It’s not a lie, it’s a comparison.
She sighs like she doesn’t believe me for a second. “You think I don’t see, bambino? You have that face.”
“What face?”
“The one your grandfather used to have when he was in love but too stupid to say it.”
I choke on my water. “Nonna.”
She shrugs, smirking like she knows everything.
Because she does.
“Don’tNonname. I know boys. Especially my boys.”
I laugh, but it’s hollow.
He doesn’t know half of it.
After dinner, where I feel slightly sick, but it doesn’t count cause I’m in Italy, she hands me a towel and points toward the guest room. “You go to sleep. You go rest. Tomorrow, we can go to the market. And you tell me everything, sì?”
I nod, even though I know I won’t.
Not everything.
The guest room smells like lemons and old books. The window is open, and the sound of waves rolls in.
The one thing that is the same here as back home.
The ocean.
I sit on the edge of the bed, running a hand through my hair.
Nonna loves me, I know that. But sometimes I wonder if she’d love me the same if I weren’t the Luca who played volleyball.
The one who wins tournaments.
The one who makes her proud enough to brag to her friends at the market.
Who was I without that?
Without her pride, without the game, without Tilly?
I stare at the ceiling, fighting the tight ache crawling up my throat.
Because even here — miles away, surrounded by family — she’s still in my head.
Her laugh.
Her stupid cream-covered nose.
Her voice when she said, I feel nothing,I remind myself.
I swallow hard.
Maybe Nonna is right. Maybe I am in love, and too stupid to admit it.
But I already did, and that got me nowhere.
