“Anyway.” Jackson cleared his throat, setting down the toddler’s food to cut the pasta and vegetables into little bits. “Where’d you pick up this recipe?”
“It’s my mother’s recipe.”
“She’s from Italy,” Charlotte said around a mouthful of food. “And if vegetables in Italy tastes like this, I want to become an heiress and move there like your sister.”
I felt Jackson’s eyes on me, so I gave him mine.
“You don’t talk much about your family,” he said softly, like he was just realizing this.
“We don’t always talk when we’re together,” I whispered.
“What do you two do if you’re not talking? Do you play?” Joshua asked, looking honestly curious.
Charlotte choked on her food, and I set Jackson’s plate down to hand her a bottle of water. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. Just fine,” she rasped, gulping the water. She breathed out, then in, then said, “Jackson, why don’t you tell Rae more about the plots? That’s a nice, normal, uncomplicated subject.”
“I would like to hear about them.” I finished heaping a serving onto his plate and handed it back to him.
“Sure. But let me eat for a minute first. I skipped lunch.” He accepted his plate and promptly picked up his spoon and fork. Twisting to the side to maneuver around the toddler, he pressed the tines of his fork against the curve of the spoon to painstakingly twirl the noodles, meticulously coiling them until none dangled. The sight made me smile. He was so careful and thoughtful, even with spaghetti.
Making myself a plate, but momentarily forgotten, I watched as he brought the bite to his mouth, and I knew the precise moment the sauce hit his tongue because his face contorted with pleasure, and he groaned.
“Oh my God.”
Goose bumps spread over my arms and neck at the sound of his enjoyment. My mouth watered. I felt a little dizzy.
“Say Oh my goodness. Not Oh my God,” Kimmy instructed, cutting through my daze.
I redirected my eyes to her and discovered she’d already finished eating, her plate completely clean.
“That’s right, Kimmy,” Charlotte said around her own bite, then gave Jackson a meaningful look. “What did I tell you? Isn’t it outstanding? I’m just saying, Rae. If that whole acting thing doesn’t work out, you should open an Italian restaurant in Green Valley.”
“This is—” Jackson shook his head, drawing my attention back to him and his facial expressions of ecstasy. “Rae, this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
“Ever?” I asked, the word slipping out before I could stop myself, and a spiky wave of mortification rushed up my neck and cheeks.
Rae! What is wrong with you? There are children present!
Jackson grew very still, his eyes fastened to the plate in his hands, his mouth paused mid-chew.
And Charlotte, chuckling heartily, stacked her plate with her kids’ plates and stood. “Well. I think that’s our cue to leave.”
I sighed, also standing. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you apologize.” She pointed at me, giving me a warm grin as she leaned in for a hug. “You just fed my kids dinner. You’re officially my favorite person. Come on everyone. Let’s get going. Come on.”
With Jackson to help wipe off the youngest’s face and me stacking the dishes, it took several minutes before the children actually vacated the blanket—because somehow Kimmy had taken off her shoes, and then lost a shoe, and then Joshua wanted to try on Jackson’s shoes, and, and, and—and then they were gone.
Jackson stood at the edge of the blanket, watching them go while I knelt, figuratively sitting on the edge of my seat, wondering—worrying—what would happen next.
“Do you want kids?” he asked, twisting to look down at me. “And what was your childhood like? In all your interviews, you don’t talk about it.”
Neither of these questions had been expected. It took me a moment to recalibrate the direction of my thoughts, and a few more to find the words. I decided to answer the easy question first.
“I don’t know if I want kids, honestly.” I peered up at him. “I don’t know if I’d be a good mom.”
He made a small sound, turned completely, and sat on the grass. “What is your mom like?”
A light laugh escaped me. “She’s very smart.”
“What does she do?”
“She’s a classics professor at a small, private liberal arts college.”
“Hmm. So, Latin and such?”
“Yes. She actually made me learn Latin.”
“How’d you like that?”
I opened my mouth to complain about it, but then stopped myself, really thinking before answering. “At the time, I mostly hated it. But Latin is not like learning other languages. The pronunciation is extrapolated based on current related languages, so I didn’t speak it. I learned to read and write it, though.”
“Why ‘mostly’? What did you like about it?”
“The examples, in the textbooks, are always very gruesome and funny.”
“How so?”
“Uh, like, they all have to do with murder and insurrection.”
He laughed. “Really?”
“Yes. I guess because you’re never going to have to ask someone where the bathroom is in Latin, they skip over all the conversational stuff.”
“I don’t know, depends on the conversations you’re having, I guess.” The side of his mouth curved upward. “So, she’s smart. And she’s got good recipes.” He reached over and picked up his plate, bringing it back to where he sat on the grass. “What else? Was it just the two of you?”
“Yes. Just the two of us.”
He seemed to study me before saying, “Do you not want to talk about your family?”
“I don’t.” I never did.
“Okay. That’s fine. But then maybe, could you tell me why?”
I smiled at his cleverness. “I see. You’re not going to push me to talk about my family. But then you ask why I don’t want to talk about them, which means I’ll have to talk about them.”
“Is that what I’m doing?” He ate another bite of his pasta, his tone light and conversational. This was so nice.
I chuckled and crossed my arms. “Fine. I don’t like to talk about my family because I feel like I don’t have one.”
He frowned, lowering his fork, his eyes wide with concern. But he didn’t ask me to elaborate, which was probably why I did.
“My mom left Italy for the States over strong objections from her parents. They’re still in Italy, and I’ve only met them and my aunts, uncles, and cousins a few times. We’re not close. When she moved here, it was on a student visa, and she met my dad in Miami—she didn’t go to school down there, she was on summer break. She then got pregnant with me. He wanted to get married, she didn’t, and so she raised me on her own.”
“What about your dad? Do you see him?”
I shook my head. “I’ve met him nine times that I can remember, and not since I was eight. He doesn’t want to know me.”
“He said that?”