Page 106 of The Woman in the Hollow
“Why would someone order cereal from a diner?”
“I’ve seen it. Not at this one, but the one up by the bars. Drunk people order weird shit.”
“Do you go to diners often?” I asked.
“Not anymore. But, fuck, we spent nearly every night at one when we were teens and early adults. There’s not much else to do around here before you’re of drinking age. So we’d hang around in parks until dark then make our way to a diner to spend a few more hours before heading home.”
“Your mom wasn’t offended you guys got food outside of the house?”
“My mom loves cooking. But I think even she was thankful for a break here and there. Especially when we were teens. It was insane how much food we could put away back then. She was forever standing in that kitchen. But I guess that’s all moms.”
“Well, not all moms.”
“Your mom didn’t cook?”
“Well, with how little she ate, she didn’t exactly spend a lot of time actually cooking. She did a big meal prep at the beginning of the week, making salads for every lunch and dinner. In the mornings, she would pour some egg whites in a pan and mix in spinach.”
“No cheese?”
“No cheese.”
“Just for her?”
“No, that’s what we all had to eat in the morning. No, it’s okay,” I said when he tried to cover up the disgusted look that crept across his handsome face. “It really was disgusting. I kind of dry heave anytime I see an egg white omelet now.”
The food came then, big plates full of fried, fatty, saucy, delicious treats. And I couldn’t help but realize just how different my life had become in just a few months as Dante clinked his disco fry with mine before I tried one for the first time.
There was no more food guilt. No worries about being too stationary, too lazy. My conversations did still often revolve around food, but not about the fat and protein content, but about how much I liked certain dishes over others.
For example, (don’t tell the native New Jersians, but) I liked the pizza fries more than the disco fries. Even if I was glad for the experience.
And ‘fat’ sandwiches? Possibly my new favorite sandwich in the whole world.
By the time we walked up to the counter to pay, I felt like I needed to undo my pants… and I didn’t have a button or zipper.
“You look a little green,” Dante said, watching my profile as we parked in his driveway.
“I’m in a fried food coma,” I told him, exhaling hard. “I might join you in the basement gym tomorrow.”
“Or you can come to the gym with me. We can somewhat go back to normal now.”
“You’re sure? What if there are more men involved?” I asked as we went in through the garage to the mudroom off of the kitchen.
“That’s something other people can worry about. You’ve done more than enough of—”
“There you are!” a voice called, making me jump and gasp.
Only to find Giulia standing in the kitchen, a cleaning rag still in her hand.
From the looks (and smell) of things, she’d been stress-cleaning for a while.
“Ma, what are you doing here?” Dante asked as his mother’s gaze slid to our clasped hands.
I had the silly, adolescent urge to drop his hand, to act like nothing was going on. Until I remembered that Giulia had all but orchestrated this.
“I came right over when I heard Hazel was attacked again.”
“It was nothing. Really,” I assured her, not wanting her to get upset. I couldn’t imagine the stress she’d been put through over the years. First by her husband, then all of her children.
