He hasn’t touched me since the garage. I’m trying not to read into it.
“What do you drive, Matteo?” Greg asks, saving me from my own thoughts.
Greg is the middle child, and he’s always been good with people. When we were kids, I used to joke that he’d make a great politician because he was so skilled at making people like him.Instead, he brings joy to people’s lives with his ice cream shop. It suits him.
He’s made sure to include Matteo in the conversation throughout the evening, which I appreciate. Matteo didn’t tell me he was nervous about this dinner, but I could feel it in the stiffness of his shoulders when we walked in. Now, three hours later, he’s actually relaxed. Or as relaxed as Matteo gets.
“An old truck. Nothing special, but it’s reliable.” A pause. “I also ride a motorcycle.”
“It’s so much fun,” I gush, unable to help myself. The memory of being pressed against his back, the wind tearing at my hair, the rumble of the engine vibrating through my whole body. I felt alive for the first time in months.
“Ooh, fun!” Greg’s wife, Sarah, chimes in.
Uncle James frowns. “Is that safe?”
“Nothing is completely safe.” I wave my hand, dismissing the concern. “But I wear a helmet. Matteo wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I catch the way my dad looks at Matteo when I say that. Something shifts in his expression. Appreciation, maybe. Or at least a softening of the suspicion he’s been carrying all night. My father is protective. He doesn’t trust easily. But hearing that Matteo insists on my safety seems to matter to him.
Dad’s warming up. Uncle James, apparently, is not.
He shakes his head, still frowning. “It’s not just the motorcycle. I just don’t see how you can really know someone after only a few weeks.”
Before I can respond, Harper speaks up. “When you know, you know.” She squeezes Julian’s hand. “Some people date for years and it falls apart. Some people just click.” She catches my eye and shrugs. “I think it’s romantic.”
I shoot her a grateful look. Harper’s always been like this—quietly in my corner when the family stuff gets heavy.
The meal winds down, but we linger at the table the way my family always does, voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off the walls. I love them. I love this chaos. But by the time we say our goodbyes, my social battery is drained.
Mom pulls me into a hug at the door. “I like him,” she whispers against my ear.
I blink hard against the sudden heat behind my eyes. That’s the best stamp of approval I could’ve hoped for. I know Dad is more wary, but he’ll come around. And it shouldn’t matter either way because this is all fake. Temporary. Except when Matteo squeezed my hand and told them I was special, that felt real.
The truck is blessedly quiet. I turn on the radio, letting the soft hum of classic rock fill the space between us.
“Do you mind if we stop by my place?” I ask. “I need to grab some things.”
I only brought a couple changes of clothes when I first came to Matteo’s house. I didn’t know I’d be staying this long. But at this rate, I’ll be there until the wedding and beyond, so I’m going to need a lot more than two pairs of jeans and my favorite sleep shirt.
“Sure.”
He takes the detour without complaint. The parking lot is empty when we pull in, the streetlights casting weak yellow pools across the asphalt. I hop out as soon as he stops, already mentally cataloging what I need. My e-reader. Face wash. At least five outfits. My good bra.
The elevator ride to the third floor takes forever. When the doors finally open, I step out ahead of Matteo. Behind me, I hear his phone buzz. I glance back to see him pulling it from his pocket, and I keep walking, reaching my door a few steps ahead of him.
The door gives when I turn the handle. Unlocked. I frown. Did I forget to lock it when I left? That’s not like me. But I push inside anyway, still running through my mental list.
And my heart stops.
The place is destroyed.
My couch cushions have been ripped apart, foam spilling out like guts. The bookshelf is overturned, my paperbacks scattered across the floor with their spines broken. Every knickknack I’ve collected over the years lies shattered on the hardwood. Picture frames. A ceramic cat Annika brought me from Amsterdam.
My TV is smashed. In the kitchen, I can see broken plates, a sea of white shards glinting in the dim light.
I can’t breathe.
Someone was here. Someone touched my things, broke them, violated the one space that was supposed to be mine.
