Chapter 32 November Rain #3
Gabby says, not looking up from her phone.
Nonna jabs a finger at Andrew—
“Eh! Adesso, you do the right thing.
“First la chiesa, then la culla.”
Andrew runs a hand through his hair,
muttering, “Sta famiglia mi fa impazzì…”
Which I’m pretty sure translates to:
my entire bloodline is unwell.
And now my brain’s doing something stupid.
It’s thinking about a house.
Some stupid place with a yard.
With real grass smelling
like childhood after it rains.
I don’t know why I’m thinking about it.
And I hate how it’s in my head.
Because I never thought of anything outside of the Baby Contract. Always figured I’d up the payout every decade until I die.
No family. No ring. No love.
Only orgasms and rock 'n' roll.
But now I’m thinking about a house,
which means I’m fucked.
A house means home,
and once you imagine the home feeling,
you notice all the places you’re alone.
And that’s a wanting that doesn’t go away.
It grows. In your ribcage. In your gut. In the back of your throat where it tastes like guilt for ever pretending you were fine without it.
“Hey.”
Andrew's hand settles warm at the base of my spine, thumb brushing.
“You still with me?”
I flinch, head snapping toward him, his hand yanking me out of the imaginary house I’d been standing in.
One I made up just to hurt myself—
drywall and daydreams.
“Yeah,” I say too fast. “I’m here.”
His brows pull together like—
Yeah, I saw it. No, I won’t ask.
“You hungry or what?” he changes the subject, gesturing around the kitchen. “I got green bean casserole. Stuffing. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Sweet potatoes. Pumpkin pie. And a turkey I had to go to war for.” He smirks. “Ninety-year-old vet, mean eyes. Almost took my hand off.”
My mouth parts. “Wait—you made all this?”
“Yeah.” He waves it off.
“If I didn’t, no Thanksgiving.
“We’d be eatin’ deli turkey off paper plates.”
Paola scoffs. “Bullshit.”
Andrew’s chin ticks up.
“Be honest. When’s the last time any’a you cooked a real meal, huh?”
His eyes land on Aunt Fran.
“You? Haven’t cooked since Obama was in office.”
“We work,” she snaps. “Eight hours a day. This is our break.”
My eyes shoot to Andrew because
he doesn’t get one?
Seventeen hours a day.
Eighty-hour work weeks.
Health in the fucking gutter,
bleeding for everyone in this room.
And now I’m pissed.
I wanna flip the goddamn table.
I want him to throw it back,
make them swallow the taste of their own shit.
But he lets out a breathy laugh.
“Yeah, nah—you’re right. My bad.”
He turns, dodging my eyes,
my swallow-it-and-I-swear-I’ll-scream face.
He doesn’t say a word,
quiet rage in his jaw as he opens the fridge.
“Andrew!” Nonna calls out. “Vieni qua—siediti and talk to your Nonna before I drop dead, capito?”
Andrew shakes his head. “Nonna, ti giuro—ti voglio bene—but if I stop movin’ for even un secondo, the whole cucina’s gonna catch fire and you’ll never get fed.”
Aunt Lisa smirks from the couch,
swirling her wine.
“Please. The second he stops movin’, he’ll start thinkin’. And we all know how terribile that would be, eh?”
Andrew closes the fridge,
leveling her with a gaze.
“You know what’s terribile? The amount of wine you drink before noon.”
Lisa gasps, one hand flying to her chest.
“How dare you,” she fake-cries, reeling back against the armrest.
“Eh, Lisa, relax. He’s bustin’ your chops.”
Paola raises her voice from the couch without turning around. “I told you, Andrew. You’re gonna regret it one day when she’s not here.”
His jaw tightens as he grabs a dish towel and wipes his hands.
Maria’s voice slices across the room—“He don’t got time for us no more, Paola. He’s a man now.”
Paola leans sideways on the couch, pointing her glass toward the kitchen. “Andrew—vai, kiss Nonna before she cuts you outta the will.”
He tosses the dish towel onto the counter, cuts the burner, then walks into the living room. “Nonna, se non mi dai un bacio adesso, niente dolce per te stasera.”
He bends over the back of the couch, gives Nonna a kiss.
“Ti piace lei, sì? Se dici di no, potrei piangere.”
“Quando la guardo… mi sembra di vedere mia madre. C’ha gli occhi pieni di storie, quella ragazza. Lotta sempre col suo cuore… ma si vede che è piena d’amore, solo che lo tiene nascosto.”
Andrew looks over at me.
Whatever he’s seeing,
he doesn’t want it to end.
The sun ducks behind the skyline as we scrape the last bite off our plates—
the best Thanksgiving meal I’ve ever had.
The whole house glows molasses-orange,
warm and tucking us in.
Everyone’s melted into the living room,
half-asleep, sedated by carbs and cable.
TV’s low, game on.
Uncle John grunts when someone scores.
Feet are up. Belts are loose. Nobody’s moving.
Except Andrew.
He’s re-filling glasses,
taking out the trash,
loading the dishwasher.
I stay on my barstool, watching him out of the corner of my eye.
How every muscle flexes under his tee as he moves across the kitchen.
How his joggers hang from his hips, clinging just enough to outline every inch of six-and-a-half cock to be distracting.
How every stretch, every reach molds to him, teasing in ways it has no right to.
When my gaze drags back to his face,
he catches me.
He lifts a brow—low and lazy like—
you don’t want me, huh? Then why’re your eyes all over my fuckin’ waistband?
He wipes his forehead across his sleeve at his bicep. “Uncle John, did you touch the thermostat again?”
John throws up his hands—“Don’t look at me. I ain’t tryna get blamed this time."
Then Andrew’s on the move again.
Cleaning.
Wiping down counters.
Dishes.
Picking up trash.
They’ve been throwing shit at him all day—
teasing, jabbing, poking.
He takes it, laughs, fires back,
but exhaustion cracks underneath it all.
No one’s offered to help.
Not a ‘need a hand?’ or even a fake attempt.
It’s as if some unspoken rule:
Andrew does the work.
Andrew plays host, chef, cleaner, savior.
Andrew will take care of everything.
Andrew will take care of them.
And maybe he always has.
When he passes by again, I catch his hand,
pulling him toward me as I hop off the stool.
“You’re gonna sit. Five minutes.
“All I’m giving you.”
I guide him down onto the seat.
“I’ll finish the dishes.”
“Allison—” He tries to rise.
I press him right back down.
“You gonna shut up and listen,
“or do I gotta make you?”
His brows go up.
Then his grin lifts—filthy and full of trouble.
“Keep talkin’ like that. I’ll behave.”
I step back slow,
our hands dropping between us.
“Drink? Dessert? You look like you need something sweet in your mouth.”
He watches me, smiling without knowing it.
Then he’s shaking his head,
not knowing what to do with this.
As if he’s never had someone take care of him before.
“Come on,” I tease. “Not even pie?”
He moves before I get too far,
grabbing my wrist and hauling me back.
And then he’s pulling me between his knees,
hands on my hips,
lips brushing my ear with a grin I can feel in my spine.
And all I can think is—
how the fuck are your hands on me,
when sixty hours ago, I walked out.
With another guy. On purpose.
After saying I didn’t want you.
And now you’re holding me
as if it never happened.
Unless this is your specialty.
Pretending. Faking. Lying. And I just can’t tell.
My chest is a fucking bass drum.
My throat’s dry, but I say it anyway—
“So what—we're not talkin’ about Vice?
“We pretendin’ that night never happened?
“‘Cause you’re doin’ a real good fuckin’ job actin’ like it didn’t.”
He swallows hard, pulls back to meet my eyes.
But his hand’s climbing my spine,
anchoring me closer,
holding me like he’s punishing air for slipping between us.
“Don’t wanna talk about it right now, aight?
“Don’t even wanna fuckin’ think about it.”
His voice sinks into a whisper,
rough and raspy.
His eyes, on mine.
All his armor, gone.
“I been replayin’ that night in my head for two days straight, hearing you say that shit on repeat, watchin’ you leave with him. And I thought that was it, thought I fucked it up for good.
“And now you’re here.
“In this house.
“With me.
“With my moms.
“And my hands won’t stop shaking every time they’re not on you.”
“So, no—I don’t wanna talk about it, Sonny.
“Right now, I just want you here—”
His voice cracks,
throat catching around the word.
“We could be mad.
“We could be a fuckin’ mess.
“Don’t matter.
“I ain’t tryin’ to fix shit right now.
“Just be here with me. All I want.
“You. Right here. With me.”
And my heart just screamed into a pillow from inside her grave.
Then punched it.
Then kissed it.
Then cried over it.
Pathetic.
“Fine,” I say, and it barely makes it out.
I clear my throat, try again.
“Then I’m gonna go do the dishes.”
I step back. Out of his arms.
Out of the moment.
Laughter, cursing, and Italian pour in from the living room. The women go back and forth while both uncles argue with the TV.
I grab the sponge, stare out the window,
and coach my lungs through it.
Inhale. Exhale. Act heartless, unhurt.
Try to remind myself who I gotta be to protect myself—someone who doesn’t give a fuck.
Behind me, Aunt Lisa drops Maria the question—“So, Maria, what’d the doc say? Any word on the transplant list yet?”
And the room drops.
Sound dips.
Glasses clink.
Chatter dies. Breath holds.
It’s the ghost in the room.
Don’t mention it, and they choke on the lie.
Mention it, and they’re choking on the truth.
Then Andrew speaks up,
deadpan, fake-somber, lethal in his delivery—
“Nothin’ yet. They’re stalling, waitin’ to see if we kill her first. And with Teddy fuckin’ Vale smilin’ up from her lap? They don’t gotta lift a finger.”
“Andrew,” Maria says,
all warmth and edge-of-laughter.
In an instant, the room breathes again.
Laughter cuts through the weight
like a hot knife through frosting.
Aunt Lisa snorts into her wine.
Uncle John chuckles.
Then no one talks about it again.
They’re laughing.
And Andrew gave them permission.
He walks to the counter for coffee,
his gaze clashing with mine.
I can see the hurt in his eyes.
He gave them the out, took the hit,
laughed it off while soaking it all up—
the pain no one wanted to hold,
everyone’s grief, everyone’s guilt—
tucked it somewhere inside him,
and now he’s making his quiet exit,
like if he moves with indifference,
turns his back, pours his coffee,
no one will see the weight he picked up on the way out.
Or notice he’s bleeding.
“Andrew, prendi subito la chitarra," Nonna says.
“Fammi sentire la tua voce, tesoro.”
Then from Grandma—“Yeah, go get that guitar. Been too damn long.”
He turns and leans back against the counter—
“Non stasera. My hands ain’t steady for strings.”
Aunt Lisa appears behind me, climbing into the fridge. “Y’know,” she tells me, wrestling the cork loose. “Andrew’s been puttin’ on shows since he was a kid.”
I arch a brow at Andrew. “Oh?”
“Used to make us pay him for performances,” Uncle John calls out.
Laughter spills from the living room.
Aunt Lisa jumps back in—“Quarters to watch him sing, play guitar, do magic tricks, re-enact entire movie scenes, commercials. Kid was five-years-old walkin’ around with a fuckin’ tip jar.”
I turn fast, brows up.
“You hustled your family with a tip jar?”
Andrew gives a lazy grin.
“Was investin’ in my future.”
Paola exhales behind her wine.
“Tip jar said ‘Andrew’s World Tour.’
“We still got it somewhere.”
I kill the water, dry my hands,
and turn to face the living room.
Paola’s eyes light up before a word ever leaves her mouth, the memory playing in her head—“Any woman walk in the Astor cryin’? Five minutes with Andrew, she’s smilin’ again, swearin’ he fixed their whole damn life.”
The Astor?
Aunt Lisa’s mouthing ‘here we go’ over her wine. “He always played the part,” Paola keeps going. “Whatever you needed him to be, he’d show up. Not always a good thing, but”—she lifts her glass, makes a tiny toast to the air—“that’s my boy.”
“The Astor?” Aunt Fran blurts. “Oh, God—Tony, remember? He used to make us sit through three-act plays in the lobby—he’d play every role. Hero, villain, romantic lead, all in one.”
I catch his eyes the second he catches mine.
Both of us stuck in the same memory at the Astor.
He played every role the night he left me standing in Astor’s lobby too.
Hero for showing up.
Villain for walking out.
Romantic lead between.
Aunt Lisa stops in front of him as she’s passing by, pinches his cheek.
“Well, would you look at this face. All moody, broody, and romantic. Eyes like a wet dog.” She pats his cheek twice.
“We wasted him. Shoulda dumped him in Hollywood before puberty hit. Coulda played in those Nicholas Sparks movies.”
Uncle Tony lifts his beer, muttering under his breath but loud enough for the room. “At least the little shit woulda been useful. Paid off someone’s mortgage. Workin’ a bar? Only thing he’s coverin’ is the tabs when assholes skip out.”
Paola cups her mouth, says it loud enough for the whole damn room—“Oh, he could play romantic. Trust me.”
Then she grins at Andrew, like—
don’t make me start.
Maria leans over, smacking Paola’s thigh. “Could? He is,” she says. “Me l’ha detto una volta—if he ever fell in love, he’d take her to the Astor roof. Said it was the only posto big enough to hold a feeling—”
Andrew jerks taller, eyes wide.
Hand slashing at his throat fast—
“Ma. Stop. Please. That’s—no.”
“Che? It’s sweet,” she laughs, waving him off.
But I heard it.
I’m still hearing it.
‘If he ever fell in love,
‘he’d take her to the Astor roof.’
And there’s a standoff inside me.
My heart’s holding a love letter.
My brain’s holding a gun.
They’re both yelling over each other—
Stay. Run. Stay. Run.
And I’m stuck in the in-between,
the moment after a punch,
but before the pain hits,
with the words keep crashing into me.
The room distorts.
Laughter warps.
Faces blur.
Colors bleed.
And I don’t feel my hands until one’s in his.
“Yo—Sonny,” he murmurs.
“That was years ago.”
He leans closer, mouth close to my ear.
“That was kid shit. Just some dumb promise.
“I swear—I wasn’t…
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
His voice breaks around the corners.
“Don’t make it a thing, aight?
“It doesn’t have to be that.”
I nod. Or shake my head. Who knows.
“I need air.” My voice sounds underwater.
“I gotta step out.”
I’m already walking,
hallway tilting hot and yellow.
Like I’m walking into a fever.
Maria behind me—
“What’s wrong with her?”
Andrew’s voice slams through it—
“Nothin’s wrong with her.”
“Well, somethin’s wrong wi—”
“I took her to the fuckin’ roof, Ma, okay? Jesus.”