‹ Prequel: Chasing Cars
Around Our Heads
Eight
Since Olivia was determined to go out and do something, I left Avery at home with Chris on Sunday so that we could go to the Olive Garden. I mostly just wanted the breadsticks, and they said it was my choice since I was recently engaged. So we all sat around the table telling embarrassing stories about our menfolk, even though that was why Olivia wanted to go out in the first place.
“I still don’t know how you can call this Italian food,” Oliva remarked as I dunked a breadstick into a bowl of alfredo sauce.
She was half Italian, and her mom always did all the cooking and made amazing meals every night. And they had things like stuffed shells on the regular. Whereas I had zero Italian. At least, I assumed. My mother wasn’t Italian, and neither was my adopted father. I’d only met my biological father once and was too infuriated by his visit to ask about his family’s trip to America.
“It tastes better,” I said, ignoring her but also knowing this would send her into a rant about real food vs. fake food.
“You know their sauce comes out of a can, right?” she added, without a hitch.
“I like when it comes out of a can.”
Olivia couldn’t possibly understand how I thought a chain franchise of Italian-ish restaurants was great to me because her mom was practically a chef. My mother cooked things like macaroni and cheese with hotdogs in it, or Hamburger Helper, and called it a meal. But Olivia also grew up with a very traditional family. Like she had one older brother and nieces and nephews, and they all got together once a week to eat home-cooked meals and visit with their parents. I had one older brother, one younger brother, and a younger sister. Plus, a cousin that lived with us a lot during his life. And only one of them still spoke to me.
Our drinks came, and there was a few moments of confusion while we all tried to figure out who ordered what. However, when everything was settled, the two other ladies immediately zeroed in on my drink of choice.
“What’s that?” Claudia asked me.
“Strawberry lemonade.”
“Is there booze in it?” Oliva asked.
“No.” They did some more staring. “What?”
“What are you, pregnant?” I took a sip of my lemonade.
“Maybe.”
“Are you serious? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“We just found out for sure yesterday.”
“So you didn’t just get engaged because you got pregnant, right?” I narrowed my eyes.
“We have a three-year-old daughter. So if we were going to get engaged because of a pregnancy, we would have done it three years ago.” She laughed.
“I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t a baby engagement,” she defended.
“We already agreed on multiple occasions that we wanted to get married,” I explained. “And I guess we sort of planned to get married before having another kid. And well, he got the ring, and baby number two decided it was time.”
“Well, so much for girl’s night out, huh? Congratulations either way.” They lifted their glasses to me.
“I guess this makes me the designated driver, huh?”
“You guessed right. We’re getting wasted in your honor.”
“Cheers.”
“I still don’t know how you can call this Italian food,” Oliva remarked as I dunked a breadstick into a bowl of alfredo sauce.
She was half Italian, and her mom always did all the cooking and made amazing meals every night. And they had things like stuffed shells on the regular. Whereas I had zero Italian. At least, I assumed. My mother wasn’t Italian, and neither was my adopted father. I’d only met my biological father once and was too infuriated by his visit to ask about his family’s trip to America.
“It tastes better,” I said, ignoring her but also knowing this would send her into a rant about real food vs. fake food.
“You know their sauce comes out of a can, right?” she added, without a hitch.
“I like when it comes out of a can.”
Olivia couldn’t possibly understand how I thought a chain franchise of Italian-ish restaurants was great to me because her mom was practically a chef. My mother cooked things like macaroni and cheese with hotdogs in it, or Hamburger Helper, and called it a meal. But Olivia also grew up with a very traditional family. Like she had one older brother and nieces and nephews, and they all got together once a week to eat home-cooked meals and visit with their parents. I had one older brother, one younger brother, and a younger sister. Plus, a cousin that lived with us a lot during his life. And only one of them still spoke to me.
Our drinks came, and there was a few moments of confusion while we all tried to figure out who ordered what. However, when everything was settled, the two other ladies immediately zeroed in on my drink of choice.
“What’s that?” Claudia asked me.
“Strawberry lemonade.”
“Is there booze in it?” Oliva asked.
“No.” They did some more staring. “What?”
“What are you, pregnant?” I took a sip of my lemonade.
“Maybe.”
“Are you serious? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“We just found out for sure yesterday.”
“So you didn’t just get engaged because you got pregnant, right?” I narrowed my eyes.
“We have a three-year-old daughter. So if we were going to get engaged because of a pregnancy, we would have done it three years ago.” She laughed.
“I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t a baby engagement,” she defended.
“We already agreed on multiple occasions that we wanted to get married,” I explained. “And I guess we sort of planned to get married before having another kid. And well, he got the ring, and baby number two decided it was time.”
“Well, so much for girl’s night out, huh? Congratulations either way.” They lifted their glasses to me.
“I guess this makes me the designated driver, huh?”
“You guessed right. We’re getting wasted in your honor.”
“Cheers.”