Wine pours freely, the glug-glug sound of bottles tipping.

And then, right on cue⁠—

“So,” Luca says, grinning like he’s about to start something. “Izzy.”

I pause, mid-bite, the fork halfway to my mouth. “What?”

He waggles his brows. “That guy you’ve been seeing⁠—”

Nico leans forward, eyes alight. “How’s Boat Shoes McProtein Powder?”

I narrow my eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Luca scoffs. “Please. Mama didn’t even pray for you by name. She just lumped you into the ‘dearly lost’ category.”

“I’m not the only single one here,” I snap. “Why don’t we talk about Nico’s love life?”

Nico shrugs, smug. “Because mine’s interesting.”

“Can we please just not talk about Evan,” I say.

They both grimace like I said "sewer rat."

“Ugh,” Luca says. “Sounds like a guy who owns multiple Patagonia vests and refers to women as ‘chicks.’”

Nico nods. “Or the kind of guy who puts ‘entrepreneur’ in his bio but lives off his parents’ AmEx.”

Matteo, ever the peacemaker, sighs. “You two don’t even know him.”

“Don’t need to,” Luca says. “Izzy dated him. That’s enough. She has terrible taste.”

“I could take him,” Nico announces, flexing dramatically. “One punch, down goes Evan.”

“Oh my God,” I groan, rubbing my temples. “No one is beating Evan up.”

“Don’t take our Lord’s name in vain,” Luca all but shouts, clearly trying to attract the attention of our mother.

Nico leans back in his chair, casually sipping his wine. "I agree, Izzy. Taking our Lord’s name in vain is against the Ten Commandments. Decking Evan, though? Totally allowed." He shrugs. "Still, I was thinking something a little more refined—mild intimidation, a few well-placed threats, maybe a touch of psychological warfare."

Luca nods. "Or we could just key his car."

I gasp. "No one is keying anything!"

Nonna, who’s been silently observing with hawk-like eyes, suddenly leans forward.

“Isabella,” she begins in Italian, voice thick with emphasis, “perché stai ancora con quel ragazzo? Non ti ha ancora chiesto di sposarlo?”

I groan internally.

I stab my fork into my pasta, the tines scraping against the ceramic plate. “Nonna, it’s complicated. And no, he hasn’t asked me to marry him.”

She waves a hand like she’s swatting away a fly. “Complicato? Sciocchezze. Gli uomini sono semplici.”

“She says men are simple.”

“I know what she said, Luca.”

Nonna continues undeterred, turning to my mother and rattling off a rapid string of Italian. I catch enough to know she’s asking why Mama lets me waste time with “quel idiota.”

My mother sighs and responds in kind, something about me being too old to waste time on a man.

I press my water glass to my lips, trying to cool my face. “Mama, I’m not wasting my time. And Nonna, you don’t even know him.”

She sniffs. “Non ho bisogno di conoscerlo.”

Nico leans over, all fake helpfulness. “She says she’s seen enough to know he probably tucks in his polo shirts and claps when the plane lands.”

“Stop mistranslating,” I snap.

“She didn’t not say that,” he mutters, shrugging.

Nonna points a perfectly manicured finger at me, her voice rising with conviction. “E ti tratta bene? Ti porta i fiori? Ti apre le porte? Ti guarda come se fossi la cosa più bella del mondo?”

I close my eyes briefly. Her questions are sharp as knives, aimed directly at the soft spots.

“Nonna—”

“Rispondimi, Isabella!”

I let out a breath. “He’s… fine.”

Luca scoffs. “Fine. Wow. That’s definitely what every girl dreams of saying about her boyfriend.”

Nico snickers. "I think I've seen Izzy talk about lasagna with more passion."

Just then, Lady Gaga darts under the table, her fur brushing against my bare legs. Tony follows, yapping excitedly, little paws scrambling across the floor. Dad whistles softly, but this time they ignore him, determined to cause chaos.

"Lorenzo!" Mama scolds. "I told you to control your dogs!"

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 still watching 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.

I shake my head. "If this is about Evan⁠—"

"It is," he says, cutting me off gently. I hand him the plate.

I press my lips together, bracing myself.

"Izzy," he continues, voice calm, level-headed, Matteo to the core. "I know everyone gives you crap about him. The teasing, the jokes—Luca and Nico especially."

I huff out a dry laugh. "Understatement of the year."

Matteo smiles faintly, stacking the plate in the cabinet. The ceramic clinks as he sets it down. "They give you shit, yeah. But the truth is, we're just worried about you."

I trace the floral patterns of the dish in my hand with my thumb.

"I mean, we're your brothers," he says, nudging me lightly with his elbow. "It's our job, right?"

I smile, small but real.

Because yeah.

That's what they do.

That's what they've always done.

"Besides," Matteo continues, glancing toward the dining room, "it's not just us. Mama doesn't acknowledge him, and Nonna...well."

"She'd probably rather set me up with a stranger from church than let me marry Evan," I mutter.