Page 95 of The Best Friend Power Play

"Any time."

He smiles, and I can see the Brock I know and love in there, buried deep under layers of pain I may not understand but can relate to all the same.

"So," Pa says. "We had a call from the lawyers."

Bianca perks up straight away. I clench my jaw and glance over at Nonna, who clocks her reaction, too. She looks at me with a frown and eyes that say, 'Can you believe her?'

No, I really can't.

"The appraisal of assets has been completed," Ma says. "The next step is to ensure all outstanding debts and taxes are paid. Once that is done, the remaining assets will be distributed to you all."

"Any ETA on that?" Bianca asks.

"We don't know," Ma answers. "Maybe a month. Possibly two."

"Right." Bianca turns to me with a smile that makes my skin crawl. "You, mister, are going to need a good PR team after you get your funds and you and Hannah divorce."

I don't know if it's Bianca's lack of sensitivity in how she's treating this delicate situation—I mean, hello, Ma is sitting at the table. This isn't easy for her—or whether it's hearing the D-word fall out of her mouth, but my self-restraint breaks. "I have a good PR team, Bianca, and I won't be changing. Not now. Not ever. Is that clear?"

The room falls deathly silent.

"Oh, okay. Sorry. I just…"

She trails off, and I can't help feeling bad for losing my cool. Not to mention, I have Malik glaring at me, so I say, "Sorry, Bianca. I didn't mean to snap. Thank you for your offer, but I really am happy with my current representation. If that ever changes, you'll be the first person I call."

She looks up at me, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "I don't answer calls, because ew. Send me a DM instead."

I grit my teeth. "Fine. I'll do that."

The tension subsides, and the conversation returns to normal topics. Malik complains about how hard it is to find good contractors for his construction business, and Sandy tells us about a parrot who came into the vet clinic with the dirtiest mouth, which gets everyone laughing.

At the end of dinner, Ma and I are in the kitchen helping Nonna with the dishes because I refuse to let her clean up by herself. I don't care if it's offensive—I am helping.

We're at the sink. She's washing, I'm drying, and Ma is cleaning up and putting the leftovers into Tupperware containers.

"Have I ever told you the story about how I met your nonno?" Nonna asks, handing me a plate.

My grandfather passed away a year before Trevor and I were born.

"No. I don't think you have."

"Our families lived next door to each other in Positano. We grew up together. Celebrated all the holidays and birthdays."

I stop drying, a feeling of familiarity sweeping over me. Where is she going with this? "O-kay."

"We were friends. Even though he was only four months older than me, he felt like a protective big brother. All through our childhoods, through school, until our senior year of high school. We were walking home from school one day, eating ice-cream, when he stopped suddenly, and said, 'Geneva, penso che ti amo.'"

"Er, sorry, Nonna, my Italian's a little rusty."

She gives me a playful hip bump. "It means I think I love you."

I put down the plate and fling the dish towel over my shoulder. "Whoa."

"You understand what I'm saying, mio tesoro?"

Uh, yeah, I think I just pinpointed where my chicken gene came from. Thanks, Nonno. Seems like declaring your love for someone by prefacing it with an I think is a Palladino family trait.

But then I think about the bigger point Nonna's making. She might actually be the best person to help me with what I've been struggling with. "How did you go from seeing him and loving him as a brother figure, to…you know, romantic love?"

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