Page 90 of Hiding in the Outfield

“Mom,” I warn.

She raises her arms. “Well, what am I supposed to think? He’s sweet, bambino. I like him for you.”

I arch an eyebrow. “You don’t even know him.”

“Please, Francesco. I am your mother; I know these things. Plus, I know him enough. He helped me set the table. He’s…well, he’s shy and bashful. He’s genuine. Respectful. And he couldn’t stop asking after you.”

“Yeah, he—Wait, what?”

She smiles, a knowing look shining in eyes the exact shade of brown and gold as mine. “Yes. Wanted to know all about what you were like growing up. I, of course, happily shared all your most embarrassing stories.”

“Mom.”

Her smile splits into a grin. “Yes, I told him about the time you fell in the fountain at the mall.”

Okay, that one’s not horrible. At least she didn’t mention⁠—

“And I may have mentioned when you were on local television for that math game show.”

My eyes go wide. “You didn’t.”

She pulls a picture out of her back pocket.

I snatch it from her. “Oh my God! Mom!”

My chest goes tight, my heart kicking into a faster rhythm. My eyes slide shut, because yes, there it is: a picture of me at thirteen, braces, horrible acne, in my most awkward stage. Let’s just say it took until sophomore year of high school for me to grow into my ears.

Don’t get me started on my outfit. You can’t even count the number of pockets on those cargo pants. God, they’re so baggy on my beanpole frame I could have jumped out of a plane and used them as a parachute. And my hair. I whimper. My hair. The frosted tips era. Something I blame Justin Timberlake for. My hair looks like literal ramen noodles.

“Well, now he’s never going to want anything to do with me ever again.”

“Oh, please. Don’t be so dramatic.”

I shoot her a look. We both know there is no Frankie without dramatics.

“He lit up hearing the stories and seeing the pictures. That man in there likes you.”

“Obviously, he likes me. Have you seen me?” Not thirteen-year-old me. Those pictures really should be burned.

Mom frowns. “Francesco, I hate when you talk like that. You’re more than a pretty face.”

I blow out a breath. “Yes, yes, I know. But this isn’t anything serious, Mom. I’m just…helping him out.”

“What does that even mean?”

I let out a low growl.

“Helping him out how? I fail to see⁠—”

“It’s just sex, Ma,” I say on a hush. “All right? Happy now?”

“Non dire balle.”

My jaw goes slack.

“Oh, please. Am I to believe you’ve been celibate for five years? Because you haven’t brought any other men home. Where are all these other non-serious men? Considering the number of times you snuck boys out of this house growing up, I don’t take you for the celibate type.”

“I-I-I never…” I sputter. She knew I was sneaking boys over?