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Tali
“I still can’t believeyour mom sent you home with an entire lasagna.” Nina hip checked me, and I almost lost my grip on said lasagna.
“Be thankful I convinced her I didn’t need a whole turkey. Our mini fridge would be packed wall to wall with Thanksgiving poultry if Teresa DiPietro had her way.”
Nina and I had just gotten back from Thanksgiving in New York. My dad drove us down and did a thorough inspection of our room. Well, he inspected my side. He scowled at the mess that was Nina’s, and I swore I saw the trash under her bed cower in fear.
“I’m surprised you don’t have rats,” he’d muttered.
I’d kicked an empty tampon box back to her side of the room. “We might. But they’re so happy in Nina’s trash pile, they don’t make themselves known.”
She’d rolled her eyes and grumbled, “Jiminy Christmas—” she never cursed in front of our parents, “—it’s not like there’s food under there. It’s clothes, a couple bottles, and some empty boxes. I’m not a complete monster!”
But Dad had taken out his newly minted flip phone and snapped a picture to show her parents if she didn’t straighten up. He was no snitch. He’d sat on my bed, watching her clean up her mess, and only then did he kiss us both on the cheek and tell us how proud he was of us.
We walked up the steps of Tino’s front porch, and he threw the door open before we could knock. His smile was brighter than the sun and so genuine, I fell a little more in love with him.
“My beauty, you’re here!” he exclaimed, holding his arms out.
“Hey, T,” I said.
He cocked his hip. “Sorry, honey, I was talking to the lasagna. You’re okay too, I guess.”
I laughed and shoved the heavy pan at his chest. “Stick this in the oven, and be sure you don’t fall in.”
He turned to the kitchen with a flourish and called over his shoulder, “You’d miss me if I got baked.”
Nina raised her hand. “I’d be jealous if you got baked and didn’t offer me any.”
Tino returned from the kitchen and pulled us both into his arms, swaying for a beat while we hugged him back.
“God bless your mama. That shit smells delicious and it’s still cold.”
“My mom lives for feeding people. Do you know how happy she’ll be when I tell her I shared her lasagna?”
Tino arched a brow. “Happy enough to send your poor, waif of a friend his very own?”
Nina grabbed beers from his fridge and passed them around before we settled on Tino’s sectional while we waited for dinner to heat up.
“I’d like to know how your mom’s mind works, just for a day. I picture a fifties kitchen right in the center.” Nina spread her hands in front of her face, like she was framing the image in her imagination. “It’s all June Cleaver up in there.”
“Girl, please. Aunt Marta is exactly the same, and you know it,” I said.
Nina snorted. “My mom keeps her house sparkling, it’s true. But when they were handing out the Italian cooking gene, she must’ve been absent. That’s why you got sent home with lasagna, and I got white bread and bologna. I resigned myself to my fate a long ass time ago. I’m just going to have to marry a chick who knows her way around the kitchen.”
“You have to actually date in order to find someone to marry,” Tino said. “And perpetually straight Laura doesn’t count.”
She tipped her bottle at him. “Pot meet kettle.”
He pursed his lips. “I don’t date, I fuck. And I’m not interested in a life partner or some shit.Maybeone day, when we’re living on Mars and gay marriage is legal in every state, but I’m not holding my breath.”
“At least we have our platonic love,” I said, taking a sip of beer.
Tino shook his head. “Says the girl who has every option but turns them down flat each time.”
I rolled my eyes. “Like you and Nina don’t have options? Both of you hit the genetic jackpot, minus Nina’s horrid cooking genes. Nina’s too damn picky and hung up on a straight girl, and you’re too damn secretive and sort of slutty.”
Tino acted scandalized, clutching his chest and dropping his jaw. “Did you just use a word from the oppressor?”
