“I was looking for meaning in the meaningless. Surely ending a family deserved more than fifty-three characters.”
“What a stronzo,” Mario muttered.
“What’s that mean?” Olivia asked immediately.
“Nothing you need to know until you’re thirty.”
“I’ll ask June. She’s teaching herself Italian from YouTube.”
“Of course she is,” we said in unison, then looked at each other in surprise.
“You’re synchronizing,” Olivia observed. “Grandma says that’s a sign of compatibility. Like how you both make the exact same face when June shows up with her polls.”
Before I could respond, she barreled on: “Anyway, Daniel lives in Seattle now with someone named Brittany who does yoga and doesn’t believe in vaccines. Mom found her Instagram.”
“You stalked his new girlfriend?” Mario asked, and I couldn’t tell if he was amused or concerned.
“It was a moment of weakness. And wine. And June.”
“June helped you stalk?”
“June provided technical support and emotional validation. She’s very gifted at both.”
Mario laughed—not the polite chuckle he gave customers at the shop, but a real, genuine laugh that transformed his whole face. I’d done that. Made him laugh like that.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, still smiling, “Daniel’s an idiot. Any man who walks away from this”—he gestured at our chaos, the flour-covered disaster zone, Olivia’s crime scene cookie—“doesn’t deserve it.”
“Even the chaos?”
“Especially the chaos.”
Olivia looked between us with laser focus. “Are you having a moment? Because this feels like a moment, and I should probably document it for?—”
The oven timer shrieked, making us all jump.
“Saved by the bell,” I muttered, grabbing oven mitts. The mitts were patched, and a little singed from too many casseroles, but they were mine; they proved I was the kind of person who could make dinner for three and a fundraiser for a hundred and still remember to add cinnamon.
But as I pulled out the cookies—slightly lopsided, enthusiastically decorated, perfectly imperfect—I caught Mario helping Olivia clean up her workspace, teaching her Italian words for kitchen items. He pointed to a wooden spoon and said, “cucchiaio,” then mimed stirring with exaggerated seriousness. Olivia repeated it with the solemnity of a small scholar.
My heart did something stupid and hopeful in my chest.
“Mario,” Olivia said suddenly, “are you allergic to responsibilities?”
He paused, considered. “No,piccola. I used to be allergic to standing still. But I’m getting better at it.”
“Good. Because Mom needs someone who won’t run away when things get hard. And I need someone who can reach the top shelf without causing a soup can avalanche.”
“Olivia—”
“What? I’m being practical. My Christmas list is very ambitious this year, and it requires adult assembly.” She turned to Mario. “Can you read instructions in multiple languages?”
“Yes?”
“Perfect. You’re hired.”
“For Christmas assembly?”
“For everything,” she said simply, then went back to her cookies like she hadn’t just offered him a permanent position in our lives.
