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Ma puts down her phone and smiles at us. Not one word about us digging into the meal she’s yet to finish preparing. She doesn’t tell us what furniture she wants moved to the basement so she can make a sewing room out of a bedroom. She just turns her back and stirs the gravy.
Our faces fall. Somehow, this is worse than the lecture.
We point at one another, trying to silently force one of us to make the first move. With that not accomplishing anything, we set our forks on the tray and run a game of rock, paper, scissors.
Our fists slam into our palms three times.
Dom chooses paper.
Carm chooses paper.
I choose rock.
Damn it.
My asshole brothers laugh and pick up their forks, smiles plastered to their faces.
“Ma?” I ask. “How’s Zia?”
“Luca proposed. Wait until your dad hears when he gets home from work. He won’t believe it. I’ll let you boys know when we hear about a wedding date.”
I close my eyes. The worst part about having three bachelors as sons is apparently having a sister who has three sons who all recently fell in love. This is the second proposal in the Bianco family, and I’m sure the third isn’t far behind.
I place my hands on her shoulders and kiss her cheek. “I love you.”
She pats my hand on her shoulder. “Love you.”
We’re in uncharted territory here. Ma usually raises her wooden spoon and tells us exactly what we need to do to fix her mood. She’s not a hold-it-all-inside kind of woman.
I stare at my brothers, unsure of what to do. They shrug, still chewing their meatballs. When my eyes widen, they head over to Ma and gush over how great the food is and how much they love her.
“Grab some plates.” She reaches into the cabinet and shoves them into my stomach. “Eat.”
We do as she says, filling our plates with pasta and meatballs while Ma busies herself in the kitchen. Everyone is silent until we hit the dining room.
“What the hell?” I whisper-shout.
“Fucking Biancos.” Dom shakes his head. “They’ve screwed us over.”
I shrug. “Not really their fault.”
“I only see one solution,” Carm says.
“What?” Dom asks, taking a seat.
“One of us has to get married.” He places his fork on the plate and prepares his hands for rock, paper, scissors.
I shake my head. “No.”
Dom follows suit with Carm.
“You’re both demented. I’m not gonna find some woman to marry because I lost a game of rock, paper, scissors.”
“Because you always lose,” Dom says as though it’s fact.
“I’ve won plenty.”
“Not really,” Carm chimes in.
