“You look beautiful. Stop fussing.” Vincent glanced at me out of the corner of his eye as we drove down the side street that led toward his parents’ house. “Your hair is perfect. Your face is perfect. And your body . . .” He waggled his eyebrows. “Fucking perfection.”
“You’re not a reliable source.” I shot him a glare. “You look at me like a boyfriend, not like a boyfriend’s family.”
“Babe, it’s not like you haven’t met everyone here already. You’re going in with every advantage. My brother-in-law is your best friend. My sister is one of your good friends. You know my mom and dad.” He paused. “Oh, and Frankie loves you already. She talks about your super cool apartment all the time.”
I groaned. “Great. Your eight-year-old niece thinks I’m nifty. That’s changes everything. And you’re missing the point, Vincent. Your family all knows me as Liam’s friend. Now, today, they’re meeting me as Vincent’s girlfriend—the one he’s been dating for months but never brought around, and what’s that about? Why didn’t I come over sooner?”
He shook his head. “No one’s going to think that. If anyone gets blamed, it’ll be me. Trust me, in my family, when all fails, blame Vincent.”
“That’s not true.” I frowned. I’d noticed before how Vincent spoke about his family—with love, of course, but also with an undercurrent of exasperation and frustration. It wasn’t anything I could relate to, since I didn’t have any siblings.
“I’m not having a pity party. That’s just the way it is.” He lifted one shoulder. “And my point is that they’ll all love you for being wonderful enough to take on the grump. So you don’t have anything to worry about.”
I rolled my eyes and gazed out the window, taking in the trees and blooming bushes of the pretty suburban neighborhood. Spring had more than sprung, and the days were getting both warmer and longer. I’d driven down here on Friday night after work, and yesterday, while Vincent had worked at the restaurant, I’d spent the afternoon on the beach, catching up on my reading before finals. It was the first time I’d spent an entire weekend in Seagrove City; while I’d spent the occasional Friday night or Saturday with Vincent, I always went back to Philadelphia before Sunday morning.
But this time, I hadn’t. I was on my way to my very first family supper with the DiMartinos. And I was unreasonably nervous about it. As Vincent had pointed out, I already knew everyone who would be at the house. Ava and Liam were going to be there, so I’d have the moral support of people who were friends. I’d always looked at Ava’s family as warm and welcoming, even if they were a tad overwhelming en masse, so why had that changed now that I saw them as Vincent’s family instead?
He turned a corner and slowed as we approached the two-story gray house with the well-kept yard. There were already two cars in the drive and another alongside the curb in front, and Vincent parked behind that one, in front of the house.
“Okay. Let’s do this.” He opened his door and climbed out before coming around to my side to offer me a hand. “You all set?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” I grasped his fingers and let him pull me to my feet. “Damn, I should’ve brought flowers or wine or something. That’s what people do when they go to someone’s house for the first time. They bring something. I know this. How did I forget?”
“Amanda, this isn’t a dinner party with the governor. This is a family meal. No one expects you to bring anything. You just go in, yell hello . . . and then every pitches in until the food is on the table. It’s not fancy, and it’s not a big deal.” He rubbed his hands up and down my upper arms. “Just relax and be yourself. You’re pretty incredible, and anyone who doesn’t see that isn’t worth your time.”
I gave in to my nerves and let myself lean against him for a few seconds. Vincent was strong and steady, and when his arms wrapped around me, I felt so utterly safe and protected. It was an unfamiliar sense, because I’d always relied on myself and stood on my own feet. My parents had always been there for support and encouragement, but I’d prided myself at an early age that I could do anything on my own. The idea that now I didn’t have to be alone—that I could rely on Vincent—was a new and heady feeling. Now I had someone else who I could count on when I needed him, someone who wasn’t going to make me less or hem me in when he held me up.
“Hey.” He nudged my chin, forcing me to look him in the eye. “You’re Amanda Simmons, and nothing and nobody scares you. Didn’t you tell me that last summer?”
I smiled a little. “That sounds like something I would’ve said. But maybe I was an idiot. Or just too cocky.”
“No, baby, I’m the cocky one in this relationship, remember?” He smirked, and I couldn’t resist lifting my lips up to kiss him. I meant it to be just a light brush, but he gripped my arms and held me to him, coaxing my mouth to open as his tongue made lazy forays against mine.
“Mmmmm,” I hummed against his lips. “This is lovely but making out in the front yard isn’t going to win me any points with your mom. We should go in.”
“Yeah, I know.” He gave my ass a playful smack. “I might have to tell Ma that you were molesting me in front of the whole neighborhood, if she asks what we were doing out here.”
My eyes went wide in horror. “You wouldn’t.”
He shrugged. “Probably not. Unless she starts in on me and I need to throw someone under the bus.”
“Nice, Vincent.” I threaded my fingers through his as we began to make our way across the yard. “So how many girls have you brought home to meet your family?”
He slid me a glance that was speculative and apprehensive at the same time. “Counting now? Today? One.”
I came to an abrupt halt. “What? You’re kidding, right? I’m not the first woman you’ve introduced to your family. No way.”
“But you didn’t ask that. You asked how many I brought here. Sure, my parents and my brother have met women I was sleeping with. But I’ve never brought a woman here, home, for Sunday dinner with the whole bunch of them. You’re the first one.”
“Why?” I needed to hear this from him. I wasn’t normally an insecure woman, but I’d found that with Vincent, I craved his words of affection and reassurance. I needed to know how he felt—to hear it from his lips.
“Easy. Because you’re the first woman I’ve fallen in love with and wanted them to all meet.” He smiled down at me, and the truth of what he’d just said glowed in his eyes. “I love you, Amanda. And for me, that makes all the difference.”
“Me, too,” I murmured. “I’m glad I’m the first with you at something. But it does kind of up the ante for me, you know? They won’t have any comparison. They won’t think, well, at least she’s better than that skank he dated a few years back.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Vincent shook his head. “I’m supposed to be sorry now that I didn’t bring home some losers so that you’d look better to my family? Trust me, sweetheart. That’s not how it works. And you don’t have to feel like you’re Joan of Arc going to the stake. No one’s going to burn you alive. Just relax and have fun.”
He didn’t give me any more time to second-guess or whine. Instead, he dragged me up the small side porch to a screen door, which he opened. Standing aside, he gave me a mock bow. “After you, St. Joan.”
I was tempted to flip him the finger, but just as I was about to do that, Mrs. DiMartino stood in the doorway.
“About time you got here, Vincent. Dinner’s practically on the table, and it was going to get cold with us waiting.” She glared at her son and then turned to me, her eyes softening. “Amanda! So glad you could come today. Come in, come in.”
“I’m sorry we’re late. It was actually me holding us up.” I figured confessing this right off the bat might win me points for honesty. “I apologize.”
“Who’s late? No one’s late. You’re fine.” She opened her arms and pulled me into a brief, tight hug. “Welcome. Now I think you know everyone, but if you don’t, just introduce yourself. I gotta go finish the salad.”
“Hey, girlfriend!” Ava called out to me from where she stood at the counter, cutting tomatoes. “Welcome to the craziness. Liam’s in the living room with my dad and Carl, if you want to say hello.”
Vincent paused behind me and dropped a kiss onto my cheek. “See? I told you. Nothing to it.” He winked as he walked through the kitchen toward a doorway on the far side, through which I could hear a television.
“Um . . . what can I do to help?” I stood in the middle of the busy room, watching women bustle around, and I felt imminently useless. Mrs. DiMartino was pouring oil and vinegar onto the salad. Ava was putting something together—when I looked closer, I saw it was fresh mozzarella and tomatoes. Angela stood in front of the stove, stirring a steaming pot of water. And an older lady whom I was relatively certain was Vincent’s grandmother was slicing bread.
“Not a thing.” Mrs. DiMartino pointed to the kitchen table. “If you don’t want to go in the living room—and who can blame you, they keep that game on the TV up so loud it’s a wonder they don’t all go deaf—then have a seat here.”
“But I want to help. I mean . . .” I shrugged. “I don’t know what I can do, but I don’t want to sit while everyone else is working. Are you sure there’s not something?”
“Amanda, when Ma says, sit, you sit.” Ava tossed a reassuring smile at me over her shoulder. “Today, you’re a guest. Next time, she’ll yell at you when you walk in the door and hand you a knife to start chopping garlic. So savor this time. Enjoy it. One day, you’ll look back at it fondly.”
“Ava Caterine. The things you say.” Mrs. DiMartino shook her head. “Amanda, honey, sit down. I promise if there’s something that needs to be done, I’ll tell you. For now, tell us how you are. Vincent says you’re graduating from law school next month? Your parents must be so proud.”
“Um, thanks. Yeah, I think they are.” I slid out one of the ladder chairs from the scarred kitchen table and sat as directed. “I’ll just be glad to have it over.”
“Have you decided where you’re going to work after?” Ava reached for the salt and sprinkled it liberally over the tomatoes and mozzarella. “Ma, I need the oil and vinegar.”
“So come get them. I need to put out the butter.”
“I don’t know yet. I have to study for the bar and pass it before I can figure that part out. I know a lot of my friends have gotten offers—and so have I—but I want to take some time and figure out what I really want.” And more and more often lately, I’d hesitated to say where I wanted to work, because now that Vincent was part of my future—I hoped—taking him into consideration was important. I didn’t want to commit to a job in the city when he lived and worked down here at the Jersey shore. I’d already decided to take both the New Jersey and the Pennsylvania bar exams. That wasn’t unusual; most firms in the city preferred that their associates could practice in both states, as they often had clients from the other side of the Delaware. But it was now more important to me than ever, because if I decided I wanted to set up my own small firm somewhere down here, it would be much easier for me to be admitted to the bar in my home state already.
“I can’t even imagine that.” From her spot in front of the stove, Angela turned to beam at me. “I hated tests in school—and taking one that says whether or not I can do the job I just spent three years studying to do? The pressure would kill me.”
“Ange, you’re smart. You could do it.” Her mother-in-law patted her shoulder. “And Amanda is going to do just fine. She’s smart, too.”
“Amanda, did you know Ma was going to be a lawyer?” Ava glanced at her mother. “She was studying pre-law in college, before she got pregnant with Carl.”
Angela’s mouth dropped open. “I didn’t know that. Were you really, Ma? You would’ve made a great lawyer.”
Mrs. DiMartino narrowed her eyes Ava’s way. “That was meant to be kept between us, Ava. Remember?”
Ava lifted one shoulder. “The fact that you were going to night school to get your degree? Why is that such a secret?” I saw a loaded glance between mother and daughter, and finally, Mrs. DiMartino sighed, waving her hand.
“Fine, yes. I was in night school, but once I got pregnant, I dropped out to start a family. It’s not a big deal.” I didn’t miss the way her lips tightened as she lifted the salad bowl and carried it out of the kitchen.
“Not a big deal now, but back then, it was.” Ava’s grandmother spoke in a low voice. “About broke her heart. My girl had worked hard to get to a place where she might do that. She loved that baby, sure, but she was sad about having to give up the dream.”
Mrs. DiMartino sailed back into the kitchen. “Angela, is that macaroni ready to be drained? Ava, get the bowl. I’ll put up the gravy. Ma, the basket for the bread is in that cabinet under you. Let’s get dinner on the table before we all starve.”
Growing up, I used to watch television shows that featured large families, and I’d been fascinated by the idea of all those people who were related to one another gathered around one table for a meal. It was completely out of my realm of experience; family meals for me meant three of us, and since my parents were often not around to cook, it usually also meant either takeout or eating at a restaurant. It wasn’t wrong, and I didn’t feel as though I’d suffered from the lack, but it was different.
Now, sitting smack in the middle of twelve people, all of whom except me were talking at once, I realized just how different my experience had been. In my family, everyone took turns talking. We asked questions, and then we waited for the answer. We had conversations with measured and rational give and take.
This didn’t happen at the DiMartino table. It had taken me by surprise, the suddenness of it; sure, there had been a little chaos as everyone came to the table, all of the women carrying food. They’d even let me bring in the bread, which made me feel like less of a loser, less of a guest, and more like someone who belonged. The men wandered in, talking about baseball and scores and bases. Frankie danced around the chairs until Vincent directed her to sit down. Carl settled the baby into a high chair that looked as though it had held generations of babies. Everyone except Mrs. DiMartino, who was still bustling around, doing last-minute fixes, began to pull out chairs to sit down, with Vincent’s father taking the head of the table. It seemed as though the whole family knew where to sit except for me, so I stood uncertainly on the periphery of things.
“Amanda. Babe, come sit.” Vincent stood behind a chair and pulled it out, smiling at me. “Don’t just stand around, or Carl will eat everything before you get a chance.”
Mrs. DiMartino tsked. “Vincent, don’t pick on your brother. Ava, you didn’t put a spoon in the caprese. Run grab one, please. Ange, where’s the parmesan? Ma, sit down, sit down, I got all this. Daddy, do you have a napkin? Frankie, did you wash your hands, sweetie?”
“Yes, Nonna.” The little girl lifted the hands in question. “With soap. Can I sit next to Amanda?”
“No, you sit where you are. Okay, then. I think we’re set.” She untied the apron that covered her skirt and sat down to the left of her husband.
“Did you all hear your mother? Hush up now.” Vincent’s father raised his voice to be heard over the chattering.
Quiet fell over the table, and Mr. DiMartino cleared his throat. “In the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit.” He crossed himself, and around the table, nine others followed suit. Only the baby and I refrained; I assumed he didn’t have the muscle control yet, and I wasn’t Catholic. Even Liam did it. I frowned, wondering when my WASP friend had gone Italian Catholic on me.
“Bless us, oh, Lord, and these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty through Christ our Lord, Amen.”
“Amen,” everyone echoed, and then they all began moving. Hands reached for bowls, spoons clattered against plates and the loud talking started up again.
“Hey, Amanda.” Liam leaned around Ava to catch my attention. “Are you gearing up for your last go-round with finals?”
I nodded. “Yeah, and I’ll be ready to see it end. I’m just so—”
“Ava, pass the gravy so I can let the baby have a little.” Carl held out his hand.
“Carl, you heard the baby’s doctor. She said we have to introduce one food at a time, so if there’s a reaction, we know what it is.” Angela frowned at her husband.
“Bah!” Vincent’s grandmother waved her hand. “A little taste is good for him. We all started our babies on gravy. It’s not going to hurt nobody.”
“Ma, he’s her baby, Ange knows what she’s doing.” Mrs. DiMartino shook her head. “But Ange, there’s nothing in my gravy that would hurt my grandson. You know that. Just my own tomatoes that I can myself, and good meat from the Albertsons’ farm, and garlic. Olive oil. No sugar, nothing that isn’t pure and good.”
“Yeah, I know, Ma.” Angela looked torn. “It’s not that I think there’s anything wrong with your gravy, it’s just—what if he’s allergic to tomatoes? Or garlic?”
Mrs. DiMartino lifted one shoulder. “You breastfeed him, and you eat all that. He’s strong and healthy. I understand being careful, but there’s such a thing as too careful.”
“What the doctors say today, they’re too cautious. If we did what they did, our kids would be wrapped up in cotton all day long.” This time, it was Vincent’s grandfather who spoke up. “Kids need to run around outside. They need to play in the dirt and eat some worms.”
A collective groan went up from our end of the table, making the rest of the conversation all over pause for a moment. “Pop, since when did you ever let us eat worms? Since when did any of us let our kids do that? It’s crazy talk.” Mrs. DiMartino threw up her hands.
“He’s just making a point.” Vincent’s grandmother laughed, and then she turned to me. “I heard them say you’re a lawyer? That’s a very good job to have.”
“Not quite yet.” I smiled. “But soon, I hope. I graduate next month, and then I have to pass the bar and find a job. But . . . we’ll see.”
“She’s going to crush it.” Vincent squeezed my hand and smiled. “Amanda’s the smartest person I’ve ever met, and she can win an argument with anyone.”
I laughed. “I don’t know. You give me a pretty good run for my money when it comes to arguing.”
“That’s Vincent,” his mother remarked. “From the time he could talk. I say do something, he says, why? I say something is green, he swears that it’s blue. We used to say he was on the wrong side of every debate, that one.”
Vincent’s mouth tightened, and I scrambled to think of something to say, a way to change the subject. “Vincent is excellent at bringing up points even I hadn’t considered. I think that’s a very good thing.”
His eyes met mine, and some of the tension melted from his face.
“Taking up with a lawyer is a good idea, Vince.” Mr. DiMartino’s voice carried over the rest of the talk. “Someone sues you for a bad meal, you got legal counsel on your side already. Don’t let her go.”
Vincent rolled his eyes. “Like I need that. You’ve been cooking for longer than I’ve been alive, Pop. Anyone sue you yet?”
His father grunted. “Didn’t have to. I know what I’m doing. I pay attention. I listen to when other people make suggestions. I’m not some thick-skulled hot head who tears off and does whatever the hell he wants.” He spoke matter-of-factly, and somehow, that made his words sharper. More stinging.
I could practically feel Vincent’s tension like a tangible presence next to me. Ava glanced down the table and met my eye, her own expression sober and worried. The older generation, though, apparently remained oblivious to the effect of what they were saying.
“That reminds me, Vince.” Mrs. DiMartino speared a couple of rigatoni on her fork. “That cassata you made for the DelMarcos to try for the anniversary party—Mrs. DelMarco didn’t care for it. She said it’s too fancy. They want a regular cassata, not all the bells and whistles. Not the new-fangled stuff you made.”
Vincent scowled. “Ma, what I made was the traditional cassata. What the hell did she not like about it? It’s sponge cake soaked in rum, with the ricotta in the middle, and then marzipan and the candied fruit. It took me a long time to make it, just for her to try it. It was perfect. Delicious.”
“I’m just telling you what she said. She didn’t want that. She said just the cake with chocolate in it. Like her grandma used to make. That’s what she wants.”
He scoffed. “What her grandma made wasn’t cassata, then. It was probably the al forno version, which isn’t correct. It needs to have marzipan. If she wants the other, she can make it herself.” He folded his arms over his chest, which I’d learned was a Vincent-tell for bring it on.
“Vincent, we give the people what they ask for. They’re the customers. What they want, we make. You want to be some kind of pastry artist, you go do it in your own time. Or work some other place.” Mr. DiMartino tore off a chunk of bread and sopped up some of the red sauce on his plate.
“Funny you should say that.” Vincent’s eyes glittered, and a small thread of dread worked through me. I wanted to grab his arm and beg him not to say anything he was going to regret, but I didn’t think it would have stopped him. He was pissed, but more than that, I felt his hurt. I laid one hand on his arm, more so that he could feel my presence and concern than anything else.
“Vincent—” I whispered.
He went on speaking, either not noticing my touch or ignoring it. “Because it turns out that there are people who want me. People who appreciate what I do and how I do it. People who don’t criticize me every time I turn around or tell me I’m no good.”
“Vincent, when have we ever told you that you were no good?” Mrs. DiMartino’s face was a mix of shock and anger. “Never. We would never say that to any of our children.”
“Maybe not in so many words, but every single time you make it clear that I’m not quite as good as Carl, who cooks the real food. Every single time you make it clear that I’m not as smart as Ava, who has an important job. Or even as Antonia, who probably was the best of all of us, but we’ll never know because she was taken away too soon.”
Panic made my heart pound. As much as I appreciated a good argument, I hated confrontation and tension and drama, and they were all three swirling around us now. Ava leaned forward again, her eyes round as she stared at her brother. Across the table, Carl had set down his fork and was watching the interchange between his father and his brother with a carefully neutral expression on his face. Angela bit her lip, and even Frankie’s small face was clouded.
“Vincent, how dare you? How could you? You bring up your sister who died—” Mrs. DiMartino’s gaze darted to Frankie. “And you try to say your father and I somehow treat you badly? That we think more of some of you than of others? When have we ever done anything but support what you want? We don’t judge. You decide you want to go to school a little longer, learn the pastry arts, we aren’t thrilled, maybe, but you came back and put your skills to good use, and you can still handle the real cooking, too. You don’t settle down, you take home strangers from bars, women you meet God knows where, and everyone around knows you’re some kind of crazy playboy, with all the—” Again, she glanced at her granddaughter. “All the shameful things. But we don’t say anything, do we? We just figure someday, you’ll grow up and pull yourself together.
“Today we were so happy, that you’re bringing Amanda here to dinner. First time you bring home a girl, and she’s a good one, a smart woman with a good future and a strong family, and we’re hopeful. Maybe Vince has finally pulled his head out of his ass. And then you jump over your father, and you say terrible things to him and to me, in front of everyone. How can you do that?”
Mr. DiMartino leaned his folded arms on the table and glared. “Who’re these people who like you so much and treat you so much better than your own family? Huh? Are you making something up because you’re mad just now? Or have you been doing something behind my back, setting up plans without talking to your own father?”
Vincent drew himself up, both of his hands gripping the edge of the linen-covered table. “I’m not making up anything. I don’t have to.” He paused, and for the first time, he seemed to remember that I was next to him. He hesitated, his eyes lingering on me before he went on. “I had an interview a couple of weeks ago, with people who own a hotel in Philadelphia. They were here, back last fall, and they liked my pastries and wanted to talk to me. I figured, what did it hurt? So I saw them, and they want to make me an offer. They want me to come over and work for them.”
The silence was deafening around the table that had been filled with happy chatter just minutes before. Mrs. DiMartino sighed and dropped her head into her hands, covering her eyes. Mr. DiMartino’s expression was a mask of fury and hurt.
It was Frankie who broke the spell. “What’s wrong, Nonna? Why’re you yelling at Uncle Vince?”
Angela shook her head and put her finger to her lips to shush the little girl. “Not now, Frankie.”
“Fine, then.” Vincent’s father stood up, sending his chair clattering across the floor. “Fine. They want you so much? You want to leave so much? You think it’s all going to be sunshine and roses working for these people? Go, then. Just leave. We don’t need you, anyway. Any of us can make cookies and cannoli. It’s not like it’s anything special.”
I sucked in a quick breath. I knew, on some level, that Mr. DiMartino was reacting, that he was spewing words out of his own pain, but that wasn’t going to help this situation one bit. I felt horrible for all of them—for the DiMartinos, who clearly were bewildered about the suddenness of this revelation and for Vincent, who was just as clearly acting out of his long-carried hurt. At the same time, I was just as blindsided by what Vincent had just shared. He’d had an interview in Philadelphia? And he hadn’t told me? He’d been offered a job, and he hadn’t thought to share that information with me?
Vincent stood up, too, slamming back his chair. “Good. I’m going.” He turned to me and reached out a hand. “Come on, Amanda. We’re out of here now.”
I didn’t have a choice, except to let him pull me to feet and drag me along out of the room and into the kitchen, where I managed to snag my purse from the table on our way out. Vincent stomped outside and slammed the screen door, and then we were striding across the lawn, with me stumbling alongside him.
Neither of us said a word as we got into his car. He turned the key in the ignition and peeled away from the curb, his speed alarming me. I sat very still, clutching the edge of my seat, as he made a squealing turn and then floored the car.
“Vincent—” I began, but he quelled me with a glare.
“Not now. I don’t want to talk about this now. I just want to get home.”
“Okay. I get that. But please remember that I’m in the car with you, and I’d like both of us to get there in one piece. Having an accident isn’t going to solve anything.”
His jaw clenched, but he slowed down to a reasonable speed, and I began to relax slightly.
A few moments later, the car bumped into the driveway to his house. We both climbed out of the car without speaking. The minute he’d unlocked the door and let us in through the front door, Vincent began pacing the kitchen, running one hand through his hair.
“Fucking crazy, that’s what I am. Why the hell did I put up with that as long as I did? Why the hell did I ever go work for them in the first place? I could’ve had a job anywhere right out of pastry arts school. I could’ve worked for anyone. But no, I gave them years, working the hours they wanted and never feeling like I could fucking do one thing right.”
I sat down in a kitchen chair, feeling as though I was numb all over. “Vincent . . . the job in Philadelphia. Were you . . . were serious about that? You really had an interview there?”
He glanced at me, frowning. “Yeah. I mean, of course I was serious. Why would I joke about something like that? The guy—Peter Romano. He and his wife were here last year, before Ava’s wedding. He gave me his card and asked me to get in touch if I ever thought about leaving Cucina Felice. I didn’t do anything, not for a long time, because I thought I was—I thought this was where I belonged. But then . . .”
His voice trailed off, and he exhaled, bracing his hands on the back of the chair next to mine. “I started thinking last month. I hate how far apart we are. I want to see you more than just two or three times a month. I want to be with you all the time, Amanda. Or at least as much as we can both handle. This distance thing, it’s killing me, and I thought maybe I had a way to get around it.”
I swallowed. “But you never said anything to me about that. You never mentioned wanting us to live in the same city. I didn’t know that. We could’ve talked about it, and we could’ve figured out how to make it all work. It didn’t have to mean you giving up your job here.”
“But see, it was more than just wanting to live closer.” His brow furrowed. “It’s about needing to move ahead. If I keep working here at my family’s place, that’s all I’ll ever be—the pastry chef guy. As long as my dad is alive, I’ll be the one who makes the sweet stuff that no one cares about anyway, apparently. And then when my dad is gone, I’ll be the same for Carl, because he’ll be the one running the restaurant, and he’ll do it just like Pop. They’re the same.”
“You don’t know that. And maybe if you’d said something to them, rather than started yelling about it in the middle of a family dinner, you could’ve worked it out. I think you really hurt them, Vincent, just by the fact that you would even consider working somewhere else. I saw your dad’s face. He was devastated.”
“But what about me? What about how they hurt me, and undervalue me, and make sure I know how much they don’t need me?” He glowered. “And why do I get the feeling that you’re less than jazzed about the idea of us living in the same city? Don’t you want me to be closer? Or is it that you like your freedom, and you thought we’d just go on like this forever?”
“Of course, I didn’t think that, and of course, I would be so happy for us to live closer. Hell, if you moved to Philly, I’d want you to move in with me, not just near me. I want that, Vincent. I want us. But why didn’t you tell me? About the interview, I mean. Or even just about Mr. Romano giving you his card? This came at me out of nowhere. So yeah, just like your parents, I’m a little shocked. I feel like you hid this from me, and I don’t like that at all.”
Both of his shoulders lifted, and he threw up his hands, a gesture reminiscent of his mother. “I didn’t hide it from you. I just hadn’t decided what I was going to do yet. I had the meeting the day we went to the party with the governor, and I didn’t want to talk about it on the way there, and then after . . .” He paused, and I remembered what had happened after that party. He’d told me that he loved me for the first time, and we’d had hours of joyous celebratory sex. We hadn’t come up for air until midway through the next day.
“Okay, I get that, I guess. But you could’ve said something so many times since. We’ve talked on the phone. We’ve seen each other in person.” I shook my head. “I just don’t understand.”
“What you need to understand is that this is my decision. Mine. I’m the one who gets to decide if I want to leave my family’s restaurant and work in the city. So telling you would’ve dragged in yet another variable, and—” He glanced away from me. “What if I told you about it, and then I decided not to take the job? You would’ve been hurt. You would’ve wondered why you weren’t important enough to make me move closer to you. I didn’t want to take that risk until I’d come to a decision on my own.”
My own irritation abated slightly. I could see how Vincent had reasoned this out—I didn’t agree, but I could see it. “So when there’s something that you think might hurt me or something you don’t want to know my opinion on, you’re just not going to tell me? Is that how this relationship is going work?”
His face was impassive. “If I think it’s for the best, then, yeah. Maybe. Or maybe not, maybe that was just this one time. For fuck’s sake, Amanda, we’re not married. I can still call my own shots without running every little thing by you.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t!” I jumped to my feet, my voice climbing several decibels. “I didn’t say I wanted input. I just wanted to know. I know we’re not married, but Christ, Vincent, I’m your girlfriend. I think there are some things I have a right to know about. And this is one of them.”
“And see, this, right here, now—this is why I didn’t want a relationship. This is why I never got tangled up before. I make my own choices, and I live my own life, on my own terms, and no one gets to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do. I never wanted a fucking girlfriend!”
I was silent in the wake of the words Vincent had just yelled. I didn’t know what to say. He’d taken something that I’d held precious—something I hadn’t realized I’d wanted until I had it—and crumpled it up, turning it into an ugly and painful accusation.
Wheeling around, I grabbed up my purse and made for the door. Part of me was silently begging Vincent to stop me, to keep me from leaving . . . to tell me that he hadn’t meant it. But he didn’t move as I re-enacted our departure from his parents’ home, slamming the door behind me as I stumbled to my car.
I’d just sunk into the seat when he came flying out of his house. “Amanda! Wait. Don’t go. I didn’t mean . . .” He stopped and raked his hand through his hair. “You shouldn’t drive when you’re upset. Just . . . just wait a minute.”
But my anger was burning bright now, and I didn’t want to stay with him another minute. “No, thanks. I’ll be fine. Just leave me the hell alone, Vincent. You have a good time, calling all the shots on your own. Enjoy the freedom you’ve apparently been missing.”
I swung my car door shut and turned to look behind me as I backed out of his driveway. When I ventured a glance back to the front of his house, Vincent was still standing there, hands on his hips, watching me leave.
I drove away.