Chapter 32 November Rain
GUNS N’ ROSES
I’ve done some dumb shit before.
Plenty of it.
But pulling up to my maybe-ex-almost-something’s family’s Thanksgiving like I'm still invited? That's a new kind of insane.
I'm only here because I'm settling a bet I lost.
I could've just Venmo’d him a hundred bucks and called it a day.
Whatever.
If it blows up in my face, who cares?
He can’t hurt someone who doesn’t give a shit.
And right now? I don’t give a shit.
I'm over it. None of it really touched me.
Vice. The girls. Andrew. All of it.
None of it hurt me. Or cut me open.
And I’m here to prove it,
idling in front of his house,
telling myself there’s no turning back.
(That’s bullshit. I haven’t even turned the car off.)
I had no idea what to expect,
but a brown house with peeling white trim and a slouched stoop wasn’t it.
Lawn’s got more weeds than grass,
where a ceramic dog is missing a leg.
And a garden gnome? Straight-up haunted.
The whole place is worn
but alive in the bones.
A house that creaks when it breathes,
but won’t collapse on you,
held together by memories
and arguments you only have with people
you don’t want to lose.
It feels like Andrew.
I circle the street—twice—
then end up nosing the Benz into a makeshift spot.
Welcome to Union City. Park at your own risk.
My palms are clammy.
Heat’s blasting, but it doesn’t reach my legs.
My knees are stiff,
my boot's pressing the brake to the floor.
I kill the engine,
lean back into the leather,
and lose my shit in complete silence.
I didn’t text or call.
I’m showing up like the completely sane, well-adjusted adult I am.
As if I didn’t tell him I didn’t want him,
walk out with another guy,
slam the goddamn door on us two nights ago.
At this point, crashing shit I don’t belong to?
I’ve got a rap sheet.
The whole way to his front door,
the wind’s biting and the sun is already high,
dragging over me,
spotlighting the anxiety I'm in denial about.
I should be at home,
curled up in my penthouse alone
with Mexican takeout,
watching reruns of Seinfeld,
spending Thanksgiving with four neurotic people who don't evolve over nine seasons, feeling understood.
Instead, here I am, in a black sweater, black mini skirt, black stockings, black boots, dressed like sorrow, mourning the version of me who used to know better.
Jesus Christ, Allison.
What the fuck are you doing?
You’re dumb.
Turn around before it’s too late.
You don’t belong here.
You don’t want this.
(You do. Shut up.)
Back away slow. Get in the car.
Forget it ever happened.
And for the love of all things holy—
Don’t. Fucking. Knock—
I knock.
Fuck it.
‘Cause I don’t give a shit.
Being here doesn’t mean anything.
It's totally normal. I'm totally fine.
The door swings open to someone laughing.
Whoever she is, she freezes when she sees me.
Dark hair streaked silver,
stubborn and waving wild.
Two eyes the color of bitter amaro,
cut from kitchen knives.
Fuzzy socks. Giants tee.
Wine glass sloshing cherry-red and strong.
Her smile dies fast.
Her gaze is defensive.
Her expression is armor.
“…You lost?”
I tighten my grip on the bag.
Yeah, I fuckin’ lost, I wanna tell her.
“I’m here for Andrew.”
She takes a long sip,
eyes studying me over the rim.
“Andrew who?”
We’re at a deadlock.
Neither of us move.
I remember, then, that Andrew doesn’t bring girls home. She might be thinking I’m some obsessed person, which wouldn’t be entirely false.
“You’re… Paola, right?”
Her eyes narrow.
“Andrew, your son,” I say, squinting, remembering, “The one you force to watch the Hallmark marathon every Christmas. The ‘Tequila and a shit decision’ Maria carried for ten months, and the one you blame for your gray hair? Yeah. That Andrew.”
She gives me a full scan, top to bottom,
brows rising. “Well. Shit.”
Her gaze drops to the bag in my hand.
“Gotta name, sweetheart?”
“Yeah. Allison.”
I don’t smile.
I don’t do fake polite shit just so she’ll like me.
She turns and calls over her shoulder—
“Maria! You owe me twenty bucks.
“Told you he was hidin’ somethin’.”
She looks back at me.
“House rules:
“don’t bullshit me,
“don’t leave the fridge open,
“and don’t slander Elvis.
“He’s fuckin’ king, capisce?”
Gold hoops. Red nails. Mom voice with a switchblade tucked inside it.
She swings the door open, one brow cocked.
“Get in here, city girl. And lose the boots.”
The heat smacks me as soon as I step in,
then the smell.
Garlic. Sage. Sweet rising out of the oven.
I toe my boots by the door, one at a time.
A kid shrieks from somewhere down the hall.
The sports channel’s blaring,
laughter piercing through it.
It’s cramped. Wood paneling.
Mismatched everything.
Wedding photo.
Andrew’s First Communion.
Andrew’s Graduation.
And it’s warm with leftover memories—
movie nights, gravy stains,
loud fights ending in hugs.
Late night laughter baked into its walls.
At the corner of my eye,
there’s a fire going in the living room,
crackling, casting a warm, golden glow
as if everything’s fine.
This whole place wraps around me, making me want to believe in happy endings and safe places and fictional bullshit.
And I hate how much I crave it.
Paola shuts the door with her hip.
It’s open-concept, kitchen bleeding into the living room with nothing but a big-ass island to hold the line between food and chaos.
I step in fully, rounding the corner,
then—bam!—whole damn living room is full.
At least eight of them. All staring.
But none of them is Andrew.
“Well holy shit—who’s this?”
“Lisa, you know her?”
A petite woman—
red hair, long nails, leopard-print heels—
drags her eyes over me.
“Why? ‘Cause she wearin’ a mini skirt?”
“She’s gorgeous. You modelin’, sweetheart?”
An elderly woman, smeared lipstick,
gold cross swinging off her neck—
“Sei italiana? Eh? Hai sangue italiano?”
Turns to another woman beside her—
“Ma guardala! Non sembra italiana?”
Someone’s reaching for my coat.
A glass of wine flashes past my face.
The couch is full, two recliners rocking.
A kid's screaming from the dining room.
“Jamie! Get your ass out from under the table!”
“You lost, honey?”
“Maybe she’s a neighbor.”
Another woman,
eighties, velvet shoes, studies me.
“That ain’t no neighbor.
“I know every neighbor on the block.
“We ain’t got neighbors lookin’ like that.”
“She look just like Camila Cabello.”
“Havana ooh la, la…”
“You eat yet? Somebody feed this girl.”
Paola cuts through the noise—
“She’s here for Andrew…”
Dead silence.
Then—
“YOU’RE SHITTIN’ ME.”
“No she’s not.”
“That boy? Andrew? OUR Andrew?”
“Is she real? Touch her.”
“I’m not touchin’ her! You touch her.”
“Wait, wait, wait—
“whatta ya mean here for Andrew?”
“Like… here here?”
“Sexually?”
“Jesus, Ma!”
One of the grandmas is already out of her seat,
cupping her hands
and yelling into Grandpa’s bad ear:
“SHE’S HERE FOR ANDREW!”
“Who?”
“YOUR GRANDSON!”
“What about him!?”
“ANDREW. brOUGHT HOME. A WOMAN.”
Instantly, I know which one Maria is.
She’s smiling from the corner recliner,
real mob boss energy.
Sharp cheekbones. Full mouth.
Hair jet-black. Frail. Beautiful.
“è l’unica. Lo so già.”
Comments clash.
Names and questions toss like popcorn.
So I raise a hand, bag dangling off my wrist.
“Okay, okay. I’m talkin’ now.”
A few chuckles.
But they’re still talking.
I wave my hand. “Yo—you want answers, or we playin’ the question game?”
They shut up. Except for Paola—
“Don’t know a single person and already actin’ like she owns the place.”
I cut her a side glance.
“What, I was supposed to curl up in the corner? Tried being accommodating once. Got stepped on.”
She lets out a laugh, waves me on.
“Name’s Allison. Not a model. Mom’s half Cuban, half Italian. Dad’s half biker, half Rock 'N' Roll. And yeah, I’m from the city. Here for Andrew. That’s all the info you get for free. The rest costs trust.”
I lift the bag onto the coffee table.
“And no, I’m not the kind of asshole who shows up empty-handed. Don’t know much about any of you, so I brought what I’d want. Worst case? You love it, and I can't take it back.
Grandpa: “Did she say her dad’s at Rikers?”
The grandma huffs, stomping over,
full volume:
“NO—A BIKER. A MOTORCYCLE GANG, SWEETHEART!”
Maria waves her hand at me—
“Che hai portato, huh? What’d you bring me?”
I dig out the blanket. Unfold it for display.
“You get this.”
She squints. “Who’s the guy?”
“Teddy Vale. My Elvis. The only man I’d let croon me into the grave.”
I drape it over her lap,
tucking a corner by her hip.
She strokes his chin. “Eh. With eyes like that? He don’t even gotta sing.”
I laugh—“And Andrew wants to punch his face off every time he hears him now.
“Which makes this real special.”
A teenage girl snickers from the floor,
head down at her phone.
Paola sips her drink, grinning over the rim.
“Oh, you’re an instigator. You’ll do just fine.”
Next out of the bag's a record sleeve, old as hell. “This one’s yours,” I tell Paola, holding it up.
“Dean Martin. Vintage press. That’s Amore was my dad’s thing.
Used to sing it in the kitchen like it was his damn anthem.
” I hand it off. “Sound’s warmer on vinyl. Trust me. It makes you feel stuff.”
Paola runs her hand across the sleeve.
“You walk in with Dean?
“You’re family. You eat first.”
Then she’s on her feet.
“This one’s goin’ on now.”
Aunt Lisa folds her arms,
gives me the once-over.
“No pie? No flowers?
“What, you tryna show off?”
“Please,” I say. “That’s what you bring when you don’t wanna be somewhere. And flowers aren’t my thing. I got abandonment issues.”
I pull out a handful of candy bars,
toss one her way.
“5th Avenues. Better than coke. Slightly cheaper. My one-a-day vice.” I flick one toward the teenager. “Catch, kid.”
She snatches it mid-scroll,
finally glancing up from her screen.
Aunt Lisa squints at the wrapper.
“Jesus. What are you, eighty?”
“Eighty, thriving, and still bringin’ better gifts than a half-assed pie.”