Over my dead body am I talking to him about his ex.I simply do not have the self-confidence for that right now, Roberto.
He grins, almost like he knows what I’m thinking. “Chi non risica, non rosica.”
I raise my eyebrow, tilting my head in question.
“It translates roughly to ‘nothing risked, nothing gained.’”
He gives my shoulder a squeeze before standing up. Guilt consumes me, and my conscience won’t let me do anything else but confess.
“Roberto, Giovanni and I aren’t actually?—”
He cuts me off. “Now, now. You don’t have to explain your relationship to me. Whatever happens with you and my Gio, you’re family now. My daughter.”
He holds out his arms. I blink at him as my eyes well up with fresh tears. They’re not sad tears, but not quite happy tears either. A bittersweet middle ground, one where I mourn a father that exists but never wanted me and relish the warmth of one who gives me advice like I belong to him.
When he speaks again, his voice is soft. “Silent pain hurts us most. Share it with me.”
Roberto doesn’t wait for me to stand. He wraps his arms around my shoulders and hoists me up in a firm hug.
For a moment, I let myself believe him. I indulge myself and dream of a reality in which we do stay in touch. I picture us on video calls, chatting about Giuseppe the pigeon. I fantasize about overhearing him bicker with Maria and what pranks or mischief we’d pull over on Gio next.
But, until I hear it from Gio, it might all be an illusion. If it is, when Gio and I return to New York, my relationship with his family will die, too. It’s a natural, circle-of-life event that’s unavoidable. And, out of all the things I’ve agreed to pretend, this is one that I just…can’t.
I eye the night sky and marvel at the stars, which appear brighter than any I’ve ever seen. My bones begin to ache from squeezing him so tightly, so I loosen my hold and we both sigh.
“My papa used to sing me an Italian lullaby. One of the verses is about the moon. It calls on the moon to be your guiding light, and encourages you to dream of the sun and the blue sea, and you’ll be safe. I used to sing it to Gio before bed. Why don’t I sing it to you?”
I wipe a stray tear off my chin and nod.
He slowly, softly sings in Italian, his voice barely rising above the soft hoots of owls in the trees. I stand beside him and soak in the melody, thinking about how hard it would be to let all of this go.
Chapter 32
Giovanni
“Ah, there you are, Tesoro,” Papa says as he sits next to me on my bed. I smile, glad to see him. We only have one day left in Italy, and I haven’t had nearly enough time with him.
Tessa’s been with Mamma in the garden all morning harvesting figs, and a little distance from her has me lost in thought. I may have been tipsy last night at the party, but I remember everything—including her hesitation before bed. I’m not sure what happened. Dancing with her in the kitchen, playing with her hair while she sat on my lap, I’m certain it was real for both of us.
Why did she balk?
I try not to analyze it right now and refocus on Papa, who’s holding a wooden box in his hands. It almost looks like…
“Is that Nonno’s sewing kit?”
He nods, switching to Italian. “It’s yours, now. Your mother and I can’t sew.” Papa runs his hand against the grain of the wood. “I simply kept it for the memories.”
I study the heirloom, a vintage rosewood accordion sewing box. Carefully opening up the box, I see the copper scissors, the capsule-like container for needles, and Nonno’s embroidery hook. A few stray glass beads roll around on the bottom of the velvet divider. When I set some of the tools to the side and lift the divider, I findmychildhood kit. I pick up one of the large-eye needles, a few colorful pieces of fabric, and a spool of extra-thick beginner thread.
“Thank you for trusting me with this.”
Papa nods. “He would’ve wanted you to have it.”
“I’ll honor it.” A lump swells in my throat. “I miss him.”
“What a privilege it is to miss someone. For someone tomatterso deeply to you, that the thought of living without them seems unbearable.” Papa gives a sad smile. “And yet, we do.”
The feel of my old embroidery hook in my palm takes me back to my first time embroidering. My eyes sting as the memory presses closer. A cup of shiny blue beads flashes in my mind, along with Nonno’s gentle encouragement when I pulled the thread too tight, causing the fabric to pucker.
