Chapter 20 #2
“If you keep ignoring all the people who want to keep you famous, then you really will be just some guy soon enough,” Enzo says. He’s never been a soft touch, something I’ve always appreciated about him.
“But isn’t it…” Dumb…vain…foolish…conceited?
“Look, man, I’m sorry I came down on you hard,” Enzo says. “Lucia made me watch some of your videos—”
I groan.
“And I liked them, once I got over the fact that I was getting an eyeful of my little brother’s assets.”
“Oh, come on. Nico’s the little brother. I’m barely younger than you.
“And he’s barely younger than you,” Enzo says. “You’re both my little brothers.”
“We all know how old we are,” Nico agrees. “Now, stop avoiding the point, Giovanni.”
Huh, has he been talking to Emily about my avoidant personality? There’s no denying I haven’t even cracked the book she gave me, although I did place it on my bedside table.
“People want more of the Shirtless Chef,” Nico continues.
“I know this because dozens of them show up every day asking for you. I’m thinking of selling some of your stuff as a side hustle.
‘This is the first Bundt pan the great Shirtless Chef ever used. These are the tweezers he uses to pluck hairs off his balls. This is the cup he used to protect his junk when he played Lobster League baseball.’”
I laugh with them, feeling a pang of loss. I don’t miss our hometown the way I thought I would, especially since the last weeks I spent there were hell, but I do miss them. Aria too.
It feels strange for my siblings to be so far away, when this was always a place we visited together, running through the creeks, climbing the trees, and being wild and free and far from the cares of home.
“When you come back, we can make all kinds of new, useless crap to sell,” Nico continues. “Used tissues. Half-eaten snacks. The possibilities are endless.”
I feel a confusing lurch of emotion. When I come home, like it’s a given. I suppose it is, although it’s hard to imagine going home. What’ll that look like? Am I just going to slip back into my life and pretend none of this happened unless old fans come by?
“Yeah, I guess so,” I reply. “I don’t know when that’ll happen.”
“Speaking of Bianca,” Enzo says.
“No one was,” I murmur. Not that I wasn’t thinking about her.
I’ve been thinking about her a lot.
I think about her in the morning, when I come downstairs and see the ghosts of her—the coffee cup in the sink, the energy bar wrapper in the trash—and I think about her during the day, when people ask about her at the pumpkin patch.
How’s your girlfriend, Giovanni?
Tell me again how you met.
I think about her in the afternoon, when I decide what to make for dinner—something that will give her plenty of energy for the next day. And I think about her in the evening, when she comes home late, wearing her scrubs and looking like she’s been through a battle.
I definitely fucking think about her at night, when I hear that maddening little electronic hum through the wall, accompanied by her soft moans. It drives me crazy wondering if she knows I can hear it—
If maybe she even likes that I can hear it.
I suppose what I’m saying is that I think about Bianca Murphy all the fucking time.
“Well, now that we’re talking about her,” Enzo says, “Nonna Francesca doesn’t believe your relationship with her is fake.”
“You know Nonna has an agenda.”
She’s told us many times that she wants to see all of her grandkids married before she “meets her maker.” As my little sister pointed out, Nonna isn’t giving us an incentive to settle down—we all need her to live forever.
“Of course she has an agenda,” Enzo says. “She’s a Cafiero. But we all saw the photo. We know something’s going on.”
“Lucy’s changed you, and not for the good,” I say. “You’re becoming an old gossip. You should go ahead and join that crocheting group in town.”
“Maybe,” Enzo admits, sounding amused. “But you’re forcing me into it, you know. You should be ashamed of yourself. If you’d just tell us about our future sister-in-law outright—”
“Look, it doesn’t matter if I like her.”
“I knew you did,” Nico mutters.
“I’m not staying here,” I continue, “and she’s not going anywhere.
She’s lived here since she was a little kid, and all these people rely on her.
Besides, I don’t want to mess things up for Nonna Francesca.
She’s happy here, and if things went south between Bianca and me, we could end up with another apple fight. ”
“Some things are worth a potential apple fight,” Enzo says. “Finding the right woman is one of them.”
“I’m hanging up now,” I say. I’m really about to, but then I remember the mystery of the gray sweatpants. “Hey, wait a sec. Why do women like gray sweatpants?”
“Your idea of romancing a woman is wearing sweatpants?” Enzo says. “Madonn’, you need help.”
“Bianca liked them, though. She said women would faint if I wore them in public, and for once, she wasn’t fucking with me.”
“I got nothing,” Nico says. “Enzo, why don’t you ask Lucy?”
I hear muffled conversation on the other end of Enzo’s line, followed by laughter.
“Lucia says it means she was checking out your dick.”
“No,” I say, although I like the thought for obvious reasons.
“Did you stuff an eggplant down your pants?” Nico asks, laughing.
“Very funny. You know I’ve got no need.”
“But you do like impressing women,” Nico banters back.
Not really. Not anymore. But I wouldn’t mind impressing Bianca.
Wouldn’t mind it at all.
On Friday, I get up before anyone else in the house—a real feat when you’re staying with two women over eighty—and start making graham crackers in a T-shirt and my gray sweatpants. I’ll wear those sweatpants until they’re ragged if Bianca likes me in them.
There’s a real surprise for me when I open the fridge to reach for the butter and milk—a covered glass dish.
Bianca made the marshmallows last night.
I’m grinning as I finish the graham crackers.
I get the dough chilled and rolled out, and I’ve just put it into the oven when the nonnas come into the kitchen.
They make us all cappuccinos, God bless them.
Nonna Rose fusses over me, asking questions about how I’m sleeping—Is the mattress too soft?
Is the room too warm? Do you have enough blankets?
—before asking what I’m currently doing.
When I admit I’m making graham crackers because Bianca and I will be practicing our s’mores today, the nonnas exchange a pointed look.
Seconds later, they’re grabbing their handbags and preparing to leave.
“It’s not even eight o’clock,” I point out as I watch them hustle toward the door. “Where are you going?”
“To visit, Ted, God rest his soul,” Nonna Rose says, making the sign of the cross. “Your nonna hasn’t seen his final resting place, and the light in the graveyard is best at this time of morning.”
“Isn’t it a little early for that?”
“It is never too early to pay respect to the dead,” Nonna Francesca says. Her tone seems a little grandiose given that she’d been actively hostile toward Ted while he was alive.
“Nonna Rose, you’ve got curlers in your hair.”
“Ted always liked my curlers,” she says, just as Nonna Francesca adds, “The dead won’t mind.”
“No need to wait up for us,” Nonna Rose says. “We’ll be gone all day.”
“You’re planning to spend all day at the graveyard?”
“We have lots of visiting to do,” Nonna Francesca says. “And then we’re going to see about another wagon. Rose’s friend will bring us.”
“Yes,” Nonna Rose agrees. “But I already told Theo to call in those weed boys. You need a day off. You’ve been working too hard.”
I feel like I should object, or perhaps offer to go with them. Especially if they think they’re going to haggle. Then again, I have no objection to having a morning at home with Bianca.
So I let them hurry out, Nonna’s curlers still in place.
An hour later, when the graham crackers are cooling and the nonnas are who the hell knows where, Bianca finally strides into the kitchen in her pajamas.
A smile inches up my face. Her pajama shirt is black, but it has a smiling apple on it—not Sir Gala-Head, thank God—and the slogan “Apple Pie Enthusiast.” The Evergreens & Apples logo is on the back.
Her pajama pants are black too, with little white apples printed all over them.
Her hair’s in a messy bun, and she looks fucking adorable.
“Is there coffee?” she asks, rubbing her eyes.
“I drank your cappuccino.”
She frowns at me.
I grin back. “I did you a favor. The nonnas left a while ago. They’re planning to spend all day at the graveyard. They said they won’t be back until late.”
“That’s morbid of them.”
“I know, it seemed more like something you’d want to do. But my point is that your cappuccino was getting cold. No one wants a cold cappuccino. I’ll make you a fresh one.”