Page 143 of Steamy Ever After

“So, who do you hang out with?”

No one… She didn’t want to talk about her miserable life because it only made her sad. “Tell me a joke.”

He laughed nervously. “Nothin’ like putting me on the spot.”

“Come on. Make me laugh. Give me some of your best material.”

“So I was with this girl the other night?—”

“No, uh-uh. You already told me how long it’s been, so I know you’re making that up. Tell me something real, something funny about your actual life.”

He thought for a moment and then relaxed. “Okay, so you know how my mom’s Irish but my dad’s Italian? Well, my Nona’s right off the boat. I mean, the woman speaks in hand gestures and broken English. She doesn’t understand the concept of feeling full, so when she sees you, the first thing she does is feed you. When you clear your plate, she fills it again. It’s like sitting through an inquisition with no escape. You eventually start to feel your organs shutting down from all the processed meat, but you’re in too much of a food coma to get away. In our family, turning down an Italian woman’s cooking is a greater sin than lying to a priest.”

She giggled, finding something warm and homey about the picture he painted. “She lives with your parents?”

“Oh yeah. My mom’s pretty tough, but she’s no match for Italian Mary. When Mom married Dad, Nona said to her, ‘You might be marrying him, but I loved him first and I’m’a gonna love him last. I plan to cook for him until the day I die.’”

She laughed at the way he imitated her Italian accent. “Does she ever get upset?”

“My mom? Sure!”

“No, Italian Mary.”

“Does she?” He let out a long, low whistle. “One time, my dad told her he was going out. This was back when he was a kid. Nona told him they had plenty of food at home and he wasn’t leaving her house to go snack on some puttana. They had a big blowout on the front lawn and he left anyway, but not before Nona tossed a lit cigarette into the back seat of his 1965, blue Impala. My dad loved that car.”

“Loved?”

“The entire back seat burned to ash. It spent years in our family’s garage waiting to be fixed. It’s still there. My mom hates it, and Nona spits on the hood every time she passes it.”

She loved the dysfunction he spoke of and her stomach hurt from laughing. “Why don’t you talk about them in your standup?”

He shrugged and reached for his soda bottle. “It’s just regular family crap.”

“You’re lucky.” Somehow their entwined hands had worked their way against her stomach. He moved his fingers ever so slightly, shifting her shirt out of the way and brushing a soft caress over her bare hip.

“Why am I lucky?” he whispered, looking into her eyes. His breath smelled sweet with traces of rum.

“Because not all families are as close as yours.”

“Your family’s not tight?”

She shook her head. “My mom left when I was little. She never calls or sends a Christmas card. I don’t even know if she’s still alive.”

“Damn. That’s rough.”

She wasn’t telling him for sympathy. She honestly didn’t know why she told him. She never spoke of her mother to anyone, not even Harrison.

“But your dad’s nice.”

Her heart stilled. The air in her lungs hardened into something heavy, like cement.

Everyone in Jasper Falls thought Ward Montgomery was such a standup guy. Why wouldn’t they? He had shovels and salt when they needed it. He fixed the tears in their screens and knew how to keep the houseflies away. He was everyone’s hero in a pinch, everyone except for his kids.

“Tell me another joke.”

“Why did the Italian cross the road?” He looked into her eyes expectantly, his breath teasing the wisps of hair surrounding her face.

“Why?”

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