Page 84 of Until August

The meatballs were fine, and we both knew it, but it was a little game we sometimes played with my father. He got so offended whenever anyone said a word about his food.

“Did you burn the garlic for the sauce again, Antonio?” my mother asked, knowing perfectly well she was playing with fire.

My father pressed his lips together and glared at my mother. Then he made a big show of tasting the sauce and declaring, “È spettacolare!” He punctuated his words with a chef’s kiss. Over-the-top, as usual.

“August is an unusual name,” my mother said, circling back to the conversation from earlier.

“Not really. He was named after Auguste Escoffier.” Not sure why I supplied that bit of information. Or why August was of so much interest to them. But my parents had always been nosy. They’d know every detail of my life if it were up to them.

“Huh. Interesting,” my father said, stroking his jaw, eyes narrowed in thought. “What’s his last name?”

I hesitated, although I wasn’t sure why. Not like the name would mean anything to him. “Harper.”

“August Harper,” my father repeated, and then it was like a lightbulb went off in his head. “The boy from the Farmers Market?”

My jaw dropped. How could my father have known that? August hadn’t told us his name. I knew because I’d questioned my father about it on the drive home that day.

Luca’s gaze darted from my father to me. “What boy from the Farmers Market?”

Aunt Celia joined us with the newest Benedetti in her arms. My cousin Elio’s baby daughter, Mia. We had an entire backyard, but the party always ended up in our tiny sunflower-yellow kitchen.

Instead of dropping the subject like any sane person would, I questioned my father, “How did you know his name?”

“He came back looking for you a few weeks later.”

“He did? I never knew that. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“Who are we talking about?” Luca asked, not following the thread.

“August, apparently,” Ari said, not even trying to hide her curiosity.

My father speared me with a look. “And what would you have done with that information?”

“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. But I had a right to know.”

“A right to know? She thinks she had a right to know,” he told my mother. She shook her head and sighed. As always, they were a united front. “You were only a teenager,” my father continued. “And that boy was trouble. It was written all over his face.” He lifted his chin and squared his broad shoulders. “He was rude and arrogant and not the kind of boy a father wants his daughter to chase after. You wouldn’t have approved,” he told my mother, who nodded solemnly, accepting him at his word.

“I wasn’tchasinganyone.”

“He kissed you.” My father threw up his hands. “Do you think I’m blind? You think I didn’t see what happened?” He swirled his hand in the air. “He stole pistachios right out from under our nose.”

Oh, my God. My father was ridiculous sometimes.

Just drop it, Nic. Let. It. Go.

I didn’t.

“And what did you tell him?”

“It was a long time ago.” He waved his hand in the air, dismissing it. “You think I remember that?”

“Well, you remembered his name and exactly who he was, so you can’t expect me to believe you forgot the conversation.”

My mother patted my arm, playing peacemaker. “Honey, it was a long time ago. What does it matter now? You found the perfect man for you, so there’s no point in rehashing ancient history.”

And this was all true. Those were valid points. But still. I couldn’t help but wonder whatcouldhave happened. “You scared him away, didn’t you?” I asked my father.

It wasn’t the only time he’d pulled a stunt like that. When I was seventeen, I was making out with a guy from our neighborhood. We were in my bedroom, just messing around, and my parents were supposed to be out. I didn’t hear them come home. My father ripped the guy away from me and practically threw him across the room, scaring the crap out of him.