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Sicilians are warm, welcoming, and very, very fucking loud.

I mean, I come from the Hawthorne Ranch. Big tables are nothing new. Sunday dinners at my parents' house aren't exactly quiet.

But this?

There have to be at least thirty people here. Uncles, aunts, cousins, grandparents. Neighbors who somehow became part of the family somewhere between the first plate of food and the third.

Everyone talks at the same time.

The women laugh and yell across the table, and every once in a while I'm convinced an argument has broken out until someone throws their head back laughing and the person they were supposedly fighting with reaches across to kiss their cheek.

Apparently, that's just how they talk.

Kids are playing football behind us, screaming every time someone gets close to the makeshift goal. One of Damiano's cousins is trying to tell me something in broken English. I catch about half of it, but the guy's speaking a second language for my benefit, so no judgement here.

I nod when I think I'm supposed to.

Across from me, three men are talking loudly enough to be heard in Wyoming. Chiara tries to translate for me while another guy, an uncle, I think, keeps refilling my glass with homemade wine.

I stopped trying to remember everyone's names an hour ago.

One of the aunts puts another plate on the table.

Because apparently we're still eating.

We started with appetizers.

Then pasta.

Then meat, potatoes and vegetables.

Then fruit.

Cannoli.

Coffee.

And now homemade limoncello.

Every time I think we've reached the end, another fucking plate appears.

I smile when someone raises a glass in my direction, trying to follow the conversation, but I'm beginning to lose track of who's talking to whom.

An arm reaches across me for the bread. Someone calls something from the other end of the table, and a chair scrapes against the stone just as one of the kids screams behind us.

The cousin beside me is still talking. I turn towards him, concentrating on his words, but Chiara says something to me at the same time and I lose the thread of what he was saying.

I ask him to repeat himself.

He does.

I catch the first few words before someone laughs right beside my ear.

For a second, I can't remember what he asked.

I look at his face, waiting for the rest of the sentence to make sense, but another conversation starts behind me and my attention goes there instead.

Then back to him.