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“Eww, no, thank you. Keep your one-night stand escapades to yourself, please.”
Still nothing from my father, who is notoriously squeamish about sex talk. Strange.
“Relations. Relationship.” She looks at me, ignoring Gian. “Either way, you’re toying with her.”
Lus and Evie know each other, but I hadn’t been under the impression they were exceptionally close, her being three years younger than my fake girlfriend. But she’s defending her like a mother bear.
“We are on the same page, Lus. It’s not like Evie is clueless in all this. She agreed to it.”
My sister looks at me like I’m daft. “She is not a man, however.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Gian asks.
The smell of fresh-baked pizza, one I should be immune to after a lifetime around it, wafts toward us as Dad puts pies in the oven.
“It means, she might not be thinking of the whole thing the same way as you.”
Gian crosses his arms, but this time, I take her on head-to-head myself.
“So what you’re saying is that, because she’s a woman, she’ll be coming at this differently. With real feelings. Whereas I, a mere man, have none. Is that what you’re saying?”
Gian smiles, and taunts, “How unenlightened of you, Lus.”
“That’s not what I’m saying at all.”
“Yes, it is.” Gian begins to pack his salads in a bag.
“Stay out of it. This has nothing to do with you.”
“Except that it was my brilliant idea.” Undeterred by Lusanne, Gian addresses me. “You’re doing great, big brother. Keep it on About Town and you may even get a few people coming into the restaurant.”
“Funny,” I mutter. DeLuca’s II has had a steady stream of customers since we opened, and no problems attracting new ones. My brother knows this, of course, and is trying to goad me.
“What I am saying . . .” Lus puts her chopped tomatoes in a bowl. “Is that the two of you are a pair of wingnuts, and I’m just glad I don’t have to date either one of you. God bless the women you end up with.”
I wouldn’t mind ending up with Evie.
Wherever that came from, I’m just going to put it right back away.
“As much as I love arguing with you both,” I say, standing, “I actually came to talk to Dad about the menu for the judges.”
Still, nothing.
“Dad?”
He doesn’t turn around.
“Earbuds,” Lus says. “The ones I got him last week for his birthday.”
“He’s actually wearing them?” Gian asks.
“When Dad opened the box,” I recall, “his exact words were, ‘What the hell am I supposed to do with these? I need to talk to customers, not listen to music.’”
Dad never mastered the art of gracious gift acceptance.
“I made a Sinatra playlist and forced him to try. He loves them.”
Oh geez.
