◆ MILES ◆
Marriage talk?
Again?
The idea was appalling enough to make me want to stab myself with the butter knife conveniently lying beside my fist, but I kept up a poker face. The imperative tone my parents were using on me got on my nerves now.
My mother, mostly. "We'll talk to her parents and invite them here. Or fetch them. Use the jet."
I didn't reply. Mykaela's dad was critical in the hospital, so, her parents flying out all the way here just to meet mine? Definitely not happening.
"Or we can visit them in New York, and...talk about arrangements," Mamma went on. Her pale peach-colored lips tightened into a line when I didn't say jack.
"Sì," was all Pappa replied. He sounded interestingly lukewarm on the subject. At least he had an opinion.
Since finding out his only child and son was fooling around with guys instead of focusing on graduating with a reputable Fine Arts degree, my father seldom talked to me in the last couple of years. Mainly because my Pappa thought I was just a disappointment to the family. But I would doubt it every once in a while, like in rare occasions like this when we'd get to bond like a normal family did─after the usual year-long nonchalance or estrangement, that is.
But then again, Stefano Falco, now Chairman of his fast-growing multinational group of companies, was as status-conscious and power-hungry as the world's most elite. An undergrad son who simply couldn't get his life together was definitely not the ideal firstborn my father expected me to be.
"Your future with their daughter is something they'd want to discuss with us," my mother said after a long, awkward minute. The delicious ricotta pie garnished with fresh berries should be the star at the moment, but, Mamma really knew how to stir drama out of nothing. "You think she's not ready for that kind of commitment yet, but...you two should consider it a possibility this early on and just...talk about it."
Shit. This is getting crazy. Why did I even think something good would come out of pretending and telling them Mykaela and I were a couple? I wanted to facepalm myself and vanish off this Earth.
"Maximiliano, are you even listening?" Mamma Eleana backed away from the candle-lit dining table. "You're both the right age, anyway. Just talk to her about it," she added, emphasizing the idea with a louder voice, plus the elaborate hand gestures.
I ignored the lecturing tone and took another sip of the strong wine my cousin had personally picked out from the cellar. Pretty good stuff. Probably worth more than a hundred bucks. I just hoped it would get me drunk enough tonight to help me sleep off the bitter taste of all my family's issues.
"Time flies so fast, and I'm not quite prepared for that surprising phone call one day, only to find out you've already rushed her to the delivery room. I mean, you kids these days..." My Mamma Eleana let out a strained chuckle. A faint shake of her head was enough to get her discontent across.
I kept a snarky reply to myself. I sat opposite my mother. Perhaps I should just keep to myself for the rest of the night. Show no emotions. They'd get bored of lecturing me, eventually.
To my left sat my older cousin, Ricchar, owner of the mansion we would be staying in for the weekend. It was an heirloom. Ricchar, unusually quiet and attentive tonight, only kept smirking and was clearly enjoying my unease.
"If you want Mykaela to stay with you, talk to her parents," my mother compromised. "You can't live in the same house if you have no plans to take her and her family to church."
Great. Now my mother was waiting for me to settle the argument with concession.
"Don't have to remind you that our family does not tolerate such unholy choices." Her flawless brows furrowed in apparent indignation, before she turned to her husband sitting at the corner of the table filled with pasta dishes, grilled meat, and other Italian delicacies. "It's that or you try working for the family."
"What?" I snickered.
"Your cousins think you just don't care." My Mamma sighed. "You're almost 30. It's time you think of the family first and step out of your comfort zone for once. Talk to her parents, or work for the company. Your choice."
"Unbelievable," I murmured.
"Stefano, tell your son he has to think it over."
Right. My mother thought an obvious answer to a rhetorical question would be enough to sway me and my viewpoint. At her not-so-multifarious imagination, I almost forced my eyes to roll to the back of my aching skull.
"Certo." My Pappa Stefano raised his wine glass to his lips after sparing his wife of almost 30 years a mere glance.
My father's short affirmative response to my mother's whirlwind of suggestions left me staring down at my fist. Like always, they were telling me what to do, what I shouldn't do, and why I should live my life according to their impossible standards.
More than 20 years of it would have made anyone immune at this point, but, right now, I was actually having a hard time pretending it didn't make my blood boil with frustration─the kind that was about to turn into years of pure resentment. "Mamma, I'm not gonna ask her to marry me. Okay?"
"Why not?" Despite her incredulous tone, my mother said the words with a remarkably straight face.
An awkward silence stretched, until the shrill noise of my father's phone cut through the tension. "Scusi." He briskly stood up from his seat and took the call.
I looked up from my sauce-stained plate, studying my father's frown and stiff shoulders as he walked away from his chair. It was left at a slightly slanted angle at the end of the table.
To its right sat Mamma, next to the empty seat Mykaela sat in during dinner before she excused herself to take a call.
"I'm asking you a question, Maxim," Mamma went on. "Answer me properly."
"We don't talk about those stuff," I mumbled. My mother just wouldn't quit unless I aired my side.
"Why?"
"It's just not gonna happen." I scoffed. Actually I couldn't give two flying fucks about the subject. The only concern I had at the moment was the likelihood that Mykaela would have to leave first thing to catch a flight back to New York.
"Seems great for you," my cousin butted in. Being our host for the entire weekend, Ricchar probably felt obligated to break the tension when the dining area fell silent again. "I was chatting to her about Cloe and married life. Nice girl. Smart and polite." Ricchar neatened his button-down shirt and filled his wine glass.
True. Kel had been impressively social with my family throughout dinner, considering her quite glum mood before we arrived here at my cousin's place.
"You should talk to her about these things." Ricchar shifted into his big-brother tone, his Italian accent more audible, thanks to the red wine.
The unsolicited advice made me want to drop an inappropriate remark, but I opted to feign calmness and indifference. Maybe then they'd leave me and Mykaela alone.
"Just talk to her, bambino." My Mamma sighed after staring at me with her sharp hazel eyes. "And be honest."
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