Page 66 of It's Always Sonny

SONNY: My eyes are bleeding! Make it stop, Parky Poo!

PARKER: Okayzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

SONNY: The number you have dialed cannot be reached. Parkina.

PARKER: Not how auto-reply works. Workzzz.

SONNY: PJ.

PARKER: There. Was that so hard?

The whole time I drive the golf cart over to the cornhole field, I have to keep myself from veering off in the opposite direction. The lure of Sonny, especially after that hug …

Whew.

I expect to see some of Sonny’s cousins or siblings playing, but oddly, there isn’t a cousin or grandchild in sight. Instead, I spot Nonna, Great Aunt Mary … and Nonna’s kids and their spouses …

Including Sonny’s parents.

Oh no. This is the Old Guard. The OG Lucianos. Every single one of them is here.

I break out into a sweat in spite of the cold.

So.

Many.

Parental.

Figures.

I’m about to bolt for Sonny and his siblings when Sonny’s dad sees me and lights up like Times Square.

Oh, his dad. His dad is a teddy bear of a man who always acts so happy to see me. Is he going to bring up my fainting? He’s so kind. Is he mortified for me?

“Parker! Good to see you up on your feet. Come on over and be my partner, will you? Lisa left me alone against these wolves.”

“Those wolves are your mom and aunt,” Lisa says at another cornhole board. “You okay, sweetie?”

“I’m all better. Thanks. And thanks, Helen,” I say to Sonny’s aunt, who’s playing on another pair of boards with Lisa, Uncle Bruno, and Aunt Elaine.

She smiles, and that’s it.

That’s all the fuss they make out of it.

Well, that wasn’t bad. That was … that was actually nice.

Edward waves me over. He’s standing next to Great Aunt Mary, and Nonna is by herself at another board opposite them.

I’ve never played cornhole before. The name is so weird, I thought it was a myth made up by Canadians or Midwestern frat boys.

But no, here it is. Slanted platforms with holes near the middle sit maybe twenty-five feet across from each other, and to the side of either platform stand the OG Lucianos. Throwing beanbags.

“Um,” I pause.

I hate games where someone can be made to feel bad for losing. This isn’t a group event like archery where you’re not competing against any one person. Playing a game like this means there’s a winner and a loser. It means my competition goes home devastated … or I do.

A primal urge for acceptance rages against my fear that I’ll disappoint Sonny’s dad and he’ll hate me.