I can barely see West’s lips twist under the so-called squirrel. “I can’t decide if that’s more a reflection of my good looks, or your weird taste.”
“How does one say ‘por que no los dos’ in Italian?”
“Maybe by the time we come back to Italy, we’ll know.”
We ascend the stairs hand in hand, amid all the strangers who became friends this summer, dressed in their wild combinations of patterns and colors, postcard-worthy views in everydirection from this party boat, and I’m hit with both sorrow over leaving this remarkable place and happiness knowing that Iwillbe coming back. Again and again, for the rest of my life.
Starting on my next school break, which serendipitously aligns with one of West’s from his research program in Germany. It’ll be our first reunion after we go long-distance in a couple weeks, happening right back here at the Villa Russo Research Residency, where we’ll visit its new director—my mom. It’ll double as a visit with the man I may or may not ever come to call Dad.
For now, he’s just Luca. But getting to know Just Luca has been a gift in so many ways I didn’t expect. He’s nothing like the many iterations of a mystery dad I imagined, but even better for it. Because he’s real, and quirky, and cares so deeply and tries so earnestly to learn everything he can about me and my life without smothering or scaring me off. He hasn’t yet realized that I don’t scare easily.
But he will, as we spend more time together on my future trips here, and his and Mom’s visits to the States to see my grandparents and me. He’ll also realize, at some point, that he’s already won me over.
It took no more than a few minutes in his apartment on Via Camilla, our first meetup with Mom and me a few nights after we all learned the truth. Luca made us his nonna’s Bolognese recipe, and walking into the open living area that was exactly as inviting and cozy as young Alex had described it, surrounded by the smells of tomatoes and garlic and spices marinating on the stove, I’d suddenly felt tears welling in my eyes. Theyspilled out before I could hide them or find an onion to blame, and I wasn’t even sure of their real cause.
Mom had already beelined for the kitchen and lifted the lid of the sauce pot for a sneak peek, practically sticking her face down in it, and didn’t immediately notice my meltdown. But Luca had barely looked away from me since we’d arrived, and instead of pretending he didn’t see the waterworks or calling out in panic for the nearest available woman, he’d efficiently gathered up a box of tissues and a fresh glass of water—not even carbonated—and guided me gently to his couch. He hadn’t said anything, but emotion shone in his eyes, too, when I chanced a look at his face. Our watery gazes locked, and one corner of his lips had turned up in the slightest smile while his head dipped in what could barely be called a nod. But I felt it—his unspokenI understandand maybeI’m right there with you.
It settled in my chest like a puzzle piece I hadn’t even known was missing until I found it. Luca got me, in this innate, intangible way I wouldn’t have believed if I hadn’t experienced it myself. Finding him has felt like not only discovering a whole new side of who I was and where I came from, but also like coming back to a familiar home that’d always been there.
It wasn’t hard to see why my mom fell for him twenty years ago—nor why they’ve more or less picked up where they left off, as much as two people can with all the time and struggles between them. What I haven’t said out loud to anyone yet—though I know West can tell—is that watching Luca love my mom has made me love him. It’s complicated, and an ongoingprocess, but I think this family of ours might just go the distance.
Just as I plan to with the guy beside me, who draws me forward to the cake table, right as the DJ starts “Dancing Queen.” Every single person in the circle around us begins to sing along, and when Mom appears at the fringes and holds up her candles and lighter with a questioning look, I wave her forward.
It feels fitting as my birthday song this year. Celebrating twenty years since the redheaded wild woman walking my way brought me into the world on the dirty grounds of an ancient villa, surrounded by friends from around the world who know every word to the universal language of ABBA.
Behind Mom, Luca carries the cake carefully, like a life hangs in the balance rather than a combination of butter, sugar, and flour. When he delivers it oh so gently to the table in front of me, I see the design for the first time, and my head falls back on a belly laugh just as the chorus kicks in.
A picture of my newborn baby face, one that became synonymous with the Bambina di Bronzo story as it had its moment in global news, has been transposed onto a disco ball in a way that’s both the best thing I’ve ever seen and completely horrifying. I adore it.
Almost as much as I adore singing and twirling through the rest of the song, lifting my arms in the air and clumsily shouting “TWENTY” with everyone else over each “seventeeeen” in the chorus. Adore not knowing what to wish for as I blow out my candles but sealing it with a kiss from West afterward.Adore our long history of birthdays spent together and a future with many more to come.
“I adore you,” I whisper against his lips, as effortlessly as breathing.
“I’m keeping you,” West whispers back, a promise that never gets old.
I wrap my arms around him as the song fades out on the speakers but replays in my mind, on a loop for the rest of the night.
I am, in fact, having the time of my life.
