Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 25004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
It makes my head hurt. I can barely handle one phone, which Bianca is always stealing. I hate when she does that. She makes these videos of me cooking or my dishes and publishes them for everyone to see. I think I’m on a handful of social media accounts.
Attention isn’t something I crave, so I let her manage them. I understand it’s what’s needed. What I do crave, however, is some approval. Because while I’m pretending to not notice my brother Gio and Bianca fighting, I’m hanging on to every word waiting for them to find this food blogger.
“He’s not a boomer. Dad’s a boomer,” I point out. My sister gives me a soft glare that doesn’t cut me in half like it would everyone else. I think it’s only because I’m the talent around here. “Dad’s a boomer, and he's awesome.”
“Dad’s an awesome boomer because of you,” Bianca reports.
“Really?”
“Ah, yeah. His sweet little daughter has to fight against the system.” She pinches my cheek.
“Ouch!”
“Hey! Hand off the dimple.” Enzo comes to my defense. “She hurt those cute chubby cheeks?”
“Don’t call my cheek chubby.” I smack his hand away as he tries to rub where my sister grabbed.
“What’s wrong with chubby? Some of us—”
“No!” I shout, putting my latex glove over Gio’s mouth. I was about to make meatballs. “I don’t need to know your kinks.” He pulls my hand away. A scowl forms on his face.
“Whoa, you know what kinks are?” Enzo chimes in. His expression is like someone eating the most sour thing in the world. This is one of the downsides of me being so young compared to the rest of my family. They always presume I’m still a kid. I don’t think they’ll ever think of me as an adult.
“We have the most sexual parents in the world,” I remind them. They might not all live at home, but I still do. Forty years of marriage and my parents act like newlyweds. As much as I think it’s sweet and love it for them, they have really made the idea of love almost impossible. I’m never going to find a man who treats me the way my dad treats my mom.
Sure, they have some old-school values. It works for them, and I understand it. It’s kind of like my need to feed people; it not only gives them what they need, but it feeds my soul too. I can’t tell you why, but it does. Nothing gives me more happiness than when someone eats my food and loves it.
I know some stereotypes still linger in my culture, but my father has always taught my sister and me to be independent. We have always had our own bank accounts, and he made sure we had some degree under our belt.
People could call my father sexist, but my mom ate up everything he dished out, and he made sure there was nothing she wanted for. It’s hard to be upset over his caveman ways when all he cares about is keeping the women in his life safe in the best way he knows how, while still giving us room to grow.
I mean, look at my sister. She’s a badass bitch. Bianca can be sweet as can be. Until you fuck around and find out that she'll kill you with one of her four-inch heels without missing a beat. Then my father would get rid of the body, no questions asked.
“So?” I ask, hoping my sister found something. My mind hasn’t been able to stop thinking about the food critic that was here last night.
“Nothing,” she grumbles. “Men, it will probably take him two weeks to make a review.”
“Damn.” I want to know what he thought. He ordered one of everything. I should have gone and stolen a peek of him. I couldn't bring myself to do it. I’m way too shy to belong to this family.
“He enjoyed it all. Why else take it to go?” Enzo points out. He had cleared a ton of his plates while at the restaurant. What was left he took home. I’m guessing if he didn’t like it, he would have just left everything.
“It’s only been a day. Let’s give him a second,” I mutter. I want to both see this review and not. It’s torture waiting to be critiqued. I want it to be over. I can’t live under this stress. This is the first time in my life I’ve cared about what someone thought of my food.
I cook because I love it. It is an art to me. Now it could end my family's livelihood. My parents put so much money into the restaurant because of the faith they had in us. And now that all might be on the line.
Since I’m the youngest, everyone always thinks they have to take care of me. For once, I want to prove myself.