“Thought about what? That I might think I’m too good for the subway?”
I chuckled. “Well, I mean, look at you. You’re all dressed up and fancy. Not that the subway isn’t full of all kinds of people, but?—”
She smirked, nudging me lightly with her elbow. “Oh, so now I’m too glamorous for the subway? Better be careful, Mr. Sommelier. Next thing you know, I’ll start demanding my wine be poured from a golden decanter.”
I laughed, visibly relaxing. “Just remember, once we get to my mom’s, you’re drinking that fancy wine from plastic cups. So, soak up all this fanciness while you can.”
“I’ll make sure to savor every single moment then,” she quipped, giving me a playful wink.
The subway ride was a blend of casual chatter and comfortable silence. As we swayed with the rhythm of the train, I found myself enjoying the mundane normalcy of it all, the simple way in which Isabella and I existed together. We stepped off at the designated station, the city’s pulse humming around us as we ascended to street level.
Emerging into the fresh air, we were greeted by the charming residential character of Jackson Heights. The transition from the hustle of urban streets to the serene ambiance of a residential neighborhood was almost instantaneous. Tree-lined avenues unfurled before us, each brick home nestled against its neighbor like chapters in a storybook.
I guided Isabella, my hand wrapped around hers with an ease that spoke of years walking these streets, each step taking us closer to my childhood home. The familiar sights eased some of the tension from my shoulders, my steps becoming more assured as we approached.
I led us up a short set of stairs to a modest, welcoming home. Its warm, golden lights glowed from the inside, illuminating the porch. Before I could even knock, the door flew open to reveal a bubbly young woman with a shock of curly hair similar to mine.
“Maxie!” Lara squealed, wrapping me in a tight hug.
Isabella chuckled from behind us, stepping back. As Lara’s eyes landed on the woman beside me, Isabella lifted her hand and waved. “Hi, I’m Izzy.”
My sister’s eyes widened, and with an impish grin, she said, “I’m Lara. And it’s Izzy? As in Isabella, Izzy?”
“Yep, that’s me,” Isabella replied, slightly taken aback but smiling nonetheless.
Lara’s eyes danced with mischief. "Oh! Isabella! Are you the one who Max couldn’t?—”
I body-blocked my sister as I pushed her back inside, mumbling against her head. “Lara, I told you all to be nice.”
Isabella’s gaze flickered between us, clearly intrigued.
I was flustered and tried to steer the topic elsewhere. “Where’s Mom? And the rest of the chaos brigade?”
Lara rolled her eyes, escaping my grasp. “Inside, getting the roast out. But, oh boy, are they gonna be excited to meet Isabella.” With a final wink, she turned and sauntered back inside.
From the heart of the kitchen echoed a lively voice, “Max, is that you? Don’t just stand there trying to impress. Come and set the table!”
My eyes rolled dramatically. “I’m on it, Mom!” Yet, the warm, playful smile I exchanged with Isabella was a testament to the deep-rooted affection I held for the playful ribbing.
The scent of a roast, mingled with the heady aroma of various spices, filled the air, prompting a subtle rumble from my stomach. As Isabella ventured further into the cozy space, a broad smile stretched across her face. Walls adorned with memories showcased a younger me and my sisters, captured haphazardly in a collection of mismatched frames. I heard a chuckle as she smiled at the little kid with glasses staring back at her.
My parents’ home, even though it was just my mother’s since my dad passed away all those years ago, had always exuded a vintage charm. Nearly every surface was decked with trinkets, quaint curios stood in corners, and lace runners elegantly laid over a polished wooden buffet. Here, my sisters, already engaged in a lively chat, looked up and beamed as Isabella entered. The round of warm introductions culminated with her being ushered to a seat directly across from them.
I pulled out her chair and gave her a soft smile that hopefully conveyed my apologies for the barrage of questions my sisters were, no doubt, about to pepper her with. I pushed through the swinging kitchen door to help my mom. Our tiny galley kitchen was muggy from the steam of pots on the stove and warmth of the oven toasting my mom’s handmade rolls.
I grabbed trivets and dishes to take out to the dining table after kissing my mom on her head as she added salt to the pot of stew.
“I brought Isabella for dinner, Mom, don’t make a big deal out of it,” I said as I grabbed a stack of linen napkins.
“Isabella? The Isabella?” she asked teasingly. “It’s about time, Maxwell.”
Throughout dinner, it was probably evident to Isabella that I played the role of the beloved but often teased youngest brother even if it was against my will most times. My sisters soaked it up and had me summoned for the most trivial tasks: from sending the basket of rolls around to being the one to fetch the forgotten butter. Her eyes twinkled with laughter to see me bending to every whim and fancy of my family without a hint of reluctance.
As I went to open another bottle of wine, this one a Caymus Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa I’d brought from the bar, my mother shooed me away. “Max, you don’t need to waste that stuff here. I’ve got plenty of red back in the kitchen.”
“It’s not a waste mom. It pairs well with the roast,” I said as I twisted the cork out. “Besides, your red comes from a box.”
“Well, we wouldn’t be able to tell the difference if we tried. No sense in wasting such an expensive bottle on us,” she said. “We don’t need any of that fancy wine here.”
