Page 71 of Goodbye Again
“Sorry, what’s wrong?” he shakes his head slightly and straightens so seriously I can tell he’s making a mockery of me.
“Your mother is Italian.” The sentence registers neither as a question or a statement but my panic no doubt is etched in all of it.
“Yes, but you knew that...” he says, his tone also not registering as a question or a statement.
“Not that she was Italian-Italian. I thought you meant Italian like American-Italian. As in, many, many generations have lived in the US and know how royally we fuck up pasta and pizza for sport.”
He laughs obnoxiously loud. “I mean...”
“JP! I made a half-assed crostini appetizerandI took you to Olive Garden!” I whisper-shout.
“So?” He shrugs in that slouchy, sexy way that makes me want to take him back to my place and kick him to the curb simultaneously.
“Oh my God, I’m going to disintegrate right here. Rest in peace me.”
Then he smiles.
“Put your dimples away,” I scold, and he laughs, not at all helping.
“You’re being ridiculous...”
“Olive Garden is a hate crime against Italians!” I spit.
He laughs so freaking loud I slap my hand over his mouth. He grabs my wrist, his laughter calming. He pauses, kisses my palm, and says, “It isn’t.”
“I’m sure they break their pasta. Trust me, I’ve ordered the spaghetti.”
He laughs again, draping the hand he’s now holding over his shoulder and bringing me closer to him by the waist. “I need you to relax.” His voice is low, and his mouth moves closer to my ear.
“JP, your family is amazing, and I’ve known them for five minutes,” I say, though it registers as a groan as I surrender to his embrace.
At that same moment, a man walks in through the front door, passing us without a hello and goes directly to the kitchen.
“Who’s that?” I ask quietly.
“Uncle Frank,” he answers plainly, and I watch his uncle maneuver in the kitchen without speaking much as JP elaborates. “He comes to Thanksgiving every year, makes a plate, eats it, then leaves.”
My gaze snaps to his. “He does not.”
JP smiles. “He does. Every year for almost as long as I can remember.”
An astonished smile plays across my face as Uncle Frank moves to the front living room with a full plate in hand and sits on the couch to begin eating.
“Why doesn’t he talk to anyone?” I whisper, feeling like a spy.
JP shrugs. “He struggles in social settings like this. He used to kind of hang out. You know, like that quiet uncle in the corner. But when his wife—my Aunt Helen—died fifteen years ago, it was like he couldn’t bear to talk to anyone anymore, so he doesn’t. But he comes and eats. I think that’s his way of letting us all know he still loves us.”
My throat hurts a little. “Why is that equal parts hilarious and insanely touching?”
He shrugs. “Everybody’s best version of themselves looks different. And that’s just Uncle Frank’s.”
JP grabs my hand and pulls me down the hallway off the entryway lined with mismatched picture frames—each one filled with a memory. Trips to Disneyland. Vacations at the Grand Canyon. Weddings. Birthdays. Christmas. So much happiness in each picture. So much life.
It’s abundantly clear why JP has so much bounce in his step. In his life, he’s been loved.
My guided tour down memory lane is cut short as we notice Uncle Frank get up to discard his empty plate in the sink. He gives JP’s mom a quick smile and hug before slipping past us in the entryway.
“Good to see you, Uncle Frank!” JP salutes as his uncle slips out the front door. His weathered smile and broken heart make me want to ask him to stay, but the gratitude that flashes in his eyes tells me that maybe not staying is what’s best for him. The door slams shut.
