31. FRANKIE
THIRTY-ONE
FRANKIE
I finish drying the dish Paulie just handed me.
We’re on dish duty. The rest of the guys are in the living room while Mom and Dad pack up the leftovers.
Jed and Jackson, newbies in the House of Nebs, tried to help, but Ma shooed them out.
Mom would never have guests clean—what kind of host would she be!
Words she’s said many times. Maddy, East, and Shaney-babe didn’t bother trying; they’re well aware of how it works here.
“All right. I think that was the last one,” Paulie says, grabbing a towel to dry his hands.
I hand Dad the dish to put away and toss my towel on the counter.
Mom pulls out a tinfoil-covered tray and sets it on the island. “Paolo, can you bring dessert out to the living room? Tom, bring the coffee table back in to put this on—and make sure you put the pad and tablecloth over it first.”
Paulie’s eyes light up. “Ohmygoddd. Are those what I think they are?”
“If you think they’re cannoli from Tutti’s, you’d be right.”
“Fuck yes!”
“Paolo Luca Nebiolo, you watch your language, or else you can watch everyone else eat them.”
Paulie zips his mouth and blinks angelically. Mom rolls her eyes and shoos him.
He quickly scoops up the tray and heads for the living room. Mom shoots Dad a glance, and he quickly follows Paulie.
I groan.
“Hush, Francesco. If you thought there wouldn’t be a minor interrogation, I’d be concerned you’d suffered a head injury.”
I barely hold back my wince. Ma doesn’t know about the whole broken cheek-concussion incident. Paulie and I both decided it was best not to have her worry. It really was minor, and Mom would have freaked. She’d probably have moved in to take care of me until I was fully healed.
“Hand me those containers.”
I pass the last of the leftovers to her, and she stores them in the fridge. The door slamming shut slices through the now-silent kitchen. The soft murmur of the TV, the guys‘ laughter, and conversation drifts over to us.
Mom lifts a brow and leans her hip against the island. “So? Jackson seems nice.”
“Jackson is nice.”
She purses her lips, and the look she gives me screams that she’s not going to play that game. “Francesco. You don’t bring men home. Not since…”
“Mom,” I warn.
She raises her arms. “Well, what am I supposed to think? He’s sweet, bambino. I like him for you.”
I arch an eyebrow. “You don’t even know him.”
“Please, Francesco. I am your mother; I know these things. Plus, I know him enough. He helped me set the table. He’s…well, he’s shy and bashful. He’s genuine. Respectful. And he couldn’t stop asking after you.”
“Yeah, he—Wait, what?”
She smiles, a knowing look shining in eyes the exact shade of brown and gold as mine. “Yes. Wanted to know all about what you were like growing up. I, of course, happily shared all your most embarrassing stories.”
“Mom.”
Her smile splits into a grin. “Yes, I told him about the time you fell in the fountain at the mall.”
Okay, that one’s not horrible. At least she didn’t mention—
“And I may have mentioned when you were on local television for that math game show.”
My eyes go wide. “You didn’t.”
She pulls a picture out of her back pocket.
I snatch it from her. “Oh my God! Mom!”
My chest goes tight, my heart kicking into a faster rhythm. My eyes slide shut, because yes, there it is: a picture of me at thirteen, braces, horrible acne, in my most awkward stage. Let’s just say it took until sophomore year of high school for me to grow into my ears.
Don’t get me started on my outfit. You can’t even count the number of pockets on those cargo pants.
God, they’re so baggy on my beanpole frame I could have jumped out of a plane and used them as a parachute.
And my hair. I whimper. My hair. The frosted tips era.
Something I blame Justin Timberlake for.
My hair looks like literal ramen noodles.
“Well, now he’s never going to want anything to do with me ever again.”
“Oh, please. Don’t be so dramatic.”
I shoot her a look. We both know there is no Frankie without dramatics.
“He lit up hearing the stories and seeing the pictures. That man in there likes you.”
“Obviously, he likes me. Have you seen me?” Not thirteen-year-old me. Those pictures really should be burned.
Mom frowns. “Francesco, I hate when you talk like that. You’re more than a pretty face.”
I blow out a breath. “Yes, yes, I know. But this isn’t anything serious, Mom. I’m just…helping him out.”
“What does that even mean?”
I let out a low growl.
“Helping him out how? I fail to see—”
“It’s just sex, Ma,” I say on a hush. “All right? Happy now?”
“Non dire balle.”
My jaw goes slack.
“Oh, please. Am I to believe you’ve been celibate for five years? Because you haven’t brought any other men home. Where are all these other non-serious men? Considering the number of times you snuck boys out of this house growing up, I don’t take you for the celibate type.”
“I-I-I never…” I sputter. She knew I was sneaking boys over?
She continues over my freak-out. “I don’t see how just sex is bringing him home to meet your mother. Getting all cozy in his arms on the living room floor? Making sure Dad bought stouts? You don’t drink stouts, Francesco. You had your glass of Valpolicella like usual. But just sex had a stout.”
I shift uncomfortably as what I have planned for Jackson and me the next couple of days pushes to the front of my mind. I drag a hand down my face and those thoughts with it.
“Just don’t get your hopes up, Ma. All right? I wanted Jackson to experience a family—a real family. He doesn’t get to be himself with his. To be honest, from what I’ve ascertained, it’s not even just that. I don’t think his family is…close like ours.”
Her expression softens. “I see.”
“You’re right. It’s not just about that. But it’s not much more either. I…I don’t do that. And he has a career of baseball ahead of him. A future is not in the cards, and honestly, it’s better that way.”
“Because you can’t get hurt. You can’t be fooled into believing otherwise.”
I glance away and frown against the pressure building behind my eyes.
“You never know which relationship is going to be the one that sticks. I won’t lie and say you won’t ever get hurt again; that’s not something any of us can predict, but… What I do know is this: if you don’t try at all, there won’t ever be one that sticks, bambino.”
My body tenses as it tries and fails to protect itself from the waves of pain rolling through me. I let out a slow, measured breath and will it away. “Not everyone needs a romantic relationship.”
“Very true.”
Silence settles over us.
“But you’re not one of them, Francesco. Despite the fact you’ve tried to convince yourself otherwise,” she says quietly.
I don’t respond. What am I supposed to say to that? I’m filler, someone’s temporary fun, arm candy that can be wielded to serve their purpose. Or their dirty little secret.
I’m no one’s forever.
It doesn’t matter that my mother’s right. It doesn’t matter that I desperately want forever.
I will always be just sex.
My gaze slides to the living room. Even if the man back there has become far more than that to me.
I have to enjoy the ride while it lasts.
Eventually, it’ll come to an end.
They always do.
She blows out a breath. “Okay. I’ll stop now. Just know that I like him. And I get the sense he really likes you too. Impossible future or not.”
I nod jerkily, glaring hard at the floor.
“How about I pour us each a glass of Sciacchetrà, and then we can see if there are any cannoli left out there?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and draw in a slow breath. “Sounds good. But I’m going to need more than one glass.”
Small arms fold around me and then squeeze tight; my mom’s petite frame belying the strength packed inside. I wrap mine around her and sink into it, let the boy inside me breathe in the comfort only a mother can give.
“Ti voglio bene, bambino,” she whispers.
I drop my head to her shoulder. “Ti voglio bene, Mamma.”