Page 138 of Love Me Stalk Me
Dad just shrugs, amused. "They have minds of their own, Maria. Like our children."
Matteo, trying to be the voice of reason, sighs. "Can we just eat?"
But Nonna is stillwatching me.
Waiting.
Expecting something more.
I press my lips together, heart pounding hard.
Because for the first time, I actually let myself think about what she asked me.
Does Evan bring me flowers?
No.
Does he open doors for me?
Not really.
Does he look at me like I'm the most beautiful thing in the world?
No. In fact all he does is suggest I need to "get back in shape"—a not-so-subtle reminder of how my body has changed since we first met.
I stare down at my plate.
And I have the horrible realization that the last man who looked at me like that...
Wasn't my boyfriend at all.
It was Cal.
The meal continues in chaotic fashion. Nico challenges Luca to an arm-wrestling match right there at the table, nearly knocking over a bottle of Mama's precious red wine. Mama shrieks, Dad laughs, and Nonna crosses herself while muttering what I'm pretty sure are prayers for our collective souls. The smell of garlic bread, pasta sauce, and wine mingles in the air, layered with the scent of candles burning down to their bases.
Dinner wraps up with its usual level of mayhem.
Nonna keeps trying to send everyone home with leftovers, even though we all live within a ten-mile radius and can come over for food whenever we want. The plastic containers clatter as she stacks them, her hands moving swiftly despite her age.
Nico and Luca are still arguing over something ridiculous, their voices carrying through the house as Mama tells them to "Take it outside or take it to confession."
And me?
I slip into the kitchen, grabbing a dish towel like it's second nature. The cotton is soft and worn in my hands, smelling faintly of lemon dish soap.
Growing up, Matteo and I always handled the dishes together.
It was our thing.
I dry. He puts everything away.
It started when we were kids, and Mama wouldn't let us leave the table until everything was spotless. Somewhere along the way, it became our quiet tradition.
And tonight?
I'm grateful for it.
Because when Matteo walks in, rolling up his sleeves, I already know what's coming. The sleeves of his sweater make a soft rustle as he pushes them up to his elbows. He doesn't look at me right away, which means he's building up to something.
