Baking and Babies

Page 3

 
“Is that what I think it is?”
 
“I don’t know. Do you think it’s a hot new shade of lipstick that Charlotte was just about to put on me?” I ask innocently.
 
“No, no I don’t. That’s a fucking pregnancy test,” he replies in a low, slightly angry voice.
 
In that moment, I see now why Charlotte was freaking out. Gavin does NOT look happy about the possibility that she could be pregnant. I love this guy like a brother. I’ve known him since birth and in four weeks he WILL be my brother through marriage, and I’ve never wanted to punch him straight in the mouth more than I do right now.
 
I always think before I speak. Always. I carefully process every word to make sure I get the desired outcome.
 
Until now.
 
“I’m pregnant!” I blurt out.
 
Charlotte starts to cry loudly and Gavin’s eyebrows rise up into his hairline.
 
“Yep, I’m knocked up. With child. In the maternal condition. Preggers. Can I get a woohoo?!”
 
I raise my arms in the air and shake them around, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Who the hell says woohoo?
 
“Why is Charlotte crying? Hon, why are you crying?” Gavin asks gently.
 
She sniffles and wraps her arms around my waist from behind. “I just love Molly so much.”
 
I lower my arms and shrug, trying not to roll my eyes.
 
“Charlotte is just overcome with excitement about the love child in my womb.”
 
I pat my stomach for added emphasis, figuring I might as well make this a stellar performance for Charlotte’s sake. She is seriously going to owe me for this shit. Like, name her damn kid after me or something.
 
Gavin sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to say. I mean, are you happy about this? I didn’t even know you were dating anyone. Shit, ARE you dating someone? Who is he? I’ll kick his fucking ass.”
 
Gavin goes back to being pissed and now I don’t know what the hell to do. I didn’t exactly think this whole thing through when I blurted out I was pregnant to save Charlotte. Everyone is going to see right through this charade. Shit. Everyone is going to KNOW. There’s no way Gavin is going to keep his mouth shut. Oh, my God, my parents are going to kill me.
 
“It’s horrible, Gavin! He’s a horrible man! He got her pregnant and now he doesn’t want anything to do with her!” Charlotte wails dramatically.
 
I look over my shoulder at her and give her the most evil eye I can muster.
 
“Seriously?” I whisper in irritation.
 
I turn back around to see Gavin looking at us in confusion.
 
“I mean, SERIOUSLY. She’s serious. It’s horrible. I’m so distraught.”
 
With a sniffle, I rub my eyes and curse Charlotte to hell.
 
Gavin reaches out and pats my shoulder. “Don’t worry. You’re not going to go through this alone. We all love you, and we’re going to find this guy and make him pay.”
 
Awwwww, shit. What the hell have I done? Why didn’t I just stay in my room and ignore the blood curdling scream from down the hall like any sane person would have done? When I said I needed to get a life, this isn’t really what I had in mind.
 
Chapter 2
 
– Satisfaction and Sugar –
 
Marco
 
“Hey, Ma! What was that secret ingredient you use in your Zeppole filling again?” I shout from the living room, trying to finish up a few last minute questions on my laptop to add to the final exam for the students tomorrow.
 
I should know the answer to this question considering I’ve been helping my mom make her favorite Italian dessert since I was five, but just like everything in my brain lately, it’s turned into a pile of mush thanks to one beautiful, shy student I haven’t been able to stop thinking about for the last two years. Stupid fraternization rules.
 
My mom pokes her head out from the kitchen doorway and points her wooden spoon covered in red sauce at me. “Get off that gadget and help your sisters set the table before I whoop you with this spoon.”
 
She disappears back into the kitchen and I shake my head, closing the lid to my laptop and pushing myself up from the couch. I’m twenty-four years old and I still tuck my tail between my legs and run when my mother scolds me. It’s not like I’m sitting in her living room writing porn on the Lord’s Day. Well, not really. I guess it could be considered food porn to some people.
 
Walking into the dining room, my ears are immediately assaulted by the sounds of my two older sisters arguing.
 
“You’re just jealous because I can date whoever I want and you’re an old married hag at twenty-six!”
 
“And by date, you mean screw anyone with a penis. Give me a fucking break,” Tessa groans, placing a fork next one of the plates.
 
“Contessa Maria Desoto! Watch your mouth!” mom scolds, setting a huge bowl of pasta in the middle of the table. “We are going to have Sunday dinner like normal, civilized people for once. No swearing, no fighting, and no throwing food.”
 
She looks directly at me as she says the last part. You throw one dinner roll six months ago when your sister calls you a tool and you never live it down. It’s not my fault it ricocheted off her shoulder and up into the ceiling fan before one of the blades sent it flying into our mother’s face.
 
Rosa looks across the table at me and sticks out her tongue. I slyly flip her off without our mom seeing as we all take our seats. Even though it might not look like it, we really do love each other. We’re your typical loud, eating, breeding Italian family, although our mother likes to remind us on a daily basis that we aren’t doing our part in the breeding department. She met our father (God rest his soul) when they were sixteen years old, got married at eighteen, and popped out my oldest sister Contessa nine months later. Rosa followed a year after that, and I came screaming into the world a year after her.
 
“Alfanso, honey, say grace.”
 
My mother folds her hands in front of her and closes her eyes, thankfully before she can see the scowl on my face and the laughter my sisters are just barely holding in.
 
“Ma, how many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” I complain, trying not to whine like a little girl.
 
I spent my entire childhood saddled with that name and constantly being teased—mostly from my sisters, and when I left middle school behind and started high school, I refused to let anyone call me by anything other than my middle name of Marco. Sadly, my mother continues to ignore my request.
 
“Alfanso is a strong, Italian name and you should be proud you share—”
 
“The same name as my mother’s father’s uncle’s brother from Sicily,” my sisters and I cut her off and finish in unison.
 
“And by Sicily, we mean the planet Melmac, Alf,” Tessa snorts, earning a one-eyed glare from my mother who still has her head bowed, eyes closed, and hands together in prayer.
 
I bow my head and close my eyes, refusing to take my sister’s bait when she uses the same, tired joke comparing my name to some furry creature on a TV show long before any of us were born.
 
“Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub. Yay God!”
 
Mom’s hand smacks me upside the head as soon as I finish and Tessa kicks my shin under the table. One of these days I should try not being an asshole, but it’s just too much fun.
 
We all start digging into our food and the only sounds that fill the room for a few minutes are forks scraping plates and ice cubes clinking in glasses. It reminds me of every single Sunday dinner we’ve ever had, even if it is surprisingly quiet for the time being. Regardless of my sisters and I being adults with our own lives and our own homes, it’s an unwritten rule that no matter where we are or what we’re doing, that we always come home for Sunday dinner.
 
“So, Alfanso, when are you going to bring a nice woman home to meet the family?” mom asks casually as she slathers butter on a slice of homemade bread.
 
“He doesn’t know any nice women; he only knows skanks.” Rosa laughs.