9. Better Living Through Italian Food
9
BETTER LIVING THROUGH ITALIAN FOOD
ARIANA
Two days after my dinner with Connor, Seattle's March rain has turned from gentle drizzle to biblical downpour. Perfect weather for overthinking life choices while clutching takeout containers from La Famiglia like they're emotional support animals.
The scent of garlic bread wafts up from the paper bags as I juggle them against my hip, fumbling with my dad's spare key. Water drips down my neck despite my umbrella's best efforts, and my heels sink into the soggy welcome mat that reads "Go Away, I'm Probably Napping."
Dad's house—the same modest craftsman I grew up in—looks exactly like it always has. The paint's peeling in places, the garden needs weeding, and the ancient wind chimes Lily made in third grade still clang discordantly in the wind.
"Dad?" I call, shouldering open the door. "I brought dinner! And your med schedule for the week! And a blood pressure monitor because the reviews said the other one wasn't accurate enough and?— "
"In here!" His voice carries from the living room. "Though if you brought another medical device, I'm staging a rebellion."
I find him in his favorite armchair, reading glasses perched on his nose, surrounded by what appears to be every medical journal published in the last decade.
"Dad." I set down the bags, hands on my hips. "What did we say about WebMD?"
"That it's a perfectly reasonable resource for?—"
"For giving yourself anxiety." I start unpacking containers. "Which is why I brought stress-reducing carbs. How are you feeling?"
"Like my daughter's about to interrogate me about my kidney function over pasta." But he's already eyeing the garlic bread. "Though I might be persuaded to cooperate for some of Nonna Flora's marinara."
"Wise choice." I hand him a container. "Now, any unusual symptoms? Changes in?—"
"Ariana Nicole Bristol." He accepts the food but fixes me with a look. "I'm fine. The transplant is fine. Everything is—what's that on your hand?"
I quickly tuck my right hand behind my back, but it's too late. The poker chip ring glints traitorously in the living room light.
"Nothing! Just a... work thing."
"A work thing." He raises an eyebrow. "That looks suspiciously like?—"
The front door bangs open, saving me from further interrogation.
"Food!" Lily's voice rings out. "I smell garlic!"
"In here!" Dad calls. "Your sister's trying to force-feed me vegetables again!"
"They're good for your immune system!" I protest as Lily bounces in, rain-damp and grinning .
"So is joy," she counters, reaching for the bread. "And nothing brings joy like carbs."
"Speaking of joy," Dad says carefully. "Ariana was just about to explain her new jewelry?—"
"New what?" Kat appears in the doorway, lawyer-mode activated. "Since when do you wear jewelry?"
"I wear jewelry!"
“Mom's necklace and those tiny studs don't count." Lily peers at my hand. "Is that a poker chip?"
I snatch my hand away. "No!"
"It is!" She cackles. "Did you actually turn a poker chip into a ring? In Vegas?"
"Focus on the pasta," I say desperately. "Look, there's even tiramisu!"
But Kat's already crossing the room, her expression shifting from confused to horrified as recognition dawns.
"Ariana." Her voice is dangerously calm. "Can I speak to you in the kitchen? Now?"
"But the food?—"
"Now."
I follow her, shooting pleading looks at Dad and Lily, but they're both too busy investigating the dessert options to notice.
The kitchen is exactly as it's always been—yellow walls, worn linoleum, and the height chart where Mom used to mark our growth until she couldn't anymore.
Kat rounds on me the second we're alone. "Please tell me that redacted marriage certificate you sent over last week wasn’t yours."
My stomach drops. "I can explain."
"The one I specifically said was completely legal and binding?"
"It's complicated."
"The one with the Elvis witness signature?"
"In my defense?— "
"The one you said was for a client?"
"Technically, I am my own client."
She makes a sound like a tea kettle reaching critical mass. "Ariana!"
"I know! I know, okay? But it's handled. I have a plan."
"A plan." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "Does this plan involve telling your new husband that you're actually legally married to him?"
"Eventually!"
"Define eventually."
"When the time is right?"
"And when exactly is the right time to tell your new hubby that your drunk Vegas wedding was completely legitimate?"
My phone buzzes before I can answer. A text from Connor’s assistant Yasmin:
YASMIN: Package arrived at your new office. From Graceland Wedding Chapel. Also making concerning noises.
ME: Concerning how?
YASMIN: Like someone trapped Elvis in a box.
"Oh god." I show Kat the screen. "This can't be good."
Another text arrives:
YASMIN: Update: Box definitely playing "Can't Help Falling in Love." Also... wiggling?
ME: DO NOT OPEN IT
YASMIN: Too late. Security already scanning it.
YASMIN: Should I be concerned that it's... bedazzled?
"I have to go." I grab my purse. "Dad needs his meds sorted and?—"
"Already done." Kat holds up a perfectly organized pill container. "Unlike some people, I can manage basic tasks without accidentally acquiring a spouse."
"That's not—" My phone buzzes again.
YASMIN: Security cleared it. Contents appear to be:
1. Matching Elvis jumpsuits (sequined )
2. Musical photo frame
3. Two microphones (also sequined)
4. Note about reality show potential
5. Live doves???
"Live doves?" I whisper-shriek. "Who sends live doves through the mail?"
"Focus." Kat snaps her fingers. "You need to tell him."
"I will! Just... after the IPO. And Alex's wedding. And maybe the heat death of the universe."
Another text:
YASMIN: Doves have escaped. Now loose in office. Mr. Reeves asking why his conference room sounds like a rainforest.
"Oh no." I'm already heading for the door. "Oh no no no."
"This isn't over!" Kat calls after me.
"Love you!" I shout back. "Tell Dad I'll call him! And make sure he actually eats the vegetables!"
I sprint to my car, nearly wiping out on the wet pavement. My phone continues its assault:
YASMIN: Update: Doves seem attracted to the CFO's toupee
YASMIN: Situation escalating
YASMIN: Should I initiate evacuation protocols?
ME: Please, Yasmin. DO NOT EVACUATE
YASMIN: Just... contain the birds
YASMIN: And hide the jumpsuits
YASMIN: And maybe start looking for a good bird removal service?
YASMIN: Too late. Mr. Reeves Sr. just walked in.
YASMIN: Dove immediately pooped on his shoulder.
YASMIN: He's asking about the sequins.
YASMIN: And why his son's new PR exec has an office full of feathers.
I slam my car into gear, tires squealing as I pull out. Because of course this is happening. Of course my first week at Clearwater involves aerial assault by mail-order doves.
My phone lights up one final time:
CONNOR: Why are there birds in my building?
ME: Would you believe they're part of a new PR strategy?
CONNOR: For what? Seattle's first airborne tech company?
ME: ...surprise team building exercise?
CONNOR: My father just got dive-bombed by a dove wearing a tiny Elvis cape.
ME: In my defense, I didn't actually order the birds.
CONNOR: The sequined jumpsuits, however...
ME: Also not my fault!
ME: Though I have to ask - how do they look?
CONNOR: Like Vegas threw up on Liberace.
CONNOR: Also, one of the doves just knocked over our Q1 projections.
CONNOR: Should I be concerned that it's now wearing my father's toupee?
I hit the gas, praying I make it to Clearwater before someone suggests using the jumpsuits to catch the birds.
Though honestly? At this point, that might be the least ridiculous part of my week.
And it's only Wednesday.