“This are just little samples,” she says. I look at the tray of what she calls “little samples,” and it’s enough food to last a week. “Little meatballs, garlic bread, calamari, bruschetta, sausage and rapini and arugula salad.” She smiles and puts down a stack of white plates in front of me.

“I want meatballs,” Dylan says. “And the sausage.” He looks at Justin and scrunches his nose. “No green stuff.”

Lara throws her head back and laughs. “Is there anything specific you want to eat for the main?”

“The main?” I ask, and then look at Justin, leaning in. “What does she mean by that?”

“I think a couple of pizzas and maybe a penne vodka and a spaghetti would be good,” he tells her, and she smiles and nods at us.

“Did you just order more food?” I ask Justin, who is already filling a plate for Dylan and then putting a bit of everything on one for me.

He puts the plate down in front of me and the smell of garlic and tomatoes hits my nose right away, making my mouth water. “Eat, sweetheart,” he says softly, and my stomach feels like it just did a wave. No one has ever called me that.

I look over at Dylan who has just destroyed the meatball and is asking Justin for another one. His mouth is covered in sauce. “So how many sisters did you say you had again?” I ask him as I take my first bite of the meatball, and it has to be the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.

“Three,” he says, chewing. “Allison is the oldest girl.” He smiles. “Then the twins, Zara and Zoe.” His eyes light up when he talks about his family.

“So you’re the baby?” I ask him again, this time eating a piece of the calamari. It melts in my mouth.

“Matthew is the oldest,” he says, looking at Dylan. “The guy who called me when I was driving.” Dylan couldn’t care less what he is saying as he eats his food.

“How much older?” I ask him.

“Eighteen years,” he says, and my eyes open wide. “Were you an oops?”

He throws his head back and laughs. “Matthew and Allison are from my mom’s first marriage.”

“So your half brother and sister?” I say, and he shakes his head.

“Not to us,” he says. “My dad is their dad; doesn’t matter what blood they have.” I put my hand on his arm. “Their father cheated on my mother, and she caught him. I’ve never met the man, but I’ve been told he’s a tool.”

“Do they still keep in touch with him?” My hand remains on his arm.