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I’m not sure if it’s the Italian heritage, or the fact that it was the only meal Papá could ever manage to make it to, but Mamá would always break out the good dishes after spending the day using paper plates, and she’d make a spread fit for an army.
The next time we go to my parents’ house, the night of Ariana’s recital, supper seems more like an intimate affair than the massive feast it once was.
Kal and I walk to the courtyard through the kitchen, noting the twinkling lights strung up, dwarfed in comparison to the city skyline just beyond. The table is set with Mamá’s wedding china, as if her company bears great importance, and there are only enough table settings for the seven of us.
I can’t remember a single time in family history where we ate with less than eight people. If not a group of girls from school—whose parents hadn’t yet realized whose house they were going to—then any number of the other family members. On occasion, we’d even host certain diplomats, each Ricci daughter putting on her best dress and fakest smile so Papá could pretend everything was fine where business was concerned.
The lack of abundance here makes me uneasy, and I pause just inside the threshold, unsure if I want to continue, or if we should just pack up and head home. Keep living in our little bubble.
Since my realization on the jet, my feelings for Kal have shifted to the forefront of my thoughts, blotting out everything else until I’m living and breathing and bleeding for this man.
I’m not even sure if it makes sense, so I keep the sentiment to myself, afraid that this secretly broken being before me doesn’t really want this marriage to go on.
Afraid of what it means if he does.
Kal pauses just ahead of me, seeming to sense that I’m no longer at his side. He turns, furrowing his brows, and moves to stand in front of me.
“Elena?”
Shaking my head, I try to dispel the sudden fog blanketing my brain, like vaporized anxiety finding a home in my body. “I… I don’t feel very well.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just blinks down at me, until my unease is due in part to his study. Finally, he smooths a hand down the front of his black tailored suit, glancing over his shoulder at where my sisters lean into each other, whispering conspiratorially.
“Do you want to leave?”
Chewing on the corner of my lip, I consider it, guilt slamming down on my shoulders. How is it possible that a place, people I once longed for, now feels like the singular bane of my existence?
“Say the word, little one, and I’ll have you back in Aplana before you can take your next breath.” He inches forward, a husky look falling over his handsome face. “Imagine all the fun we could be having.”
I almost fold. It’d be so easy to feign illness and let Kal take me back to where the rest of the world ceases to exist.
To fall into each other and pretend like none of this is doomed.
Too easy, though. After the way she acted when I left the first time, there’s no way Mamá would let me leave quietly. She’d probably burn Boston to the ground, just to keep me under her wing, a nice little doll she can dress up and manipulate forever.
So instead of accepting Kal’s offer, I shake my head again, straightening my spine until it cracks.
“I made you come here. It’s only fair I see it through, right?”
His mouth curves down, the muscle below his eye pulsing. “You didn’t make me do anything. I did it because I—”
“Supper is served!”
One of my parents’ private chefs pushes a cart through the French doors, wheeling a covered baking dish over to the table. Nonna and Papá file in after, Papá taking his usual spot at the head of the table. Normally, Mamá would sit at the opposite end, and everyone else would find a seat between, but Kal walks over to the table and plops down in Mamá’s chair.
Stella and Ariana freeze, lifting their heads as he sits. I feel the heat of their gazes on me, but I can’t tear mine from my husband, stomach tightening until it’s forcing bile up, burning the expanse of my chest with the onslaught.
God, this is going to be a long night.
Quietly, Nonna sits on the other side of Stella, patting her elbow and saying the bucatini all’Amatriciana smells amazing. Papá and Kal are locked in a staring contest, although it’s beginning to feel like something more.
Something they aren’t telling me.
Normally, we wait to eat until all the guests are seated at the table, and since Mamá hasn’t yet arrived, the Riccis all sit back in their seats, sipping drinks or buttering rolls.
Kal, though, reaches to the center of the table, removes the cloche from the pasta dish, and makes himself a plate.
Taking the seat to Kal’s left, I unfold my napkin and settle it over my lap. My voice is hushed when I speak, barely audible, but Kal leans in and listens as he shoves a forkful of bucatini into his mouth. “Why are you locked in some sort of dick measuring contest with Papá right now?”
