Page 91 of The Fall Affair

I pushed off the counter and crossed the room to sit beside her. “I already looked into it. We can get a private room. They’ll let you live with me on da campus if we’re married.”

“How would your parents feel about that?”

I grinned. “My sister would like it. You two could hang out all da time since we go to da same university.”

She grinned. “And your parents?”

“They’d get used to it.”

I reached for Izzy’s hand, and she pulled back. “I’m all muddy.”

I wrapped my fingers around hers. “I don’t care.”

Izzy’s eyes shifted back and forth between mine. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“I’ve never been more serious in my life. Marry me, Izzy.”

Chapter 30

Allegra

A WEEK LATER, I picked up my phone and forced myself to dial without thinking about it anymore.

“Hi, um, Camilla?”

“Hello, Allegra.”

I pulled my feet up onto the kitchen chair and wrapped an arm around my legs. “How did you know it was me?”

“I don’t have too many people who speak Inglese when they call.”

“Oh.” I laughed nervously. “Right.”

There was an awkward silence, and then we both spoke at the same time.

I smiled. “You first.”

“I was going to ask how you were. After you left, I went downstairs to check on you, because you looked pretty upset, and I wanted to make sure you were okay. But I saw you had someone with you in the car, so I went back upstairs to give you some space.”

Great. She’d seen me bawling my eyes out to Matteo. “I’m better now. It was just…a lot to take in at once.”

“Of course. I understand.”

“Today I was cleaning out some of my nonna’s things, and I found a box of old pictures. Of her and my dad when he was little—well, um, our dad. And my grandmother’s parents and grandparents. I was thinking…maybe you’d like to see some of them.”

“I’d love that. Marcello once told me I looked like his grandmother, but I’ve never seen a photo.”

I thought it was interesting that she referred to Dad as Marcello. I was curious if that was for my benefit. “Do you always refer to him as Marcello and not Dad?”

“When I was nine, my mother married Gilberto. He was a very good father to me—patient, steady, and always showed up in a way that felt different from anyone else, including our Marcello. But it felt strange to call him Dad when I had already given that name to someone else. Though over time, things added up. Gilberto came to every school play, sometimes in his uniform because he would run straight from work—he was poliziotto—a policeman, but retired now. When I was sick, he would make me cinnamon toast and ginger ale. When I struggled with algebra, he taught himself just so he could teach me.”

I smiled. “I struggled with algebra, too.”

“No one has ever walked into my office and said if X apples cost four euro, how many Y oranges can I buy with eighty-three euro. Eh? How about you?”

I chuckled. “Thankfully, no.”

“Anyway, one day, Gilberto was in the kitchen eating breakfast as I was running out the door, late for school. I accidentally yelled, ‘Bye, Dad!’ I froze after I said it, and he just smiled and said, ‘Bye, sweetheart. I love you.’ And that was that. I’ve called him Dad ever since, and Marcello became just that—Marcello.”