"Shit, shit, shit," I whisper under my breath, turning the knob again, hoping this time I’ll hear the whoosh of the flame catching, instead of the click of the burner not lighting. This can't be happening. 

Click, click, click.

"Damn it!"

"What? What's wrong?" My mother's voice spills from the phone propped on the workstation next to me. "Should I call 911? Stan. STAN," she screeches at my father, in what I’m sure is a vain attempt to get his attention. Stan Falcone is no doubt sitting in his recliner watching sports highlights from the last week and cursing, not for the first time since last year, his decision to retire and stay home with his wife. If there's one thing my father loves, it's sports. Any sport, any time. If there's one thing he hates, it's my mom's tendency to overreact to any situation involving her children. If it weren't for her habit of letting us work our way out of our own messes after her initial panic wears off, most people would consider Beatrice Falcone to be the original helicopter mom from back before helicopter moms were even a thing. It always drove my dad nuts, so he tended to ignore her when she started freaking out, exactly like he is doing right now. "Stan, turn that television off and call 911. Tina has an emergency."

"Ma! No," I yell at the screen where the top half of my mother's concern wrinkled face is staring back at me. "It's nothing serious." I pick up the phone, turning the camera to take in the stove before pointing it at my face again. "See? The burner isn't lighting. I just need to call a repairman. It's not an emergency." What will be an emergency is if I can't get the range fixed and I don't have the sauces I need to make it to closing tonight. 

She pulls the phone away, getting most of her face on camera this time, and chides, "You know, if you had a husband, this kind of thing wouldn't happen."

It’s a familiar refrain, and I roll my eyes before I can stop myself. Once a week for the last five years, I video chat with my mother, and once a week for the last five years, she's gotten on my case about finding a husband. In the Falcone family, all the women get married young. All the women except for me, that is. My mother has never forgiven me for choosing to follow the path of the Falcone men: moving to a new city and opening a pizza restaurant. That I was already a spinster at the ripe old age of thirty-one when I left? Well, that just added insult to injury. In her mind, I should have moved into her house and let her take care of me until she found me a husband or I died of loneliness, whichever came first. 
Screw that. I'm fine being alone, gas range problems notwithstanding. I don't need to marry some substandard man to feel fulfilled in my life. Don’t get me wrong, I love my dad, but he’s helpless without my mother. I have zero interest in taking care of a grown ass man like that for the rest of my life. I have my pizza place, my friends, my podcasts, and my teapots. My life is perfect the way it is. 

"Don't roll your eyes at me, young lady." Despite being all too aware of my advanced age, my mother sometimes forgets I am a fully independent thirty-six-year-old woman, and she scolds me like I’m a disobedient child. She means well, but she gets on my nerves when she does it. I’m just usually better at hiding it. "You know how I feel about eye rolling."

"Sorry, Ma. Tell me, what kind of insurance exactly would a husband be against a gas range breaking?" Okay, so maybe I would never come right out and tell her she was getting on my nerves, but the annoyance seeps into my voice when I’m not careful. Like now.

"Valentina Violetta Falcone. You watch your tone when you're speaking to me." 

Ah, shit. She middle named me. She only does that when she’s truly upset. I didn’t realize how worried she was before I explained about the stove, and now I’ve made it worse. Maybe I should text my aunts and send them over to talk her off the ledge. But not before shooting a warning to text to my dad, of course. He'll want to be out of the house before all the aunts arrive with their loud voices and bottles of wine. He can ignore my mother without issue, but five loud, proud Italian women are more than even he dares to take on. 

"Sorry, Ma. I'm just frustrated with the stove. I shouldn’t take that out on you."

She purses her lips before granting me one of her wide, toothy grins. "You're forgiven. I could never stay mad at my favorite unmarried daughter."

"I'm your only unmarried daughter."

"And if you'd give a man half a chance, you could be as happy as your sisters are. I don't understand why you insist on doing everything yourself. Your aunts and I know just what kind of man you need. You should let us be your matchmakers. We'll have you married by next year."

And just like that, we're back on the subject of finding me a husband. I don't have time for this conversation today. If I can't get her off the phone soon, I’ll never get the stove fixed, and if I don't get the stove fixed, it’s going to be another awfully slow night at Wings and Pizza. And despite my earlier assertion of having a perfect life, I can't afford many more slow nights at Wings and Pizza. Thank goodness my landlord shows up at least once a day. If it weren’t for Wade, I’d have been out of business long ago. 

"Mom, I have to let you go. I need to call the handyman in to fix the stove. I'll talk to you next week, okay?"

"Oh no, that's too bad. You know your Aunt Vera is on her way over. She was hoping to talk to you today. I suppose there's nothing to be done for it, though. It’s not as though it’s not her own fault. If that woman could ever be on time for anything, she wouldn't have missed you."

"Okay, thanks Mom. Love you. Give my love to Dad and the aunts. Bye." I press the end call icon before she could continue the conversation. If there’s one thing my mom is great at, it’s extending a goodbye until you forget you were trying to get off the phone in the first place. One time, I was supposed to meet friend to see a movie, and my mom kept me on the phone so long that I wouldn't have even been able to catch the ending credits. Since then, I've learned to say a quick goodbye and hang up before she can suck me back in. I feel a little bad about it, but it really is the only way to get her off the phone.

"Chloe? Can you come back here?" I yell to the front of the store, where Chloe is washing the windows and getting ready to paint a new mural. Besides being one of my closest friends, Chloe is my sole full-time employee, and in house art maiden. She’s happy enough slinging pizza, but what really lights her up is expressing her creativity. She paints the store windows for every season, sometimes throwing in obscure holidays or sporting events, just for the hell of it. When she isn't working with me at the pizza shop, she’s using her artistic talents to paint murals and windows all around Tuft Swallow. But even though her heart isn’t in the restaurant like mine is, she’s the most reliable person I know. "Can you watch the store while I run these sauces up to my apartment? The stove won't light and we won't have enough sauces to make it through the day if I don't get these extra batches simmering."

Chloe wipes her hands on a towel and comes back to the stove. "Sure. I'll be here, anyway. Did you need me to call Wade for you?" 

“Nah, I'll call Thayer when I get upstairs.” Thayer Longspur, Tuft Swallow’s resident reluctant handyman, is my first choice when it comes to restaurant repairs. My landlord may be responsible for fixing things, but he’s not great at it, and I usually have to call Thayer, anyway. If I want my stove fixed today, I’ll be better off calling him right off the bat. “I wouldn't mind if you could give me a hand bringing these pots up, though.” I can carry a line of plates as long as my arm, but I've never figured out how to translate that skill to cooking pots.

"Sure thing." 

I take the two largest pots and walk to the exit, leaving Chloe to take the remaining two. After years of doing grunt work in restaurant kitchens, I’m used to carrying more than seems possible for a woman of my size. I may be a little on the chubby side, but there is no denying the strength in my arms. 

One of the best parts of living in an apartment above the restaurant I own is the commute. You just can't beat being able to roll out of bed, walk down the stairs, and be at your workplace. It's been five years and I still remember how soul-sucking it was taking public transit to and from work on top of the fourteen-hours I'd already worked in someone else's kitchen, back when I still lived in the city with my parents. Moving to Tuft Swallow was the best thing I ever could have done for my work life balance, and that's with still working fourteen-hour days more often than not. Being out of my mother's, and my four meddling aunts', reach is just a bonus. A peaceful, gloriously quiet bonus. 

I make it to the top of the stairs on the side of the building and kick the partially open door to my apartment, letting it swing wide before making my way inside. 

"You're still leaving your door open when you're in the store? That is so unsafe, Tina. You need to make sure it catches before you walk away, you know." Chloe follows me into the tiny apartment, stopping at the entrance to the kitchen while I set out each of my pots on a burner on the avocado green electric stove. "You can't keep leaving it open to the world."

"Here, pass me those." I ignore Chloe’s speech and gesture for her to pass me the pots she carried, placing them on the remaining small burners. 

"Don't avoid the question. How can you leave your door wide open like that? Anyone could come in here when you're at work."

I scoff. "It's Tuft Swallow. Who's going to come in? The worst thing that could happen is I'd find Winston in here eating the contents of my underwear drawer. And I assure, most of those underwear have seen better days.” I have a solid collection of cotton granny panties, but they can probably use updating soon. Working as much as I do doesn’t leave a lot of time for shopping, so I make a mental note to order some panties online. Thank god for online shopping. 

Chloe chuckles before schooling her features. "No. You need to start closing your door. And locking it, preferably. Tuft Swallow is small, sure, but that doesn't mean it's completely safe. You need to be more careful."

I wince at the note of concern in her voice. I suppose I've grown somewhat careless since relocating to Tuft Swallow, but it’s not as bad as Chloe is making it sound. So I leave my apartment door slightly ajar occasionally. It's not like it's wide open. A person would have to come up the stairs to even be able to tell. But despite how confident I feel about my safety, the last thing I want is for Chloe to worry.

“Okay, okay. You're right,” I say with a sigh. “I'll make more of an effort to remember.” 

She squints at me, hands on her hips, as though she's trying to parse the lie. Detecting none, she says, "Fine. I'll be checking on that from time to time. Think of it like…a surprise inspection from the health inspector. Except I'm a safety inspector. Your safety, specifically."

I roll my eyes before turning to face her. "Yes. Fine. I will close my door from now on. Happy?"

"Immensely," she says, a smug smirk pulling up the corner of her mouth. "And if you don't do it, I'll call your mother and have her drive down here from Boston to straighten you out."

My eyes widen at the threat. "Don't you dare, Chloe. You know what she's like when she comes here. She'll completely take over my kitchen and suddenly we'll be serving a full service menu instead of just pizza, wings, and the occasional pasta special. Nobody wants that."

Except... maybe the people of Tuft Swallow do want that? Maybe that’s why business has been so slow. Of course, it’s always possible that opening a big city style walk up pizza place in a such a tiny town wasn’t a sound business decision. Maybe I really am in over my head.