“You having a different menu?” I ask Julia.

“The wedding is in only six months; I’m on a vegan diet until then.”

“You’re vegan? Since when?”

“Since I need a pre-wedding detox. For the next semester, I’ve sworn off meat, dairy, seafood, sugar, gluten, and all other poison foods.”

“Good for you,” I say, trying to keep the sarcasm from my voice and doing my best not to roll my eyes. Secretly, I’m thanking the Christmas spirits she hasn’t convinced Mom to cook the vegan version of her mac and cheese for everyone.

“Guests first,” my mom chimes in. Eager to end the vegan discussion, I’m sure. She serves Paul and Diego, and then me and Dad. “Well, everyone, enjoy your meal… Bon appétit!”

“Bon appétit,” we all reply. Well, all except for Diego, who goes for a slightly different version, saying, “Buon appetito.”

“Is that Italian I hear, young man?” Dad asks.

“Yes, sir, I’m part Italian from my mother’s side.”

“Please, call me Jason,” my dad says. “So, you speak Italian?”

“Bene come l’Inglese.” Diego smiles.

“Oh,” Julia gasps. “I’ve always wanted to learn Italian.”

I think of my sister’s secret list of qualities for her perfect man, and mentally check off “speaks Italian.” I should also check off tall, dark, and with smoldering green eyes. She’s seen that.

“So, Diego, what is it that you do in New York?” my mom asks. “Nikki hasn’t told us much.”

“I’m an actor,” Diego replies.

The declaration is followed by a prolonged moment of silence.

“An actor?” my dad repeats. “What kind of acting?”

“Theater on Broadway would be the dream, of course, but for now I scrape by with whatever I can get. Commercials, modeling… Christmas is always good, so many Santa gigs are available.”

“Y-you play Santa at the mall?” my mom asks.

My parents are still a bit too “middle class” for this kind of future-son-in-law. I’d feel sorry for them, if not for the years of pestering me about settling down. This is like a small, sweet revenge.

“Yeah, but I mainly work as a server to pay the bills. Until my big break comes, I’m living paycheck to paycheck.”

Julia is openly gaping right now. I mentally check “struggling artist” off the list. I can’t wait for Diego to tell her he rides a motorcycle.

Dad, on the other hand, isn’t impressed. “How old are you?” he asks.

Guess we’re not over the “lack of a proper enough career to date my daughter” topic.

“Twenty-eight,” Diego answers.

“And do many actors have big breaks when they’re close to thirty? I thought they all had to start much earlier…”

“Depends on—”

“Diego’s job is actually how we met,” I interrupt. “We bumped into each other at the agency.” Then, wanting to make it clear the third degree is over—I might be paying Diego, but no one deserves to be grilled this hard—I turn to Mom. “Mom, you’ve outdone yourself. It’s like your mac and cheese gets better every year.”