Page 3 of Back for Seconds

In da flesh.

***

My cheeks immediately began to burn. He was staring back. Our gaze had connected. I was slightly taller than your average Italian grandmother. So, sure, it made sense that our eyes would connect over a sea of heads.

What didn’t make sense was how long I let his dark eyes warm me, how long I let them dance up and down the curve of my body.

I yanked my eyes away. “AnneMarie.” I flopped back into my seat and grabbed her by the elbow. “We need to leave now.”

“Ow!” She swatted me away. “You have those freaky little hands! Just like your father.”

“Mother, please. Finish your pretzels and grab your scarf. We need to go.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

I cut my eyes in a vicious angle toward Bernie and Joey. Then, in a crisp whisper, I hissed: “I know that man.”

“Joseph Pagano?” She raised her brows at me, impressed. “What, didja sleep with him and never call him back?”

“God, no. I cyberbullied him.” I grabbed the last pretzel off her plate. “I’ll handle this one while you go grab our coats. Then you distract Joanne while I crawl out the back door and pull the car around. Ok? And break.”

She scrunched her nose in a look of mild disgust. “Crawl?”

There was no time to argue. Bernie and JoeyDaVegan had shed their parkas and were making their way into the living room, pointed at us like a missile. I silently cursed whichever Swede had propagated open concept design and shrunk backward, trying my best to make myself small. Like a Transformer jamming itself back into its car shape.

Joey’s curls were pulled back off his face, secured into a neat ponytail, the hard angles of his face on full display. His jaw was wide and strong, his mouth broad and pouty. The only part of his face with any sort of gentleness were his eyes. Dark, rich brown, flickering with an implacable, unmistakable happiness.

What did my eyes flicker with? Did they flicker at all, or were they just two pools of inky darkness, flat and unaffected?

I snapped out of my swirl of self-loathing. Bernie was coming for us, making little backward waves like an Italian baby. “Hi, girls!”

“Oh, brother,” Mom grumbled. “Give me an effin’ break.”

“I wish I was dead,” I croaked in response.

Joey followed close behind, depositing his cookie tray on the designated cookie table, then his wine on the appropriate wine table, all the while greeting every woman with a kiss or a hug like Mr. Pope himself. With his hands free, Joey began fiddling with the sleeves of his burgundy sweater, so tight it was essentially painted onto the well-honed contours of his chest. With each step, he filled the room a little more. He nearly took my breath away.

“AnneMarie, you remember my son Joseph, right? Little Joey?”

Mom snapped into character with alarming speed, grabbing my hand and yanking me to my feet beside her. No matter how she felt personally, we were going to be polite. That was nonnegotiable. She’d spent years behind the cash register at Genie’s, pretending she cared about a myriad of Little Joeys.

“Wow, not so little anymore!” She delivered this quip with a bright smile, placing a thin hand on my shoulder. “And you remember my Junebug, right?”

“Oh my goodness, June Rose! Aren’t you gorgeous?” Bernie smiled at me—a warm, heartfelt smile. “Are you still teaching math and science?”

“Hi!” I sung out, uncharacteristically loud. “No. I do, um, data analysis now. I work for a market research company building propensity models using consumer behavior data. It’s mostly user experience stuff but still extremely accurate—” Everyone’s eyes had glazed over. I cleared my throat. “Not teaching. Still doing nerd shit.”

Bernie let out an appreciative chuckle. “Good, sweetheart. This is my son, Joey. He’s a chef.”

I tucked my lips into my mouth, quickly diverting my eyes to the top of Joanne’s Christmas tree. Oh my fuck.

Had he seen the video? If he had, he’d know me right away. The two nose rings were a dead giveaway. I mean, how many chubby chicks with two nose rings were stitching his videos and laughing until they almost threw up?

“Ah, Ma, you’re too nice.”

Jesus. Joey hadn’t spoken in any of the videos I’d watched; part of me had held out hope he would have a squeaky little nasally voice. But sometimes god does give with both hands. Of course, his voice was a rich and smooth baritone, resonating right through my bones and directly into my uterus. It was the type of baritone built for selling American-made vehicles and extra creamy peanut butter. “I’m just a personal trainer.” I let his voice pull my eyes back to his. He was watching me, full lips pushed into a soft smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Personal trainer!” Like a sleeper cell, my mother was activated. “Junie, didn’t you want to lose five pounds!” This was not a question; it was a statement she sung with the vigor and vibrato of a church cantor. For as long as I could remember, my mother had been trying to trick me into losing five pounds.