Chapter 30
NICK
“The first thing we will use is the flour, two cups.” My mom says, and I watch as Melanie pours the flour onto the table. “Then you’re going to make a circle and crack the eggs here.” Her broken English comes through as she instructs.
Melanie grabs one, then the other, then cracks the eggs open and pours them in the middle of the flour.
“Now you need a little salt.”
Melanie takes a spoon and digs it into the tiny bowl of salt.
“No, no,” my mom raises a hand over hers. “Not too much, just a little bit.”
“Okay,” Melanie puts the rest of the salt settled between her fingers in the bowl.
“Now beat the eggs.”
Melanie picks up a fork and does as she’s told. “Yes, that’s it. A little bit at a time.”
Italian music plays in the background as my mom shows Melanie how to cook homemade pasta. The sight of Melanie cooking alongside my mom stirs a feeling inside me that makes me want to snap a photo of them, so I do.
“Niccolo, don’t you take a photo of my big butt.”
I can’t help it hold back a small smile as I stare down at the photo.
My mom isn’t fat by any means but over the years, she’s gained some cushion in her hip and thighs.
Being surrounded by Italian food twenty-four seven.
I’m surprised she looks as good as she does for her age.
She’s a lot shorter than Melanie which was hard for anyone to do since Melanie was tall.
And with her perfect ass, she could have been a swimsuit model.
“Ya Niccolo.” Her voice has me reluctantly turning my gaze from my phone to the two women standing before me. Melanie kneaded the doe as my mom stood beside her, guiding her like she would her own daughter.
My mom must say something funny because Melanie tips her head back in laughter.
And a supernatural power has flashes of the future coming to the forefront of my mind.
Melanie with a swollen belly, carrying my child.
Christmases to come, opening up presents around the fireplace.
Her walking down the aisle of our beautiful church, getting the wedding she rightfully deserved.
Taking a trip to Italy together. Endless nights of us getting lost in each other’s bodies.
And even us growing old together all coming crashing in my brain like a title-wave.
“Okay nice. Very nice. Mix it well.” My mom’s Italian accent always pokes through more when her native language blasts through the speakers of my Google home that sits on my coffee table in the living area.
“Okay, so if it’s too wet, you can add a little flour, and if it’s too dry, you can add a little wada, I got-ta the wada here. You don’t have to pour the water, just wet your hands like this.” My mom demonstrates.
“Got it,” Melanie says as she kneads the dough into a perfect ball.
“That’s it, give it all your muscolo.” My mom says. “Okay, bene.”
My mom takes the rolled-up dough into her hands and starts to cut it in half and places the other half to the side covering it with a hand towel, so it won’t dry out.
“Okay, so take a little more flour, and now we are going to put the dough through this machine.” One Christmas, I got a pasta machine for Mom and me. After her arthritis got worse, I wanted to help her out in any way that I could.
“So you see right here,” she points to the knob on the side as she turns to face Melanie.
“This is small, big, and really big. You want to do the big.”
She puts the dough in between the two metal parts.
“Then you turn.” My mom turns the knob and the dough comes out the other side, flattened.
“Okay, then you fold and do it again.” Once the dough is all rolled out, she tells Melanie.
“Now you start the thin.” My mom adjusts the knob and repeats the process a few more times until it’s flattened out to the size of a rectangular pizza.
“Okay beautiful. Now what you’re going to do is pour a little flour on the top and you cut. Now the cutter,” She looks up at Melanie through her glasses. “you got to know if you want a fettuccine, Linguine, spaghetti,rigatoni, you need to know how long you want to cutter.”
“It’s cut mom.”
“That’s what I said.” My mom looks over her shoulder at me. And I have to stifle a laugh.
She must feel my humor, because Melanie looks over at me and smiles. She thinks my mom’s broken English is cute. I meet her smile as my mom continues to instruct.
“So I'm going to cut here, then here, and here. And add a little more flour because you don’t want it to stick together.”
Then my mom moves to the other end of the machine and places the dough inside, and turns the knob.
“Look at that, that’s beautiful.” She now places the shredded dough that looks like pasta on the cutting board.
”Now, your turn, you can add a little flour.” Melanie picks up the other piece, and my mom starts moving to the sink to wash the dishes, whistling to the song playing in the background.
“Melanie, your dog is so damn adorable.” Sophia is holding Loco when she returns from her walk with him.
“He’s seriously the cutest dog ever. And those blue eyes. I had guys even stopping me at the grocery store this morning. Loco could be the wingman I’ve been missing in my life. “
“Trust me, that cuteness comes with a price. And he may attract the men but once they come around, then he’ll make their lives hell.” Melanie says as she turns the knob of the pasta machine.
“Not unless they are the one. Isn’t that what you said Nick?”
Melanie looks up at me and we share a glance.
“That Loco liked you from the jump because you two were destined to be together.” Melanie says in a dramatic voice.
“Damn right,” I tell my sister but my gaze is locked with Melanies.
“How much is a dog like this anyway? Maybe I’ll get the family one for christmas.”
“Five thousand.” Melanie doesn’t see my sister's jaw drop as the room falls silent.
“La gente in California è pazza. Non mi interessa quanto fossi ricco, non spenderei mai così tanto per un dannato cane.” People in California are crazy. I don't care how rich I was, I would never spend that much on a damn dog.
“Mamma, don’t be judgmental. We just left church.” Sophia says as she places Loco on the ground.
“No, ha ragione. La gente in California ama i propri cani più delle persone.” No, she's right. People in California love their dogs more than people.
My mom stops scrubbing the bowl she has in hand, and slowly turns around to face Melanie.
“Did you…” She steps closer beside her. “Did you just speak Italiano?”
“Si,” Melanie says with an honorary expression etched in her features.
I pull out a cigarette and light it.
My mom looks up at Melanie, forcing her to face her. “Oh, la mia preziosa ragazza.” Oh, my precious girl. Cupping her cheeks she says. “I always wanted Niccolo to marry someone who could speak the language.”
Melanie turns to face me, with my mom’s hands still squishing her cheeks together.
“She wants us to teach our future children,” I say as I blow out the cigarette smoke.
“You’re so disgusting, when are you going to quit that shit.” Sophia swats away at the smoke.
“Melanie, please tell me you don’t kiss him if he smokes.”
“il mio sogno diventa realtà.” My dream come true. My mom says.
“Mamma, she-” I stop myself. “We don’t even know if we want kids yet.”
“Niccolo,” My mother’s gaze turns to me, narrowing her eyes at me. “Don’t ruin my dream.”
“Right because opening a restaurant and becoming rich is way less important than having a baby, something everyone does.”
“Yes, money is only money but family is everything.” She removes her hands from
Melanie and I watch as Melanie’s face morphed into a sad smile.
“Ya,” Sophia says, grabbing a breadstick from the middle of the table. “So hurry up and have one so she doesn’t start raiding my case.”
“Sophia, you better not bring me home a baby before marriage.”
My mom never got to marry the man she loved.
That truth has clung to her for decades, like a ghost she can’t shake.
So when she talks about having kids before marriage, it isn’t about propriety or child support—it’s about grief.
About the ache of watching your dream slip through your fingers while you’re still holding the hand of the person who gave you that dream.
“Ya, Sophia, better hurry up and find a man before your eggs get old.”
Sophia launches a breadstick at my head. I dodge and laugh, a quick, nervous chuckle that breaks through the strange heaviness in the room.
“Niccolo, go put that toxic cancer stick out. It stinks.”
“Hey, when did I get ordered around in my own house?”
My mom doesn’t need words. She levels me with that stare—the one that froze me as a kid and still manages to cut through my spine now. The one that carries the weight of every sacrifice she’s ever made.
“Speaking of houses, when can we visit your parents in California? I’m dying to go there.
” Sophia’s voice is light, but there’s an edge of envy tucked beneath it.
“I bet your house is bigger than even Colt’s and Abigail’s.
Mom—” She half-turns in her chair, leaning in toward our mother like she’s sharing a secret.
“Did you know Melanie’s stepdad was a film producer? I mean how freaking cool is that.” Then she pivots back to Melanie, lowering her voice to a whisper like it’s some kind of conspiracy. “Can you convince your wife to take me to Hollywood to meet her stepdad? Please.”
The room stills. Melanie doesn’t respond.
Her silence isn’t loud, but it’s heavy. She’s sitting perfectly still, but I can feel the tremor beneath her skin.
Most people wouldn’t notice. But I do. I always do.
Especially when it comes to him. That man took something from her, something she doesn’t talk about, something she buries so deep I wonder if it’s killing her from the inside out.
The past always lingers, doesn’t it? Even when it’s quiet.
“We’ll talk about it another time. I’m starving, let’s eat.”
I move to her, needing to do something—anything—to ground her.
I wrap my arms around her waist, pull her into me, and press a kiss to the back of her head.
Her scent—coconut and roses—wraps around me like a memory I never want to let go of.
I feel her body ease, tension slowly bleeding away into me.
“Thanks for dinner, princess.”
She tilts her head, meets my eyes. Those ocean-colored eyes could wreck me with one look.
And right now, they do. She’s radiant. Messy bun, flour smudged on her cheek, apron tied crookedly—but damn, I’ve never wanted her more.
I wish everyone would vanish so I could bend her over the counter and lose myself in her.
Her smile blooms, shy and gorgeous, and her cheeks flush.
I cradle her face with one hand, and for a moment, the whole world disappears.
There’s no family, no stepdad, no pretending.
Just her. Just us. Our eyes lock, dancing between laughter and longing.
We see each other, not the roles, not the lies. Just the truth that exists between us.
Then Sophia, with perfect timing, rips us back to earth. “Get a room, you two.”
Melanie hides her face against my chest, laughter vibrating against me. And I laugh too. Because maybe we’ve gotten really damn good at pretending. Or maybe—just maybe—this moment is real. And maybe she feels it too.