Growing up, our mom used to overshare. January and I always knew exactly what our financial situation was, our mom’s struggles, her day-to-day, what she thought of people, her hopes, dreams, and disappointments.TMI, as my nephews would call it nowadays. Maybe that was why January and I kept things to ourselves.
There was no escaping our mother’s expectations of us—to be nothing like her. But despite her struggles raising three daughters alone, she was a much happier person than I had ever been. I wished I could be like her. January was more like our mom—she went for what she wanted. It got her in trouble sometimes, but it also filled her life with meaning. To me, the shops were it, and I gave them my all.
Green Cardbegan playing on my screen. Somehow, this movie had played in my head all day, as if I needed Andie MacDowell to relate with because she was in the same plight.
“A rom-com?” January had asked then.
My sisters called me June the Prune, their nerdy older sister with her two feet so deeply rooted in the ground that she’d never chase the fantasy that rom-coms sold. Even more so now. Approaching forty, I had realized only a few men were worth the trouble.
While the movie played in the background, I made myself dinner of sautéed tofu coated in chia seeds, quinoa flakes, and Himalayan salt. With a side of green salad and virgin olive oil, this was one of my favorite meals.
But when I sat down to eat, a few bites were all I could stand. Instead, I busied myself with watering Helen, Morty, Frank, and Estelle—my plants. Though they kept dying on me and I kept buying new ones, I gave them all the same names, hoping the new ones would make it through. I refused to give up.
Then I made sure the kitchen was spotless again and everything was back in its place—shoes, bag, the sofa throws. It didn’t take much for such a small space to be in disarray. And I loved order, in my surroundings and myself.
Order was a necessity for me. In the disorder our lives had become after our father died, order meant sanity. Cleaning others’ homes, offices, and even our school in Wayford for so many hours had left our mom with no energy for our home, so it was up to me to watch over my sisters and keep our rented apartment in livable shape.
Controlling the chaos was crucial.
I overcompensated.
Everything in my adult life was in order. Until it wasn’t.
I couldn’t wait to restore it.
Thinking about the younger man I had vowed to love and cherish today, I wanted to scream at the mess I had made of my life. I hadn’t stayed single until now only for this—to marry a stranger who had a criminal record in Italy, which Jerry had assured me were “just old misdemeanors.”
But salvaging the business was salvaging my life. And it was something I was doing for my employees, too. They depended on me. I had already let myself down, the least I could do was not let them down. Or my family. If I could only keep this marriage a secret.
Watching Andie MacDowell running into the arms of her fake husband, who she ended up falling in love with, my sneer echoed in the space of my apartment.
Love was something that happened to other people. Not to me.
4
Angelo
I took the gold band off as soon as I closed my apartment door behind me, leaving it on the kitchen counter where I began cooking lunch for one.
If my mom could have seen me making pasta like we did at home, she’d be proud. Though, I could imagine her overreaction if she knew what I had done earlier today.
“This, again? Breaking the law? Their courts are not like our courts. Their prisons are not like our prisons. Are you trying to send me to an early grave?”
I considered telling her the truth, but even if I told her that the worst that could happen was me being deported back to Italy and my entry to the U.S. invoked permanently, she would have painted the worst scenarios in her head.
I couldn’t blame her. She already had two sons in and out of jail, who were both currently in.
I had managed to avoid the same fate. At seventeen, after a few arrests and two juvenile detentions, I had entered a guitar shop instead of going with my friends to again break into cars and vending machines outside the San Siro football—or soccer as people here called it—stadium.
We hadn’t done it just for money. It had been a pastime, a bonding activity. You had to be a part of something bigger than you, a group. Loners weren’t appreciated in my neighborhood unless they made lots of money or were powerful. My nickname—everyone had a nickname—had beenFigo.Slang forhot. Judging by the girls’ response to me, I guessed the nickname was accurate.
When I had distanced myself from the group, my former friends had started calling meIl Professore. It wasn’t meant as a compliment.
Not belonging had been painful and lonely at first. But finding Luigi, I had belonged again.
And here, at one point, I had imagined and wanted to believe that Amber could be it.
After lunch, I took up the guitar I had brought and brushed my fingers over it. A tactile tranquilizer that reminded me that I had an aim, a love.
