If I thought the smell of garlic and Italian cooking was tempting before, it is nothing compared to the way it hits me once I’m actually in the kitchen. The onion-garlic-tomato-butter deliciousness practically knocks me over.
His mom is standing over a few pots: pasta, sauce, spitting simmering minced garlic. She’s heavy and her hair is the same color as Joe’s; just as thick, but wiry and knotted. She reminds me of a book Cate used to read me when I was little, Strega Nona, about an Italian pasta-making witch. Joe’s mom is totally Strega Nona. Her apron is paisley and covered with tomato remnants and oil splotches.
“Hi, Mrs. Donavetti,” I squeak out.
“Mom, this is Tabitha. My friend,” Joe says. He puts a hand on my back and pushes me toward her. I stick my hand out, and she smiles and nods to the huge wooden spoons she has—one in each hand.
“Lovely to meet you, Tabitha,” she says. “You’ll be joining us for dinner, I hope?”
“Smells amazing,” I say, nodding. She glows and exchanges an indecipherable look with Joe.
An hour later I know exactly what that look meant. Mrs. Donavetti hates Sasha Cotton. I know this because she talks about Sasha through the entire meal, wringing her hands and chomping so hard on her mussels and clams and al dente pasta that I think she’s going to chip a tooth.
“Joe just shouldn’t be with a girl that troubled,” she says, spinning long strands of linguini over her fork with expert ease. “You know her well?”
“Not too well,” I say.
“Not too close with her?”
“Oh, no,” I say. She smiles and nods. Right answer.
“You’re a good friend to Joe,” she says. “He needs someone like you. Grounded. Smart. Good girl.” I nod and don’t look in Joe’s direction. The conversation has gotten strange and I don’t feel able to really participate in it.
“Mom, chill,” Joe says at last, and Mrs. Donavetti shrugs and smiles my way. Like I am the girl she’s been waiting for.
“Want a little more, Tabitha?” she asks. I’m not really hungry after devouring a whole bowl of her stupendous seafood pasta, but the sauce is so spectacular and the noodles so comforting that I can’t say no.
“Yes, please.”
“Good girl,” she says, and again looks to Joe with that I told you so look. I guess Sasha never asks for seconds.
I am in Joe’s house. I am smiling at his mother. I have found the one person in the universe who prefers me to Sasha Cotton, the one person immune to her long legs and dim smile and breathy lullaby voice. I am touching elbows with Joe because we can’t hold hands, but touching elbows might be even better. My funny bone tingles with recognition: This is love.
Halfway through my seconds I duck into the bathroom and post to Life by Committee. I’m a pot boiling over, and I can’t tell Elise. I can’t tell Cate and Paul. No one I love would approve of this or give me the response I’m looking for. I want a squeal of delight and encouragement and stories about @sshole’s parents, who got married after their shady start.
I want LBC.
I wish I could speak out loud to them, because capitalized words and emoticons and exclamation points aren’t enough to convey what it feels like to be in this house playing Girlfriend and knowing that I never could have done this alone. Alone I would chicken out and stay home eating scones and texting Elise and watching Cate’s belly grow and my life vanish.
BITTY: I’m terrified. But it’s sorta all happening. The life I want. Not the way I pictured it, but the way it has to be.
Mrs. Donavetti eventually leaves us alone, when she is sure we are stuffed full of pasta and shellfish and garlic. Joe and I stay at the kitchen table and she busies herself upstairs, and I want it to be this way forever.
“Your mom likes me,” I say. I scoot my chair a little closer to his, and he doesn’t protest.
“She does.”
“She’s not so into Sasha.”
“Come on, Tabby,” he says. He fidgets in his seat.
“Just saying.”
“I don’t want to talk about Sasha,” he says. I scoot my chair in a little more. Fine by me.
“I just— Don’t you want us to be . . . more?” I can’t believe I’m actually saying it to his face, not hiding behind the computer screen or my phone or anything.
“Don’t get like that. You already know how I feel.” The words Joe says don’t match up with the things his body is doing. For instance: he sounds like he is annoyed with me, but his hand has found its way to my thigh, and his face is now close enough that I can feel his breath travel across that sweet line from my ear to my neck.
“Sort of . . .”
“This is all really hard,” he says. “Having feelings for two people at once.” He keeps pressing his lips together and rubbing my thigh. I’m not even moving, but I’m out of breath from sitting near him.