"This is what I say!"
And just like that, they're allies.
The dinner becomes louder, warmer, more chaotic. The grandmothers interrogate Harper about her cooking background, her family, her intentions toward me. They debate the merits of different pasta shapes. They tell embarrassing stories about Christian and Roman.
Babushka contributes her own stories about me, including one about the time I tried to cook at age seven and set a dish towel on fire.
"He was very serious child," she says. "Always reading. Always planning. No joy! I tell him, 'Vitenka, you must learn to laugh!' He says, 'Babushka, laughter is inefficient.'"
Everyone laughs except me.
"I was seven."
"You were little adult! Is sad!"
Harper is crying from laughing, and even I can't help but smile.
The cameras are still rolling, capturing everything, and I realize this is not the episode we planned.
It's better.
By the time dessert is served—a combination of Harper's pumpkin pie, Babushka's honey cake, and approximately seven different Italian pastries—my dining room is overflowing with conversation and warmth.
Eventually, the grandmothers begin gathering their dishes, kissing everyone's cheeks, and extracting promises to visit soon.
"You come to book club next month," Nonna tells Harper. "We read romance. You like romance?"
“Romance?” The blush on her skin deepens as her eyes swing my way. “I—why, yes. I do.”
"Good! You come! We discuss!" She turns to me. "You take care of this one, capisce? She is special."
"I know."
"Good. You mess up, I come back." She mimes hitting me with a wooden spoon.
"Noted."
One by one, they file out, leaving a trail of perfume and fond farewells. Babushka is the last to leave, gathering her casserole dish and kissing Harper's cheek.
"You take care of my Vitenka, yes? He needs taking care of. Stubborn mule never asks for help."
"I'm standing right here," I say.
"I know. I speak louder so you hear." She kisses my cheek. "Do svidaniya, dorogoy. Next time, I teach Harper proper pelmeni."
She leaves in a whirlwind of Russian endearments and casserole dishes, and suddenly the penthouse feels very quiet.
Roman and Christian help with preliminary cleanup, but they're both clearly fighting smiles.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing," Roman says. "Just—this is nice. Domestic Victor. It suits you."
"I'm not domestic."
"You just hosted Thanksgiving dinner with two grandmothers and a book club full of Italian women. That's extremely domestic."
"It's content creation."
