Page 134 of Love Me Stalk Me
My mind is fucked.
Because I don't want to be Caleb.
I want to beme.
PASTA PLUS EXISTENTIAL DREAD
IZZY
At the headof the table, Dad sits back, arms crossed, eyes filled with amusement, his salt-and-pepper hair slightly tousled like he ran his hands through it one too many times today. He's dressed in his usual Sunday best—a crisp navy button-down, sleeves rolled up, wedding ring gleaming under the chandelier light. The calm in the storm. Except for when he's encouraging the storm with that barely concealed smirk. At his feet, Tony Soprano and Lady Gaga—his precious Pomeranians—circle restlessly, toenails clicking against the terracotta tiles, knowing Dad will slip them some prosciutto the moment Mama looks away.
To his right, Nonna sits like an empress. Sharp dark eyes, lined with decades of wisdom and an iron will, framed by her ever-present gold hoop earrings and thick silver hair pulled into a bun. She wears a black dress with lace trim, pearls at her throat catching the light with every breath, hands folded neatly on the table like she's ready to scold us all into submission at any moment. Her rosary beads peek out from her pocket—the same ones she claims once belonged to her grandmother who swore they were blessed by a pope.
Across from me sits Matteo, the responsible one. Thirty-five, built like a tank, dark hair neatly trimmed, beard well-groomed, wearing a navy sweater that somehow makes him look even more like a disapproving father despite only having one kid. His wife, Sophia, sits beside him, beautiful in her emerald dress, effortlessly put together. Their daughter, my little niece, is seated in a high chair, tomato sauce already staining her bib, blissfully unaware that the entire family is one wrong comment away from mayhem.
To Matteo's left sits Luca, the hothead. Thirty-two, lean but muscular, face permanently set in a look of suspicion or irritation,depending on the topic. Right now, his brown eyes are locked onto Nico, clearly gearing up for a fight before dinner even starts. He's wearing a black Henley, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, arms flexing as he leans forward like he's ready to pounce. The scar on his right forearm from a childhood bike accident stands out white against his olive skin.
And then there's Nico, the charmer. Thirty, ridiculously good-looking and he knows it. His dark brown hair is artfully tousled, his shirt slightly unbuttoned like he just stepped out of a magazine ad, and his smirk is permanently set to "trouble." He sits back way too relaxed, one arm draped over the empty chair beside him, sipping his wine like it's just another day of him avoiding commitment and pissing Luca off for sport.
"Listen," Luca says, holding up his hands, defensive already. "I'm just saying, it's not that weird."
Nico scoffs, shoving a piece of bread in his mouth. "No, it's weird. It's deeply weird," he says between chews.
I raise a brow. "Okay, what's weird?"
Luca points at Nico. "He thinks it's psychotic to eat soup at breakfast." And then he frowns. "And don't eat before we say grace. The bread hasn't been blessed yet."
Nico rolls his eyes. "It's not Communion. I'm not going to hell for eating an unblessed breadstick."
Nonna makes the sign of the cross from where she's sitting, the gold of her rings catching the light.
Matteo, ever the level-headed one, sighs. "I'm sorry—what?"
Luca huffs. "In Japan, they eat soup in the morning all the time."
Nico makes a disgusted face. "Yeah, okay, but you're from New Jersey, and you're eating fucking minestrone at seven in the morning."
Luca shrugs. "I like soup."
Matteo shakes his head. "You need therapy."
"Okay, big talk from the guy who keeps a fully stocked bar in his apartment but doesn't even own a microwave."
Nico snorts. "That is true."
Matteo scowls. "I don't like how microwaves make food taste, okay?"
"Oh please," Nico interrupts, "says the man who once ate a Hot Pocket straight from the freezer because he was too impatient to heat it up."
"That was ONE time!" Matteo protests, his voice echoing through the dining room.
A pot crashes in the kitchen, the metallic clang followed by Mama's exasperated sigh. Tony Soprano starts yapping at the noise, which sets Lady Gaga off as well, their high-pitched barks filling the air.
"Lorenzo!"Mama calls out. "Control your dogs before I send them to live with your sister in Butler!"
Dad just chuckles, reaching down to slip each dog a piece of prosciutto, the salty scent rising as they snatch it from his fingers, which immediately silences them. "They're fine, Maria," he calls back. "Just excited."
Mama walks out of the kitchen, balancing the last of the serving plates. The rich aroma of garlic, basil, and tomato sauce wafts through the room. She moves with effortless precision, even in her modest floral dress and house slippers, her dark hair neatly pinned back but still somehow perfect. Soft brown eyes sweep over the table, taking inventory.
