ALERA

I’m standing by the stove, slicing tomatoes while Dante's mother stirs something in the pot. The scent of garlic and fresh basil fills the kitchen, and honestly, I’m not doing a terrible job. She even said so herself earlier, well, I feel she exaggerated a bit with all that cooing about me making an excellent cook. But then, I should probably believe her and feel proud of myself because she Italian.

“Add a pinch more salt,” she says, her voice warm but stern, like a ...