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The reality is, celebrities don’t just stop being celebrities. Actresses don’t fade into the background unless they pick some bad projects, have legal troubles, or age out. Famous people in positions like mine? They don’t just get to quit. Public interest is too high.
Still, I want to attempt going off the grid to see if I can do it.
After promising to call her next week, Mom and I hang up. Even though the sunshine is streaming through my blinds and I have a bunch of stuff to do in the house, I laze around for what feels like several hours.
Between my mom’s phone call and everything last night with Patrick, I could use some mindless laziness.
That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?
7
PATRICK
Cars line the driveway of my parent’s house as I walk up the backyard, opting for the French doors at the back of their colonial.
The big white house where I grew up looks like a presidential summer estate, like you might glimpse men in three-piece linen suits rocking in chairs on the porch rather than a bunch of loud, obnoxious Ashton family members arguing about the cuisine they’re about to eat. With a big wraparound porch, a hand-laid tile pool, and a bedroom apiece for my siblings and me, this was the perfect home to grow up in.
When it came to whose house my friends wanted to hang out at after school, our house was always the choice. The same went for my sibling’s friends, so it became a party nearly every weekend at our place. Not unlike family dinner on Sunday afternoons, the only time the pizzeria was closed and we could relax with our kin.
Except these days, there’s so much more expectation and work talk than there was back when we were goofing off as kids.
“Zia Justine wants you to try the new meatball recipe and see if it’d be good for the menu,” I hear my mother say from the stove as soon as I walk through the back patio doors.
Mom is stirring something in a large pot, probably her homemade sauce we serve at Hope Pizza, her black hair tied up in a white ribbon. Even without her turning around, I know she’s wearing the pale pink apron with our childhood handprints we made her one Mother’s Day when I was about ten.
Her kitchen is her safe space, done in yellow tones and warm decor that makes me think of Christmases and birthdays around the old wood table in here. Tiny pigs line the top of the farmhouse sink, a collectible that Mom is always being gifted.
My mother is the fairest and most honest woman I’ve ever met, and she loves her family fiercely. She’s always flitted in and out of the restaurant, as it is half hers and part of her blood, but she was a dedicated stay-at-home mom until Evan, my little brother, was out of the house and on his way to culinary school. For years, she made us afternoon snacks, listened to us cry over homework or friend problems, carted us around to sports practices, and generally let us lean on her when we couldn’t handle everything.
She’s the strongest person I know, especially after a battle with breast cancer when I was twenty-one. She and Dad hid it, until her hair started falling out and my brothers and sister freaked. Over a grueling year, she battled and ended up winning. Since then, I’ve seen her take nothing for granted, but it makes me emotional as I stand here observing her.
“I thought we were having Chinese tonight.” I bend, kissing her cheek.
“Ah, my buddy. You sneaking up on me?” She kisses me back, studying my face. “Have you eaten today?”
If you didn’t get that my family is obsessed with food before, you should now. My mother will feed you within an inch of your life, and then my aunts will say you look starved.
“Yes, Mom. I’m capable of preparing food or grabbing something. But what happened to Chinese?”
Alana and I implemented the Sunday dinner rule where we had to eat something other than Italian. Working at the restaurant meant most of us ate Italian dishes every night of the week, and by Sunday, I couldn’t stomach another bite of pizza, no matter how award-winning ours is. So we forced my parents into doing takeout of another cuisine or cooking something that was not pasta, pizza, or chicken dishes we serve on the menu.
Tonight is supposed to be Chinese, and I’ve really been looking forward to beef and broccoli.
“I know, I know, the rule. But Zia Justine brought the meatballs, and I already had veal cutlets in the fridge, and then Zio Milo brought over this fresh Limoncello from his trip to Positano … it just snowballed.”
I chuckle, because if you give my family one tiny excuse to cook their native food, it’s over. “Got it. Is everyone here?”
I mean my brother and sister, knowing Evan won’t be in attendance because no one’s been able to pull him back from the West Coast yet.
“Yes, plus more. Your Zia Willa decided to come, and then her kids because they’re not back at college yet. Rachel is here with her kids, and I just want to eat them up.”
She motions like she’s trying to pinch my cousin’s twins’ cheeks.
“I have four grown children and none of them have given me babies to love on.” Mom pouts, her Italian accent coming out full force when she guilts.
In reality, Mom grew up in Hope Crest just like the rest of us. But unlike us, Italian is her first language. My Nonna and Nonno spoke it exclusively in their house when we were growing up. While I’m not fluent, I have a decent enough understanding and can tell when my female relatives are cursing me under their breath.
“Hi, Ma.” Liam walks in, saving me from the kids conversation without knowing it, and drops a kiss on her forehead.
