“Did your parents teach you?” she asks, her gentle voice soothing the scratchiness in my throat at the mention of them. I look at my ball of dough. “Yes, and once I learned, I helped them make pasta every Friday afterward.” She gives my bicep a squeeze, leaving a dusty handprint on my skin. “Sounds like a tradition I can get behind.” “Don’t get me started on traditions,” I tease, surprised by my own lightheartedness. Usually I avoid talking about my parents, but with Lily, I don’t even notice, most likely because the typical heaviness I feel whenever I think about them is dormant.
