“The way you and Gio take care of each other… It was beautiful to see this week. To watch you make him an even better man.” Roberto’s voice is low and throaty.
Maria lovingly pats him on the back, planting a quick kiss on his cheek.
Make him a better man. My jaw drops ever-so-slightly. If anyone was “made better” by this trip, it was me.
“Thank you for saying that, but it’s overly kind. You raised a wonderful, generous, hard-working man, who’s done nothing but lift everyone around him up. I’m lucky to be with him. And… and I hope we can, um, stay in touch.”
My past with Gio, the grievances between us, the hurt I felt two years ago, has been slowly fading into the background of my emotions. Taking center stage is Gio’s sweet soul, which has been on proud display in Italy. It’s hard to believe that this GioandthatGio are the same person. But I can’t deny my complex feelings for him are melting away into something simpler by the hour. Am I willing to let our past go to nurture what we’ve built in Italy?
Maria rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to worry about staying close—we call Gio at least three times a day.”
“And we love you,” Roberto adds.
A sad smile finds a home on my face. One that holds the weight of wanting a relationship with Gio, with his family, that’s permanent. I don’t want us to end.God, I hope Gio feels the same way. Grabbing a pastry off the table in an attempt to stave off tears, I bite off a huge piece. It does nothing to hold them back, and now I’m chewing and crying at the same time—an unexpectedly challenging feat, it turns out. My salty tears mix with the powdered sugar surrounding my lips, creating a tacky paste that I not-so-gracefully wipe away.
“Buongiorno,” a hesitant voice pops up, and we turn our heads to find a concerned Rocco, their church friend, standing in the entryway. “I came to pick up the chairs.”
I remember he lent the Cattaneo’s some folding chairs for theirlow-keyparty the other day. Studying the confusion written all over his face, I imagine what he sees. Maria acting like someone has died, and me, taking shallow breaths in between chewing like an asthmatic squirrel.
I pour myself a glass of water from the jug on the table and take a big gulp. Panting for air, I paste on a smile. “Oh,bwen-ah-jee-or-no, Rocco. I just need a moment in the bathroom. Mi scusi.” I grab my phone off the table and rush out of the kitchen.
It’sright and justthat I’d need one last trip to my Emotional Support Room before I leave this place. As soon as I close the bathroom door, I begin a series of calming breaths. I’m in the middle of my third one when my phone vibrates in my hand. I glance down: Christopher Thompson.
I wait for my stomach to drop. For the anxiety to start seeping in, along with the spritz of frustrating hope whenever my father calls. But as I stand here, in Italy, in a home filled with so much fatherly love and belonging, I… press the red button.
I. Press. The. Red. Button.
The name disappears, and my eyes are treated to my phone’s lockscreen, which I just updated yesterday. A picture of Giuseppe, eating a breadstick off the stoop. A smile tugs at my lips as a swell of pride blooms in my chest. I don’t want my last day here to be tainted by a conversation with a dad who only wants somethingfromme.
I’d rather spend it talking with a man who said he wantsme, full stop.
After cleaning myself up in the bathroom mirror, I return to the kitchen. I’m pleasantly surprised to see Gio sitting with his parents at the table now, his back turned toward me. I can’t help myself from wrapping my arms around his shoulders from behind. He tilts his face up and meets my gaze, beaming from ear to ear. Leaning down, I press a quick kiss to his forehead. I start to straighten, but Gio reaches above his head to pull my face back down. He plants one hard kiss on my lips, and I laugh into his mouth at the possessiveness.
Maria releases a happy sigh and stands up. She walks over to the two of us and squeezes Gio’s shoulder. “We’ll miss both of you deeply. Gio, don’t wait too long to marry her, okay? Lighting the candles at church has become very tiring for me. My finger got burned by the flame last week, and I think it was God punishing me for praying so selfishly.”
I’m not sure what reaction I expected from Gio, but it certainly wasn’t the deep red blush spreading across his cheeks. Roberto chuckles in the background.
Maria leans in closer to us and lowers her voice to a whisper. “Plus, I’m not sure how long your little brother has left, God bless him, and it’d be a shame if he couldn’t attend the wedding.”
I nearly choke with laughter at the thought of Giuseppe the pigeon standing at the altar with Gio, waiting for me. Then, I freeze, recognizing that I’m comfortably thinking about walking down the aisle to Gio, and I haven’t expressed the depths of my feelings for him yet. Probably because I’m too busy trying to win an award for Coward of the Year.
Maria wraps us both in a hug, preventing me from spiraling any further.
Roberto follows her lead, walking over to swoop me up in his arms. “Goodbye, figliola.” His voice is so low and quiet that I’m probably the only one who heard it. It’s a translation I remember:daughter.
Roberto has shown me more acceptance in seven days than my own Dad has over seven years. I know I need to be more open with Gio about the threadbare relationship I have with my father, my deepest insecurity. There’s a lot I need to unpack, but it’s hard to know where to begin. I don’t want Gio to pity me, or worse, think I don’t value family as much as he does. I know how important it is to him, and I’m worried he’ll see me differently. It’s painful to even think about detailing the gritty fractures of my relationship with Dad when Roberto is…Roberto.
After at least five more hugs and a mournful wave to Giuseppe, Gio and I walk to the rental car hand-in-hand. He opens the car door for me, and I move to get inside, but he tugs me back into his arms. I’m going to miss this closeness to him back in New York. I’m going to miss waking up in the same bed. I’m going to miss?—
“Do you want to come back to my place? When we get back to New York?” Gio clears his throat. His eyes look bright and hopeful as he gives me a squeeze around my waist. “You’ll needto be with me to video call my parents, anyway. They’ll want to hear you made it back safely.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t really care about the reason as much as I care that we’ll be together. After a busy week in Milan, and a crowded week in Brescia, we need time—just the two of us—to talk about everything.
“Yes, Gio. I want to go back to your place when we get to New York.”
He nods once. “Bene. It’s settled then.”
I tap my chin like I’m considering something. “But are you sure you don’t want to come back to mine? I bet you’ve never showered in a kitchen before.”
