Chapter 26 Pasta plus Existential Dread #2
“Don’t take our Lord’s name in vain,” Luca all but shouts, clearly trying to attract the attention of our mother.
Nico leans back in his chair, casually sipping his wine.
"I agree, Izzy. Taking our Lord’s name in vain is against the Ten Commandments.
Decking Evan, though? Totally allowed." He shrugs.
"Still, I was thinking something a little more refined—mild intimidation, a few well-placed threats, maybe a touch of psychological warfare. "
Luca nods. "Or we could just key his car."
I gasp. "No one is keying anything!"
Nonna, who’s been silently observing with hawk-like eyes, suddenly leans forward.
“Isabella,” she begins in Italian, voice thick with emphasis, “perché stai ancora con quel ragazzo? Non ti ha ancora chiesto di sposarlo?”
I groan internally.
I stab my fork into my pasta, the tines scraping against the ceramic plate. “Nonna, it’s complicated. And no, he hasn’t asked me to marry him.”
She waves a hand like she’s swatting away a fly. “Complicato? Sciocchezze. Gli uomini sono semplici.”
“She says men are simple.”
“I know what she said, Luca.”
Nonna continues undeterred, turning to my mother and rattling off a rapid string of Italian. I catch enough to know she’s asking why Mama lets me waste time with “quel idiota.”
My mother sighs and responds in kind, something about me being too old to waste time on a man.
I press my water glass to my lips, trying to cool my face. “Mama, I’m not wasting my time. And Nonna, you don’t even know him.”
She sniffs. “Non ho bisogno di conoscerlo.”
Nico leans over, all fake helpfulness. “She says she’s seen enough to know he probably tucks in his polo shirts and claps when the plane lands.”
“Stop mistranslating,” I snap.
“She didn’t not say that,” he mutters, shrugging.
Nonna points a perfectly manicured finger at me, her voice rising with conviction. “E ti tratta bene? Ti porta i fiori? Ti apre le porte? Ti guarda come se fossi la cosa più bella del mondo?”
I close my eyes briefly. Her questions are sharp as knives, aimed directly at the soft spots.
“Nonna—”
“Rispondimi, Isabella!”
I let out a breath. “He’s… fine.”
Luca scoffs. “Fine. Wow. That’s definitely what every girl dreams of saying about her boyfriend.”
Nico snickers. "I think I've seen Izzy talk about lasagna with more passion."
Just then, Lady Gaga darts under the table, her fur brushing against my bare legs. Tony follows, yapping excitedly, little paws scrambling across the floor. Dad whistles softly, but this time they ignore him, determined to cause chaos.
"Lorenzo!" Mama scolds. "I told you to control your dogs!"
Dad just shrugs, amused. "They have minds of their own, Maria. Like our children."
Matteo, trying to be the voice of reason, sighs. "Can we just eat?"
But Nonna is still watching me.
Waiting.
Expecting something more.
I press my lips together, heart pounding hard.
Because for the first time, I actually let myself think about what she asked me.
Does Evan bring me flowers?
No.
Does he open doors for me?
Not really.
Does he look at me like I'm the most beautiful thing in the world?
No. In fact all he does is suggest I need to "get back in shape"—a not-so-subtle reminder of how my body has changed since we first met.
I stare down at my plate.
And I have the horrible realization that the last man who looked at me like that...
Wasn't my boyfriend at all.
It was Cal.
The meal continues in chaotic fashion. Nico challenges Luca to an arm-wrestling match right there at the table, nearly knocking over a bottle of Mama's precious red wine.
Mama shrieks, Dad laughs, and Nonna crosses herself while muttering what I'm pretty sure are prayers for our collective souls.
The smell of garlic bread, pasta sauce, and wine mingles in the air, layered with the scent of candles burning down to their bases.
Dinner wraps up with its usual level of mayhem.
Nonna keeps trying to send everyone home with leftovers, even though we all live within a ten-mile radius and can come over for food whenever we want. The plastic containers clatter as she stacks them, her hands moving swiftly despite her age.
Nico and Luca are still arguing over something ridiculous, their voices carrying through the house as Mama tells them to "Take it outside or take it to confession."
And me?
I slip into the kitchen, grabbing a dish towel like it's second nature. The cotton is soft and worn in my hands, smelling faintly of lemon dish soap.
Growing up, Matteo and I always handled the dishes together.
It was our thing.
I dry. He puts everything away.
It started when we were kids, and Mama wouldn't let us leave the table until everything was spotless. Somewhere along the way, it became our quiet tradition.
And tonight?
I'm grateful for it.
Because when Matteo walks in, rolling up his sleeves, I already know what's coming. The sleeves of his sweater make a soft rustle as he pushes them up to his elbows. He doesn't look at me right away, which means he's building up to something.
I shake my head. "If this is about Evan—"
"It is," he says, cutting me off gently. I hand him the plate.
I press my lips together, bracing myself.
"Izzy," he continues, voice calm, level-headed, Matteo to the core. "I know everyone gives you crap about him. The teasing, the jokes—Luca and Nico especially."
I huff out a dry laugh. "Understatement of the year."
Matteo smiles faintly, stacking the plate in the cabinet. The ceramic clinks as he sets it down. "They give you shit, yeah. But the truth is, we're just worried about you."
I trace the floral patterns of the dish in my hand with my thumb.
"I mean, we're your brothers," he says, nudging me lightly with his elbow. "It's our job, right?"
I smile, small but real.
Because yeah.
That's what they do.
That's what they've always done.
"Besides," Matteo continues, glancing toward the dining room, "it's not just us. Mama doesn't acknowledge him, and Nonna...well."
"She'd probably rather set me up with a stranger from church than let me marry Evan," I mutter.
Matteo grins. "See? You get it."
I shake my head, laughing softly, but the conversation lingers. And maybe it's the wine, maybe it's the fact that I actually need to talk about this, but before I can stop myself, I ask—
"How did you know?"
Matteo glances at me. "Know what?"
"That Sophia was the right one."
His eyes immediately soften as he looks over at Sophia, who is still at the table, bouncing their baby on her knee. She's laughing, her head tilted back, easy and unguarded, her dark curls bobbing with each movement.
Matteo smiles at the sight.
And that's when I realize—it's the kind of smile that's just for her.
The kind of smile you can't fake.
The kind of smile that means home.
"I dated other girls before Sophia,” Matteo finally says, leaning against the counter. "Some lasted a couple months. Some lasted years."
I stay quiet, listening. The clink of glasses from the dining room punctuates the silence.
"And every time," he continues, rubbing the back of his neck, "there was something wrong. Sometimes it was obvious—we fought all the time. Everything was a battle, a disagreement."
He shakes his head, exhaling.
"And other times? It took me a while to realize it."
I bite my lip. "How?"
Matteo shrugs. "Because I was trying to make something work that wasn't meant to. I'd excuse the fights. I'd convince myself that love was supposed to be hard."
He turns back to me, expression softer now.
"And then I met Sophia,” he says simply.
I glance toward her again.
Sophia, who is now making funny faces at their baby, who is giggling uncontrollably, drool glistening on her chin.
"And everything was just...easy," Matteo says. "It felt right."
I let out a breath, quiet.
"We fight sometimes, sure," he admits. "Everyone does. But not like before. Not in a way that made me feel like I had to win. We don't scream at each other. We respect each other."
He looks at me now, voice steady.
"She makes me feel special," he says. "And I want to take care of her."
My throat tightens. I run my fingers along the edge of a glass, feeling the cool, smooth rim.
And then he says the thing that shatters me.
"If you're questioning whether Evan is the right guy," he says, "then he's not."
I swallow. Hard.
"Because when you meet the right guy?" he continues. "You won't be able to stop yourself. You'll just know it's him."
And that?
That's the problem.
Because when Matteo says it, when he describes the way it's supposed to feel...
The first face that pops into my head?
Isn't Evan's at all.
It's Cal again.