Angelo shook his head and took a long drink of his soda. “You know how Vincent gets.” “He misses you,” Denise agreed, shoving a cluster of French fries into a pool of ketchup. “Try calling him again.” “He hangs up as soon as he hears my voice.” I slid my chair closer to the table so that a woman could squeeze by behind me. The diner near my work was packed and we’d been lucky to snag seats. “But thanks to caller ID,” Denise said, “he knows it’s you before he answers. He could just let it go to voice mail if he really didn’t want to talk.” I picked at the bun of my hot dog, struggling with a lack of appetite. I’d been on the outs with Vincent for nearly two weeks, and the Rossis had finally decided enough was enough. My mother had called the day before, and Nico had followed up that night. Angelo and Denise hit me up at work to meet them for lunch. I half expected my dad to show up for dinner.
