“We’re all worried about you,” he says, sitting beside me on the sofa. We’ve finished eating the pizza. Four slices remain; leftovers for tomorrow’s breakfast or lunch.
“Who’s worried about me?” The pizza was delicious, perfectly DeLucca. The three types of cheeses spectacular.
“Me. Your mom. Jesus.”
“Jesus?” I ask, half smiling, knowing he doesn’t have a religious bone in his body.
He nods. “Yes, Jesus. She cares about all of us.”
“Jesus is a female?” I ask him, enjoying our conversation and his fresh whimsy.
“Of course. Why not?”
“I like your thinking, Jamie.”
“That’s a first,” he tells me, which is true. “So what’s bothering you? Now is the time for us to hash it out. I’m super worried about you, and…I don’t like it when you ignore me and the rest of the world.”
I become frenzi
