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The Russo table was not quiet. The Russo table was eleven people and four conversations and a five-year-old under the table looking for a dropped meatball. It was bread being passed in two directions at once. It was Anthony telling a story about a grease fire in 1994 that everyone had heard before and was correcting in real time. It was Marco's wife, Teresa, a calm, dark-eyed woman who taught kindergarten and had clearly developed a nervous system of steel, quietly cutting Luca's chicken while also arguing with Gianna about a TV show. It was Maria getting up every four minutes to bring out another dish nobody had room for, and Anthony getting up every four minutes to make her sit back down, and Maria ignoring her husband completely.

And it was Cam, at the head of the table on one side, with me on her right, her hand on my knee under the tablecloth the entire meal.

She didn't let go once. Not when she was passing bread, not when she was arguing with Marco about the officiating in Game 4, not when Luca asked her, loudly, with his mouth full, if she and Aunt Harper were going to have a baby.

The entire table went silent.

"Luca," Teresa said.

"What? Auntie Gi and Auntie Dani are getting a baby."

"Eventually," Dani said, choking on her wine. "We're eventually getting a baby. We've only talked about it."

"So are Auntie Cam and Aunt Harper getting one?"

Cam turned bright red. All the way to her ears. I'd watched this woman hit championship-winning free throws in front of a national television audience without blinking, and she could not handle an eight-year-old with marinara on his chin.

"We're," Cam said. "That's. We just..."

"We just won a championship, buddy," I said to Luca. "We're taking it one step at a time."

"One ring at a time," Gianna said, very innocently, into her wine glass.

Under the table, I kicked her.

Cam didn't notice. Cam was too busy putting a meatball in her mouth so she wouldn't have to say anything, and then very carefully, very casually, reaching down to touch the jacket draped over the back of her chair.

That made twelve.

Gianna caught my eye across the table. I gave her a look that could have stopped a nuclear reaction.

She smiled and passed the bread.

"Okay, but real talk," Marco said, waving a fork. "How long have you two been together? Like, officially?"

Cam and I looked at each other.

"Seven weeks?" I said.

"Four," Cam said. "Since the coming-out post."

"Four since the post. Seven since the night at your house."

"We weren't together after the night at my house. You left."

"I left heroically."

"You left beautifully," Cam said, and then looked surprised that she'd said it out loud, in front of her family.

The table erupted.

"Oh my God," Gianna said. "Oh my God. She's whipped. Ma, look at her, she's whipped."

"I'm not whipped," Cam said helplessly.

"You're a puddle. You're a puddle in human form. I've never seen you like this. Dani, have you ever seen her like this?"

"Never," Dani said. "Not once. She's always been so..."