Page 2 of Just This Once

I pitch forward in my chair. “Listen, you little?—”

“Enough,” Dad cuts in. “We’re here for a nice family dinner. Everyone settle down. Johnny, you might not be blind, but neither is your future wife. Treat her with some respect.”

Which is ironic because he’s cheated on my mother several times and clearly doesn’t care about respecting much besides money.

Johnny smirks at me. He’s been getting away with this shit since we were kids.

I try not to be bitter. I try not to let it get to me, but there are times when I can’t slap on a smile and pretend. Not when my douchebag brother wants to rub it in my face about how my girlfriend broke up with me. Since then, I’ve had to move back in with Mom and Dad until I find a place of my own.

It’s not a big deal. People do it all the time. But according to my father, I’m the only one.

By the time the ladies make their way back to the table, I’m ready to head out, yet Mom insists on ordering dessert. Dad orders another bottle of wine, and I blow out a breath as I sip on my still-full red, ignoring the side conversations that I’m not privy to—my mother and Robbie and my father and Johnny.

There’s athingin Italian families. Firstborn sons.

They’re saints. Living deities. Robert Jr. can absolutely do no wrong. He wouldn’t either. Would never dream of it.

He’s perfect. My mother still has a lock of his hair from when he was a baby and refers to him asmyRobbie. I mean…I guess in some cases, she does need to specify because when we get together with the extended family, there are approximately fifteen Roberts and twenty-three Michaels.

So, we’ve got the firstborn that mothers worship. And we’ve got the baby. The spoiled one. The one who will always win because by the time parents get to them, they’re tired. That last kid doesn’t have rules. They’re given whatever they want to be kept quiet.

And that’s Johnny to a T.

Except with the backing of our dad. If my mother claimed Robbie, my father wanted to claim his too. And it certainly wasn’t going to be me. So I’m left out of the loop and any whispered conversations.

Sure, my mother loves me and insists on doing my laundry and tells me I’m not eating enough and makes me a lasagna to put in the freezer “just in case.” And yeah, Ithinkmy dad loves me. He’s not told me otherwise, but he’s also never made it clear either. My parents have given me everything I’ve ever needed, a roof over my head and food in my belly. But I’ve never beenchosen.

The only times my parents ever pulled me aside for solo conversations were to tell me I needed to “smarten the fuck up” or to “make sure you don’t make me a grandmother before you walk down the aisle.” Naturally, I’m not super into these family dinners, where I’m mostly on my own.

To keep myself busy, I like to play a game. I make up lives and stories for the people I see. Like, the couple in the corner who are both on their cell phones, not having spoken a word to each other since I started watching them. I imagine they’ve been together so long they’re bored with each other. They think there is nothing new to learn and instead scroll social media. He’s probably looking at sports scores while she double-taps photos of girls she went to high school with who now have three kids and drive minivans.

I slide my wineglass from one hand to the other, twirling the stem between my fingers as I skirt my gaze around to the open kitchen window that shows the chefs working. They fry and chop, passing one another in their black coats. I imagine the guy laughing has the hots for the server who stands in front of him and waits for her plates. He’s still vying for her attention as she walks away with an eye roll that is more flirtatious than serious. I imagine she’ll give in sooner rather than later.

Then I shift and spot three women at the bar, including one who looks awfully familiar. I sit forward, studying her, the perfectly styled golden hair and waving hand as she talks. A real-life Barbie, if Barbie were five foot nothing with a penchant for talking nonstop.

Just as I’m about to get up from the table to say hi, the crème brûlée arrives along with the dark chocolate mousse, and I’m waylaid. So, I accept the mousse and fake interest in my sister-in-law’s story about how my nieces learned to count…or something.

I watch my old friend Clara chat, laughing and smiling exactly like I remember. She moved here to West Chester, Pennsylvania, in our junior year of high school. She was the new kid and helped me pass math, while I—the popular jock—helped convince her parents she was straight by taking her to all the dances and prom so she could make out with her girlfriend while we were there.

It wasn’t a hardship. She was cool and sweet, and it was too bad we lost contact.

I smile to myself remembering the dumb shit we did back then and absently dip my spoon into the mousse, sticking it into my mouth as I let my attention drift to Clara’s side, where a Black woman sits with her back to me, but clearly listening intently, her hand on Clara’s thigh. On the other side of Clara,facing me, is a third woman. She’s white with narrowed eyes, pursed lips, and one long leg crossed over the other.

Bittersweet dark chocolate overwhelms my taste buds as I mentally trace her curves, the side of her thigh and hip revealed from her position on the stool. Her white button-up is both incredibly alluring and modest in how it shows nothing and still everything, the top few buttons open, revealing her collarbone, the shadow of her cleavage, and the nip at her waist, where it’s tucked into her jeans. Her feet are capped off with plain black shoes, her left one barely clinging on as she swings her foot back and forth.

With her oval-shaped face, smooth skin, and a tan like mine, I briefly wonder if she’s Italian. My mother would love if she’s Italian. Her dark brows are slightly angled down, like she’s in a perpetual state of judgment, even though her lips tick up in amusement at whatever Clara’s saying.

I have another bite of my dessert, admiring her long fingers as she wraps them around her glass and takes a sip, tilting her head back. Her hair is short, cut above her shoulders and curled in that way women do that probably takes hours but appears like she just got out of bed. It’s dark brown at the top, transitioning down to light blond, with every color of brown mixed in. I’d like to run my fingers through it, find and name every single hue. Honey. Gold. Walnut. Cedar. Coffee.

Dark Chocolate.

I take another bite and try to rip my gaze away, but it’s impossible.

In fact, I don’t know why everyone isn’t staring. How can you ignore royalty?

She sits so primly, her chin pointed and lips sharp when she speaks, as if what she says is final.

Lord, I wish I could hear what she’s saying.

---