Chapter 32 November Rain #2
Paola chokes on a sip—
“Jesus. You’re somethin’.”
Another one lands in the hands of the woman with big hair, bigger voice. “Oh my God! Tony! These were your ma’s favorite! Used to keep a box in the freezer.”
Old Jersey in a tracksuit lifts his chin from the stove, caught with a pinky deep in the gravy. “Ah, classics,” he mutters, bringing it to his mouth. “Used to trade those for joints behind the pizzeria.”
Then the room’s back to loud.
Paola yanks Aunt Lisa off the recliner mid-sip, Dean crooning through the speakers as they attempt a half-ass waltz across the carpet.
Maria and Nonna are shouting Italian with their hands, Grandpa nodding like he hears every word.
Grandma’s sneaking wine.
Uncle Tony’s got the fridge open again.
And Aunt Fran’s yelling at them to get out of the kitchen from the couch.
Uncle John’s rocking in the recliner,
singing the wrong words.
The kid's pelting mini marshmallows at the elderly neighbor—Mrs. Gloria. Each one lodges in her hair, nestling into her curls, and she doesn’t notice, too busy ranting about property taxes.
Gabby’s still glued to her phone.
And sittin’ right in the middle of it all is Teddy Vale, draped across Maria’s lap, firelight glinting off his smug-ass crooner smile.
It’s chaos.
The loud, homemade,
too-much-love kind that never shuts up.
And it hits. All of it. But I’m fine. It’s fine.
I'm just not used to this many people loving each other out loud.
Then the back door creaks open.
Andrew walks in with the November chill,
right as Dean Martin belts—
“When the moon—”
His ears and nose are flushed pink from the cold.
His glasses are on,
a gray tee hugging his chest,
Nike joggers riding low,
waistband teasing bone,
hair fucked from the wind, or his hands.
"What the—" He sweeps the room fast—
Mom.
Teddy Vale.
Dancing.
Gift bag.
Then his eyes crash into me.
And freeze.
And then it’s all over.
He stops breathing.
Navy eyes blown wide,
big and bare and breaking.
Jaw locked. Throat tight.
As if he stepped through the door
and into a world he wasn’t ready for.
It cracks him open.
I see the ache rising fast in his eyes.
An ache that only shows
when what you wanted too much turns real.
He stands struck and speechless.
I don’t know if he’s stunned or pissed,
if he’s about to cry or combust.
“There’s our boy!” someone shouts.
Then he turns—
And walks right back out into the cold,
the door swinging shut behind him.
My stomach flips.
Shit.
I’m moving.
Fuck boots.
I’m in socks and stubbornness,
already out the back door.
The cold slaps my face and stings my cheeks before I hit the porch stairs, socks already soaked as I round the side of the house, past the bins, the hose, where ten-year-old him probably hid tears and punched the siding.
And I’m walking right into it.
His spine’s pressed to the side of the house to hold him up.
Head back.
Eyes closed.
Hands on his hips.
Then he crumbles forward—
forearms on his thighs, fighting for a breath.
And I step closer, wet wool gulped by snow.
“Andrew.”
It slips out above a whisper, apologetic.
I shouldn’t have come. I overstepped.
Then he lifts his head, eyes blinking hard.
Dean Martin’s still at it through the walls,
crooning on about how everybody loves somebody.
We stare at each other, both of us trying to shove words into the other without saying shit out loud.
He bites the inside of his cheek,
cold air fogging out when he exhales.
I take one step closer.
“You want me outta here?”
His gaze hangs heavy
as if I already left all over again.
His eyes drop to my soaked socks submerged in the snow, and his shoulders fall,
then he erases the distance,
his hands sliding under my thighs,
lifting me out of the snow.
My legs wrap around him.
His breath shakes against my collarbone,
then drifts up and floods my throat.
His warmth and cologne wraps around me.
He adjusts his grip on me,
one arm firm under my ass.
The other slides down,
finds my ankle,
pulls off my wet sock.
Then he holds my bare foot in his palm,
warming it,
hot skin on cold skin,
his thumb tracing the curve of my arch.
Then the next foot.
His eyes catch mine,
burning through me as he slides the sock off,
heat in his palm chasing the cold.
He exhales through his nose,
chest falling steady again.
He tucks both feet under the back of his shirt,
where his skin is warm,
wrapping me up in his arms again.
He presses his head to mine, shutting his eyes.
His heart crashes into me
like it’s the only place it knows to go.
I grab his jaw,
and his skin’s hot under my palm,
muscles tense and holding too much inside.
My thumb grazes the corner of his mouth,
and his eyes flutter shut.
His nose nudges mine,
warm breath spilling across my lips.
And for one second, the world tilts forward.
I can’t tell if I’m floating or falling.
Mouths half-open.
Our lips brush slow.
Then—
BEEP!—BEEP!—BEEP!
It’s distant at first, muffled,
like it’s bleeding through water.
Then the smoke alarm splits the quiet wide open.
Andrew’s eyes go wide. “Ah, fuck.”
I stand at the back door.
Andrew’s lunging for the stove,
ripping the pan off the burner,
metal clanging into the sink.
Oil spits. Water hisses. Steam rises.
No one’s moved from the couch or recliners.
They’re all carrying on,
the whole room agreeing to pretend they saw and heard nothing.
Andrew’s hunched over the counter,
hands gripping the edge,
trying to catch up to whatever just tore through him.
He turns slow, spatula in hand,
eyes landing on Paola.
“Momma.” He doesn’t yell, but he carries a parental disappointment that stings worse. “How many times I gotta say—stay off my burners?”
He motions to the scorched pan.
“You tryna light up the whole fuckin’ block?”
She barely lifts her eyes from the rim of her glass, giving a half-assed wave. “Then don’t leave onions screamin’ to be flipped.” She shrugs. “Don't want me touchin’ 'em? Stay in the kitchen—dove appartieni, eh.”
He lifts the spatula, points it at the couch.
“That over there? Momma’s space.”
Then points it at the floor,
where he’s standing.
“This kitchen right here?
“Andrew’s fuckin’ domain.
“Stay over there. Sip. Look gorgeous.”
Paola leans back into the couch, smirking.
“Madonna mia, such drama.
“Pan’s fine, nobody died.”
Then Andrew waves the spatula through the air—“While we’re at it—this goes for all’a you. She walks outta here ‘cause one of you made her feel some type’a way? I swear to God, you’ll never hear the end of it.”
Andrew disappears into the hallway.
Uncle John leans back in the recliner,
shaking his head, amused—
“Look at this guy—talkin’ tough all of a sudden.” He tips his beer toward the kitchen, eyes dancing. “Chef Boyardee over here gets himself a girlfriend, now he’s got balls.”
Andrew reappears, socks balled in one hand.
“Listen, old man.
“She scares me more than you do.
“Had to grow a pair just to get her.”
He slides the pair of socks across the island for me.
I’m halfway to the kitchen island,
when Aunt Lisa intercepts me,
clutching my arm,
eyes wide with performative panic.
“Be honest, sweetheart—
“he got somethin’ on you?
“‘Cause I can get you outta it, I’m a lawyer.”
Her nails linger too long,
her breath is merlot and menthol.
Aunt Fran leans in next—
“You safe, hon? Need us to call someone?”
Then Andrew’s behind me—“You’re all horrible. Every single one’a you,” he says over my shoulder, hand sliding to my hip as he leans in, swatting Lisa’s arm with the spatula. “Hands off,” he warns, drawing me in close as he steps us back. “C’mon, angel. Let’s get you away from the maniacs.”
I slide onto a barstool at the island,
grab the socks, slip them on.
Andrew’s back in the kitchen.
He takes out a blender,
pineapple, mint, coconut water,
while the family’s still going on about me being here:
“So, what really happened, sweetheart?
“Did you lose a bet? Get scammed?”
“She doin' charity work? Court-ordered?”
“Yeah—this a community service thing?”
Then he flips on the blender, silencing them.
Uncle Tony’s leaning against the counter,
watching him.
And the second the blender stops,
Tony does the two-hand air spread—
“Twenty-seven fuckin’ years, Andrew—niente. Single since birth. Then—boom! This one shows up with Dean Martin and 5th Avenues? On Thanksgiving, no less? C’mon. You think we ain’t gonna say nothin’ or ask questions?”
Andrew pours the drink into a tall glass.
“Jesus, Uncle Tony. Gotta do this now?
“In front'a her?”
He slides the drink to me, baiting me.
I stare at it.
It’s tailored. It’s pH-obsessed. It’s thought out,
pulled straight from Vice night
when I said alcohol fucks with my balance.
And now he turned a drink into a love letter.
As if my health is part of his to-do list now.
His gaze clings to me, to the chance this means something when he says—“Only reason she’s here ‘cause she lost a bet, aight?”
Then Aunt Lisa blurts,
“Wait—so she ain’t pregnant?”
And the second the word pregnant hits the air,
Andrew’s eyes rush back to me,
checking if I flinched,
wondering if the thought of it makes me run.
But it only lasts half a second,
then he’s taking off the oven mitt,
mouth parting, about to speak—
Grandpa: “Pagan?! She’s a pagan?”
And there goes the grandmother,
marching over—
“PREGNANT! ANDREW AND ALLISON ARE HAVING A BABY!”
“Wait—Grandma, no! Stop!
“Jesus Christ, no, she’s not pregnant.”
The air in the room drops dead—
Everyone goes still—
Then the living room explodes.
“HA! Come to momma. I want singles, tens, twenties. I don’t discriminate,” Paola says, palm opening and wiggling her fingers. “Don’t tell me I don’t know my son.”
Chairs scrape. Wallets open.
Crinkling bills. Loose change. Side bets.
Uncle John groans as he slams a twenty in her palm. Lisa’s waving a wad of twenties at her, cursing in Italian.
Aunt Fran’s rifling through her purse, muttering, “Fuck, I was so sure.”
“Just send it to my Venmo,”