Matty, my darling brother, the sink is that other shiny thing on the top of the dishwasher with the magic spout that when you flick the knob water comes out.’
‘You’re the knob.’ He disappears downstairs. The ‘ping, ping, ping’ of a godforsaken video game starts up. Tommy races downstairs after him, and then the dulcet tones of their fighting drifts across the evening.
As the coffee machine hums, I open the freezer and thank the stars above.
Mum has bought some ridiculously expensive vanilla ice-cream.
As I spoon it into the shot glasses, I spot the limoncello that Nonna gave Dad for Christmas.
I turn off the coffee machine and top all the glasses with limoncello instead.
The balls of ice-cream float and bob in the liquor, a pale concoction with the slightest hint of yellow.
‘Good call,’ says Dad as I carry them out.
‘I thought it’d look like coffee, like tiramisu,’ says Paul.
‘Change of plans.’ I take my spoon and carve through the ice-cream, letting the liquor marble. There’s the sweet tang of citrus on my tongue, the headiness of the alcohol. It’s summer in a shot glass.
Paul dips his own spoon into his serve and his face lights up. ‘Man, this is the bomb. How have I never had this?’
‘We had this every night on our honeymoon.’ Thankfully, and totally out of character, Mum leaves it there. I don’t think I could stomach a honeymoon story.
We sit on the balcony, music in the background, our mouth full of the heaven that is the combination of lemon and vanilla. The sun sets into the ocean and it’s all feeling a little too Hollywood in its perfection. When Paul rests his hand above my knee, it’s definitely out of the friend zone.
‘What time are you kids heading out?’ Mum says.
‘What?’
‘Beach party?’ says Paul. ‘We talked about it this morning?’
‘Oh, that’s right.’ Between the night sky, the heat of my sunburn, the alcohol coursing a little too fluidly through my veins, and let’s face it, the hot guy making the invitation, I feel like going to a party. Or at least, being anywhere Paul is.
‘I need you to come,’ Paul says. ‘I need to prove to your parents that I can take you to a party and bring you home again. So, no sneaking off this time. Deal?’
I look at my parents. Mum nods and there is pride in her eyes.
‘Go have fun,’ says Dad, ‘but put on something decent first.’
‘What do you mean? What do you call this?’ I gesture to my dress.
‘That’s a headband.’
‘Oh, Mick, don’t be ridiculous. Let her wear whatever she likes,’ says Mum. ‘She looks fine.’
‘She looks beautiful,’ says Paul and he strokes his thumb over my knee.
‘You ready to go?’ My stomach flutters.
He nods and rises from the table. He goes to clear the limoncello glasses, but Mum tells him to leave them. He kisses Mum on the cheek and shakes Dad’s hand.
‘Thanks for dinner,’ he says. ‘What time do you want her home?’
‘Midnight,’ says Dad.
‘One thirty,’ says Mum.
‘Mum’s the boss.’ I kiss them both on the cheek.