Page 89 of Angel

Oh shitty, shit, shit. I forgot today was Sunday. I wouldn’t have agreed to come out here if I’d realized I’d be intruding on Sunday dinner with Angel’s family.

Angel steps forward, but I tug him back.

“Are you sure about this?” I ask, resigning myself to a long subway ride back to Brooklyn. “Sunday dinner is a big deal. I’d understand if this is too much, too soon.”

Angel’s eyes blaze with a fierceness I’ve never seen in him before. “What do you want to do?”

I gape, trying to sort through the feelings tumbling around inside me. “I honestly don’t know.”

I don’t want to run. I don’t want to hide. But I also left this neighborhood for a reason. I’ve had enough of their silent judgment to last me several lifetimes. Why would I willingly subject myself to that again?

For Angel.

I’d do it for Angel.

He’s stepped so far outside of his comfort zone for me. Done so many things that must’ve been terrifying for him. He had plenty of opportunities to turn around and walk away, but he never let fear dictate his actions. He never said no because he was scared.

He’s been so brave—he’s being so brave. Bringing me to meet his mom at Sunday dinner is exactly the opposite of what Hayden was afraid he would do. It’s the least I can do to be brave in return. It’s only one meal, after all. A few hours, tops. I’ve lived through worse. I can survive this. Then we’ll escape back upstairs, or maybe even go to my place. It’s not the end of the world.

I take a deep breath. Yeah. Okay. Sunday dinner with Angel’s mom isn’t what I thought I’d be doing after shooting a porn video today. But lemons and lemonade. I can do this.

I nod and Angel leads us downstairs.

The downstairs apartment is laid out almost exactly the same way my parents’ house is. We go through the living room to the kitchen where Mrs. Russo is chopping vegetables. Very aggressively.

We stop in the doorway. “Hey, Mama.”

She doesn’t look up. “Roll out the gnocchi.”

Angel and I exchange a silent look. She’s obviously talking to him, since I have no idea how to roll out gnocchi and should never be allowed to try. He nods to the kitchen table, and as quietly as possible, I slide onto a chair.

Angel starts opening drawers and pulling out kitchen utensils I wouldn’t have a clue what to do with.

“Where’s Sabrina?” he asks.

“Out.”

“Did she take Jonah with her?”

“Yes.”

Angel shoots a tense glance in my direction. “Is she coming home for dinner?”

“I don’t know, Angel. If you want to know so badly, why don’t you call her yourself? It’s not like I know anything that’s happening with my children.”

I shift awkwardly in my seat. I certainly hope she doesn’t know everything her children do. If she was aware of all of Angel’s extracurricular activities, I doubt I’d be allowed to sit in her kitchen like this.

Angel’s ears go red, but Mrs. Russo is so focused on murdering innocent veggies that she doesn’t notice. Thank fucking god.

Silence descends on the kitchen as the two of them work side by side. It’s actually fascinating, watching them move around each other as if they’ve been doing this their whole lives. Mrs. Russo hands Angel utensils and he immediately knows what she wants him to do next. He grabs things from the tops of cabinets before she asks for them. There’s a comfort between them that I’ve never had with either of my parents.

Is this what’s at stake here? Angel’s so close to his mom. They depend on each other so much. Is my relationship with him going to put this in jeopardy? Could I live with myself if I came between them?

Gradually, the scent of home cooking fills the kitchen and my stomach grumbles in anticipation. Dishes of gnocchi with fresh tomato sauce, roasted vegetables, caprese salad, and cheesy garlic bread fill the table. I offer to help set the table and Angel hands me forks and knives and napkins.

Mrs. Russo is the last to sit down and the second her butt hits the chair, she launches into saying grace. “Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen.”

I hurry to make the sign of the cross, which I haven’t done since… god, I don’t even remember. My family is more of a Christmas-and-Easter type, so even though Mom has some crucifixes hanging up at home, we never said grace before meals.

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