Emilia (Part 1)(4)

My dad turned on some music and faint notes of Frank Sinatra floated through the air. You’d think he would play something more age appropriate for my birthday, but no, not my father. Everything revolved around him and what he liked. I glared at the clock on my phone, willing the minutes to pass. I couldn’t stop thinking about whether Sal would make an appearance.

God, I wanted him to. He’d become my dirty little obsession. Rather than practice for my upcoming recital, I daydreamed about Sal showing up, whisking me off to some secluded location and confessing he liked me and wanted to spend time with me. This wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for most eighteen-year-olds, except I wasn’t like the rest of the girls my age.

As a general rule, I never put much stock into what people thought of me. I didn’t care about making friends. I never had a crush on anyone, male or female. I only cared about escaping the arranged marriage looming in my future like a date with the guillotine…until now, and it scared me.

“Ugh.” I jammed the heel of my hand into my forehead.

I needed to pull my head out of my ass. Ten minutes until my birthday party officially started, and instead of thinking about celebrating turning into an adult, I was behaving like a lovesick preteen.

I couldn’t afford to get sidetracked with a stupid crush that could never go anywhere. I owed it to my mom to break my father’s hold on me. She wanted the two of us to start a new life away from him, and I fully intended to fulfill her dying wish.

My cousins Gian and Carmela barged into the house laughing and joking with each other, and I rolled my eyes. Truthfully, I’d always been a little jealous of them. They had a mother, a father, and each other. I had nobody, not since my mom died anyway. My dad acted like a jail warden, not a parent.

“Happy birthday to my favorite dark fairy,” Gian said, ruffling his hand through my hair before drawing me into a tight hug.

As much as there was a wedge of age and awkwardness between my extended family and me, they never failed to treat me kindly. They hugged and kissed me all the time, which wasn’t surprising. The Trassatos were a family of huggers and kissers, showering everyone with love and affection. My father and I were the anomalies, cold to their warmth, dark to their light. I never could figure out what made us different. Maybe it was because my mom wasn’t one of them and never wanted to be. Or maybe because her death had emotionally handicapped both of us.

“Screw you, Gianluca.” I drew out his full name, knowing he disliked it as much as I hated the little nickname he and his sister gave me. So what? I liked the color black. A lot. It fit my mood.

“Pleasant as ever, I see.”

“Gian, be nice. It’s her birthday. You know she doesn’t like that nickname,” Carmela chastised, shoving her long wavy hair over her shoulder and pressing a kiss to each of my cheeks. She’d been dating Rocco for as long as I could remember, and she was beautiful in a sexy way that drove guys crazy. In a nutshell, she was my polar opposite. When people looked past my all black clothing, they called me cute, adorable, and tiny.

Gian grinned. “Jesus, lighten up. I was kidding.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” I raked my middle finger up the side of my face, my smile growing with every centimeter.

Scanning the decorations, his meaty paw came down on my shoulder, and he shivered mockingly. “Holy shit. What happened in here? Did somebody kill Big Bird?”

I cringed. Feathers were scattered on top of the tables like confetti. A spun sugar bird nest filled with brightly colored candy eggs perched on top of the cake. Fake birds hung from the light fixtures, taunting me with their beaks and beady eyes. It was like my personal nightmare had come to life.

“What can I say? I love birds.”

“Uh huh.” Gian popped open the bottle of Limoncello tucked under his arm and filled three plastic glasses with the greenish-yellow syrupy spirit. I loved Limoncello, and luckily for me, he brought the good stuff.

I wasn’t old enough to drink, but our family didn’t care about legalities. I could have a drink on occasion as long as I didn’t abuse the privilege or embarrass my family. My father waxed poetic on more than one occasion about the wisdom of his parents serving him watered down wine with dinner from the time he turned eight. He firmly believed that introducing alcohol in small doses at a younger age reduced the likelihood of overindulging in the future.

Carmela handed Gian and me a glass and raised hers in the air. “Happy Birthday, Emilia, our favorite cousin.”

I tapped both of their glasses and gulped down the fiery sweet liquid. “Another,” I croaked.

Humor shining in his golden eyes, Gian filled my glass again, and I immediately tossed back the contents. I needed it if I wanted to get through this party without either constantly searching for Sal or being reduced to tears by the freakish feathered creature display.