Chapter 34
The kitchen glows as stained-glass windows spill soft light across the countertops.
I wobble downstairs in his oversized hoodie, praying no one sees the marks on my neck, and clutching my stomach—too much heat, too much him. I need water. I need saving.
Yeah, I'm melodramatic as always, but I'm officially fine.
We agreed it's worth the story. Ben kissed my belly until we fell asleep on the ruins of the bed—a perfect emblem of the disaster we are together. This morning, I found his hand clutching my hips, as though making sure they stayed intact.
I grab a glass and down it fast, but a voice behind me startles me.
"Good morning, Emma," Carmela says.
"Oh, I didn't think anyone was up." My words sound flimsy, and my cheeks heat up on cue because I don't know if she heard us last night. It's difficult to say when she always looks so reserved.
"I always get up early," she says and walks over to me to start the coffee machine.
I swallow hard and try for a smile.
She somewhat smiles back. "I always get up early. How did you sleep?"
Like a woman haunted by the taste of your son's mouth.
"Eeeh, yeah, good. Very good." I turn to the kitchen desk so she can't see my culpable face. "Can I help you with anything?"
"Yes," she says, already moving toward the massive fridge. "Let me teach you how Ben likes his eggs." A pause. "Or you already know?"
"Kind of. I mean, I haven't made any for him recently... not these months," I stutter because of course I didn't, because mistresses don't usually stay over the night to make breakfast.
She raises a brow at my flush.
I clear my throat. "He likes scrambled eggs. Creamy. No pepper."
She nods. "So you know."
"But I wouldn't pass learning from his Mom—especially since you're a legend," I add with a genuine smile.
She waves me off with a faint smile and sets the ingredients on the counter. "Legend, please. Not anymore. Just an old woman feeding her family."
"Don't you miss it?"
"Oh yeah. It was my life—the chaos, adding love to the food. That's why I'm so happy every time they come home. Wish they'd come more often."
I wonder if she'll ask me about staying in New York again, but she doesn't.
Instead, she conscripts me, and I nod like a good little disciple, following everything, despite her being quite an intense teacher.
When I'm done, she digs a spoon in and tastes them, eyes narrowing. She pauses so long I forget to breathe.
Then she nods with no particular expression. "Very good."
"Pheww," I say, a desperate smile tugging at my mouth.
"You see?" She smiles too, briefly. "You follow instructions, nothing goes wrong. Mara—she never listens. Always stubborn."
Like her other child.
"Did your mother teach you to cook?" she asks, stuffing bread into the toaster.
Mentioning my mom causes my mood to falter a little.
"Not really," I mutter. "She's good at it. Makes incredible waffles actually, but... we never did much together."
"Why not?" she asks bluntly.
"She is complicated. Honestly, it was probably better we didn't do much together."
Carmela frowns when she hears my sad tone.
"Okay," she says and grabs a jar of honey from behind my shoulder.
She scoops a generous spoonful and hands it to me.
"Here—honey helps with everything. I used to do this with Mara and Ben when they were small. Always made them feel better."
"That's nice," I say, putting the spoon in my mouth, and for some reason, my throat goes tight. Maybe because for a moment she feels like the mom I should've had.
"What about your grandparents?" she asks, reaching up to the cabinet. Plates come down with a soft clink, her hands moving fast as she spreads them on the dining table in the kitchen.
I shake my head, sucking on the spoon. "None, really. My dad lost his parents young, and my mom barely tolerated hers. I saw them once a year. I wish I had any. I think kids who grow up with grandparents carry something different. That kind of bone-deep love."
"Very true. Nonna spoiled both of them. Too much." Carmela pauses mid-wipe of a plate, her gaze softening a notch. "You know, Ben told me about your mother."
"Oh." I pause, then put the spoon carefully in the sink.
She starts wiping again, pretending to be casual. "He told me your mother made you very sad."
I draw in a breath and try to sound neutral. "I guess you could say that."
She finishes putting out the cutlery, sits, and looks at me with sudden sympathy.
"We cannot choose our parents, or our children. We can only love the best we can," she says, her voice softer than usual.
"When Antonio and I came to America, I brought my parents.
They were gold. But his?" A sharp shake of her head.
"His father was cruel. Alcoholic. Abusive.
His mother weak. Didn't want to leave him.
So Antonio came without them. Even we, who worship family, have limits. Love must be equal. Pride too."
"Love must be equal, pride too," I echo, nodding, hoping those words stay in my head forever. "I actually love that."
She smiles suddenly, unexpectedly girlish, like someone's peeled back the years. "The way you look at my son? You remind me of me. When I met Antonio. Oh... Love like from a movie. I thought, ah, Madonna, I'm marrying this man. But now—" her smile turns sly, "—must make him think it's his idea."
We both laugh, and her eyes glimmer. It's obvious that forty years later, she's still swooning for him.
"But what you two did?" Carmela frowns and swats the air. "Terrible. Stupid. I should smack you both."
I wince and lower my gaze, then nod. "We feel bad about it. I know he does."
"I know," she cuts in, firm. "I know my son. He is a good man. Never once cheated in school. Always spoke the truth even when it cost him. So if he has risked all this..." She looks at me square. "It means he loves you very much."
The reservation in her eyes slips away for a beat, but her expression is still heavy.
“He was very sad for a long time,” she says. “A mother sees it, and she can do nothing. I think that’s why he stopped coming.”
She sighs, then adds, “But now you make my son happy. Very happy."
I can’t help smiling. “I hope so.”
She nods once, sure of it. “I know so. Now you're family, Emma. So you two don't have to lie to us anymore."
I look at her, my heart melting, just as Carmela wraps me in a hug—tight as a rope, short as a lightning strike.
Just then, Dino, Antonio, and Paul all appear in the kitchen. Dino and Paul are clutching their temples, competing with who makes the most pained sound.
"Carmelita, coffee," Dino rasps and collapses into a chair.
"Never again. Never Scopa with shots. I swear it." Paul's face is all green, but he manages to pour himself a mug.
Antonio comes in, shrugging—he's fine since he didn't drink last night.
Still, he kisses Carmela apologetically and she looks at him with her lips pursed.
Then Mara breezes in a shimmering sweater, rolling her eyes at the entire lineup of men.
Carmela bellows up the stairs: "Ben! Come down. Your girlfriend made eggs. They're good."
I can't help my smile. Girlfriend. I'm officially his girlfriend. That might be the most delicious thing in here.
"Awww," Mara coos, smoothing her hand over my back. "See? Now you're finally my sister."
I hug her impulsively. "That's all I ever wanted."
The table erupts then—like last night's storm but less ceremonial, more kitchen-warm, and I'm enjoying Carmela's amaretti that could actually dethrone Lazzaroni, which I didn't think anything could, and getting more sentimental with each bite because I'm not an intruder here anymore; I belong.
Ten minutes later, Mara is just telling me about her and Paul getting a new house when footsteps thud on the stairs. Heavy, deliberate.
Ben walks in, sweatpants hanging low, faded Knicks shirt stretched across his chest. He's sleep-creased and disheveled and utterly edible.
His eyes are glazed, but ignite when they find me. He smiles. "Good morning."
"You're late for breakfast," Carmela scolds, wagging a spoon at him.
Ben bends down to kiss the top of my head, his cedar scent wrapping around me like a cocoon.
"I already had breakfast. It was pretty sweet," he murmurs in my ear, all suggestive and wicked.
He did not just say that. Not with his mother sitting across from me.
I shoot him a glare just as Carmela squints.
"What?" she asks, like she actually overheard.
"Nothing," I jump in, caught between mortification and laughter.
"Heard it." Paul coughs into his hand, valiantly trying to disguise the grin stretching across his face.
Mara snorts a laugh into her glass and muffles, "Me too. And last night."
Paul leans over, that knowing grin already forming. "Sounded like something broke?"
Heat strikes my cheeks, sharp enough I could burn him with it.
I throw Ben an indignant look and hiss under my breath, "Didn't you say they didn't hear?"
"I said my parents," he says quickly, then shrugs at Mara and Paul. "Guess that makes us even?"
He means Nevada. But they don't know that, so they frown at each other.
Ben sits between Mara and me and pours himself a big Americano, probably also hungover.
His hand brushes Mara's belly and she swats him away, even though she's smiling.
Carmela's gaze sweeps across the table. "What's up with everyone this morning? You're all being very strange."
"Nothing. Everyone's still drunk," Mara laughs it off, then turns her beam on me. "You guys are coming for Christmas, right?"
Ben answers before I can, between crunching his toast. "Wouldn't miss it."
Carmela clasps her hands together, elated. "Bene! The whole family together. Finally."
"They might fire me from my job, but I'll try for New Year's too," he says.
"You went to Mount Sinai already?" Carmela asks, trying for casual and failing again.
He flicks me a glance, then back at his mother, saying something in Italian I'm sure is meant for me not to catch and then adds, "Not yet, next week."
Carmela, being her own boss, nods at him with full English, "You should go there sooner than later."
"Mount Sinai?" I ask, frowning. "As in the hospital where you used to work? In New York?"
"Mm." Brusque. He nods at the plate, his charm locked. "The eggs you made are excellent, baby. Better than Mom's."
I narrow my eyes. "Of course they're not. You're lying."
He makes an innocent face. "I'm not. They're really good. Creamy. Just like how I like them."
"Why are you going to Mount Sinai?" I whisper, my tone letting him know he's not getting away with it.
He shrugs, voice low. "Just want to see my old colleagues."
"And are you going to tell me later why you want to see your old colleagues?"
He sips his coffee. "What's there to tell? I haven't seen them in a while."
"You saw half of them at Mara's wedding."
"Yeah. Missed the rest. There's nothing more to it."
I narrow my eyes even more and give him a tight smile. "Sure, Ben."