7. Isadora
I want to say that I've done worse things than Costantino. While I might not have sold out my friends, I've certainly come perilously close to doing so, skirting the edges of betrayal. It's this shared understanding that allows me to forgive him. When you've been knee-deep in the muck of ugly choices, it becomes easier to extend grace to others who have stumbled into the same darkness.
Besides, he isn’t a bad roommate at all. After just a week of living with him, I can almost see the light at the end of the tunnel—a flicker of hope illuminating my path. I am slowly but surely crawling my way out of the suffocating family life I was trapped in. I’m forging a new existence in a world where I’m not weighed down by familial obligation, where my choices are my own.
Costantino gives endlessly, a generous spirit who seems to thrive on connection. He barely waited another twenty-four hours after Carlo left town before introducing me to his father, as if he couldn't wait to share this new chapter of his life. He didn't explicitly use the word 'girlfriend,' but the meaningful glances he exchanged with his dad spoke volumes. I found myself hired without ever having submitted an application. "You'll encourage men to buy higher-priced items," he said with a confident smirk. "They'll look at you and think that the more they spend, the better the chance they have with you."
I wasn’t making millionaire money by any stretch of the imagination. At $14 an hour, it felt like an uphill battle, an unending climb toward a financial summit where I could finally buy all the things I wanted in life. Even with the prospect of sales commissions, I couldn’t quite envision a future where I’d reach the heights I aspired to. But it was a job, a foothold in the world, and most importantly, it meant money in my pocket—a small but significant victory.
Meanwhile, Costantino was busy working to pay off a debt he had incurred by giving me my freedom, a sacrifice that weighed heavily on him. In contrast, I focused on securing student loans to continue my education. With a year and a half of schooling left, my debt wouldn’t be exorbitant by the end, but the thought of it still made me sweat with anxiety. Every step toward signing the paperwork and getting the process set up felt like a giant leap away from the Dutton family, each signature a small act of defiance against the life I was eager to leave behind.
For the things I couldn't afford in the meantime, Costantino generously offered me an open-ended credit card, an invitation that felt both intimidating and freeing. "I would do this for anyone," he swore when I hesitated, unsure of how to accept such a gift without feeling like I was imposing on him. I found myself kneeling before him, not because he had demanded it, but because I was drawn to the desire to reciprocate the pleasure he had given me. Taking him into my mouth was an entirely different experience than having him inside of me; it was a connection that seemed to tether us in ways I had never imagined.
Meanwhile, my parents bombarded me with calls, their voices laced with urgency and desperation. They even threatened to track my phone, vowing to show up wherever I might be hiding. In an effort to distance myself from their grasp, I got a new phone and removed myself from their plan, determined not to let them derail the life I was so painstakingly trying to build. Despite my efforts, the barrage of text messages continued, a relentless storm of pleading from my mother. She didn't seem to be as furious as my father; at the end of the day, mom simply wanted to ensure I was safe and sound.
I never intended to spend every night in Costantino's bed, but that was how things unfolded. No matter how busy our days were—juggling work, school, and the scattered remnants of my broken past—I invariably found myself lying next to him at the end of each night. We didn't always engage in physical intimacy, yet five out of seven nights left me feeling as if my insides had turned to jelly, a blissful aftermath of our closeness.
What struck me as the strangest part of our arrangement was the depth of Costantino's care. Initially, I assumed it was simply the thrill of desire driving him, the kind of man who becomes infatuated with a tighter, wetter hole. But as time went on, I realized he genuinely wanted to know about my day, my life beyond the bedroom. At precisely 6:30 each evening, he would prepare dinner, turning it into a ritual where he would quiz me about my classes and the sales I made at the shop. He hung on every word as I recounted the crazy, wacky stories about my classmates, even though he had never met a single one of them before. His interest felt sincere, a comforting presence amidst the chaos of my life.
When the weekend came and passed, so did my opportunity to hit the town and shake off the week’s stress. But with Autumn still recovering from her recent ordeal and my pocketbook feeling particularly thin due to a lack of cash flow, that was probably for the best. Instead, Costantino and I spent our days taking Norman to the dog park, watching him frolic and play with other dogs, while we argued over what to eat for dinner, our debates often punctuated by laughter.
It felt like we were settling into a version of domestic bliss that I had only ever dreamed of. He cooked with a flair that made every meal feel special, and took out the garbage without a second thought. In turn, I tackled the dishes and laundry, finding a certain satisfaction in the rhythm of our shared chores. We found ourselves falling into a routine that was both comforting and exhilarating. What would have terrified me weeks before now felt like a natural evolution of my life. I was a woman transformed by the love of a good man, the kind of love that made mundane tasks feel meaningful.
"Do you drink milk?" he asked one evening, a curious glint in his eyes.
Costantino looked expectantly at the gallon in his hand, as if it held the secrets of the universe. "Who drinks milk besides kids? I need it for cooking," he replied, his tone suggesting it was the most obvious answer in the world, as if I should have known better.
I needed to get better in the kitchen; it just wasn't fair that he cooked all our meals with such enthusiasm and skill. I sighed, contemplating my culinary limitations. "I guess I could use the milk for pancakes," I finally said, a flicker of determination sparking within me. I remembered the joy of making pancakes with my mom once when I was younger, many, many years ago, the kitchen filled with laughter and the sweet scent of batter. As my father’s wealth grew, her interest in cooking waned, and the more he could afford, the less likely she was to be found in the kitchen, leaving me with bittersweet memories.
"Like, blueberry pancakes?" Costantino said, his eyes brightening as he held up the clam shell of blueberries he had tossed into the cart. "Because I could definitely go for some blueberry pancakes right about now."
"I'm a chocolate chip girl myself, but I can do blueberries for a day." We navigate the bustling ethnic foods aisle, the bright packaging and vivid colours creating a vibrant tapestry of culinary cultures. On one side, there's the enticing array of Mexican spices and salsas, while the other boasts an impressive selection of Asian noodles and sauces, all mingling with the rich traditions of Italian cuisine. Further down, a section dedicated to soups beckons with promises of warmth and comfort.
Costantino starts tossing box after box of pasta into the cart with an enthusiasm that makes me smile. I walk forward to grab some pasta sauce off the shelf, envisioning the rich, fragrant meal we might create, but when I turn around, I find him staring at me in horror, his expression a mix of disbelief and urgency. "Uh, what?" I ask, genuinely confused.
Without missing a beat, he strides over and takes the jars out of my hands with a firm but gentle grip. With a shake of his head, Costantino places them back on the shelf where I found them, as if they were contraband. "We make our own sauce, Isadora. We'd make our own pasta if we had the time, but I'm a busy guy," he explains, his voice carrying a hint of playful exasperation.
I can barely manage to whip up packaged gravy, and this man wants me to do what? "I don't know how to make spaghetti sauce, Costantino. What if you're gone and I want spaghetti?" The thought of fumbling through a recipe while he’s away feels daunting.
He blocks my path back to the jarred red sauce, his expression softening. "We'll make a batch this weekend. Batches make twenty, sometimes twenty-five jars. We'll probably need to take some to my ma." His brow furrows in thought, and the warmth in his eyes deepens. "I don't suppose you want to come and meet her?" The invitation hangs in the air, promising a glimpse into his world and the culinary traditions that have shaped him.
I have to remind myself that not all parents are like mine. Costantino probably loves his mother because she's a good woman, nurturing and supportive in a way that feels foreign to me. I love my mother, but it's more of an obligation than a choice, a duty rooted deep in the complexities of our relationship. However, the thought of meeting his mother makes me anxious, a flutter of nerves dancing in my stomach. His father might be my boss, a figure I don’t have to see often, but the prospect of facing his mother feels much more daunting. "I'm not sure if that's a good idea."
Costantino slowly starts walking forward, pulling the cart behind him with an ease that makes me feel heavy with uncertainty. "Why not? It's not like we're announcing an engagement or anything. I just want her to meet the woman who means the most to me," he replies, his voice steady, filled with an earnestness that catches me off guard.
The old feelings of anxiety come sweeping back in like a tide, threatening to pull me under. "I'm just the girl you live with though," I say with a nervous laugh, trying to mask my discomfort. The more Costantino walks away, the faster I have to pick up my pace to keep up with him, my heart racing as I struggle to find the right words. "That's what I am, right? Your roommate?"
"I knew that we'd eventually have this conversation; I just didn't think it would be in the middle of grocery shopping," Costantino says, grabbing a bottle of soy sauce off the shelf and tossing it into the cart with a casual flick of his wrist. As he looks back at me, his gaze pierces through my defenses, leaving me feeling exposed. "You're pretty much my girlfriend, Isadora. In everything except name."
One week does not a girlfriend make, I remind myself, the weight of reality crashing down on my shoulders. "Just because we have sex doesn't?—"
But he interrupts me, his voice firm yet gentle. "It isn't just the sex, Isadora. It's the cuddling on the couch while we watch television before bed, sharing popcorn and laughter as the credits roll. It's the little moments, like whispering secrets and exchanging glances that linger just a heartbeat too long. It’s sharing our lives together, navigating the chaos that life throws our way, and trusting one another in spite of all the shit this world throws at us. I know that for some reason you're scared of being in a relationship, but open your eyes, Isadora, you're in one."
Suddenly, the threads of our shared domestic routine weave together in a way that makes perfect sense. We aren't merely playing house; we're falling in love, whether I want to admit it or not. "That's not fair. I didn't agree to date you," I counter, my voice tinged with a mix of defiance and uncertainty.
Costantino laughs softly, shaking his head as if he finds my resistance both amusing and endearing. "I don't want to convince you to do something you don't want to do, but what this is?" He gestures animatedly between the two of us, his expression earnest. "What we're doing? We don't need a label if you don't want one, but I know that we aren't just roommates. So keep on telling yourself that this isn't a relationship. I'm going to keep operating under the assumption that if I were to go out right now and fuck another woman, you'd be upset."
"You wouldn't." My response is immediate, but I can hear the crestfallen tone of my voice, betraying the apprehension that lingers beneath my bravado.
He walks around the cart and stands directly in front of me, his imposing figure towering over mine, those big brown eyes locking onto my own. I trace the delicate curve of his cupid's bow lips with my gaze, deliberately avoiding direct eye contact, as if staring too long might reveal the truth of my feelings. "I wouldn't, Isadora, you're right. Because you're the only woman that I want to be with. And just because you can't say those words to me doesn't mean I don't believe you feel the same way. I'll wait around until you're ready. I'll do whatever it takes," he assures me, his voice steady and firm, filled with an unwavering conviction that sends a shiver down my spine.
I hate him. I hate him for being so level-headed in the midst of my chaos. I hate him for being so nice, so infuriatingly understanding. Most of all, I hate that I don't hate him, that somehow, he manages to worm his way into my heart despite my best efforts to push him away. "Okay," I finally concede, my voice barely above a whisper.
Costantino frowns, confusion flickering across his handsome features. "Okay, what?" he prompts, urging me to elaborate.
"I'll meet your mother." My heart races at the admission, a step into dangerous territory that feels both thrilling and terrifying. But maybe, just maybe, it’s what I need to do to confront this tangled mess between us. "And I guess I'm your girlfriend, but only if that means you're not going to go around sleeping with other women." The words tumble out, tinged with uncertainty, yet laced with a strange sense of resolve.
In an instant, he wraps his arms around me, pulling me into a warm embrace that feels like home, and a wide grin breaks across his face. "I don't want anyone but you, Isadora," he declares, his tone earnest, as though sealing a promise between us.
In the dingy, fluorescent lighting of the grocery store, surrounded by the mundane sights and sounds of everyday life, Costantino and I make things official. It feels silly, crazy even, but a lightness envelops me, lifting the weight of my indecision. I’ve never been a girlfriend before, but perhaps, just perhaps, I’m ready for the task that lies ahead. "I don't want anyone but you either, Costantino," I affirm, my heart finally aligning with my words.
Romance isn't dead. With a flourish, he sweeps me off my feet and spins me around, planting playful kisses all over my face. "I can't wait to teach you how to make real red sauce. It'll change your life," he declares, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.
Everything about this man has already changed my life in ways I never thought possible. What's one more thing? “Okay, but don’t expect me to be a master at sauces right away. I’m still getting my footing with breakfast. After pancakes, we’ll be diving into biscuits and gravy,” I reply, a teasing grin spreading across my lips.
Costantino doesn’t let me go; he just holds me tight, the warmth of his embrace wrapping around me like a soft blanket, and smiles down at me, his expression both affectionate and playful. “Just don’t poison me,” he jokes, but I can see the flicker of genuine concern in his eyes.
“You’re asking for a lot, but I’ll do my best,” I promise, a light laugh escaping me as I imagine the culinary disasters that could await him.
As it turns out, Autumn Gallagher-Bianchi did have the right idea when it came to family. The Bianchis are something else entirely, but the kind of something else that transforms your life in ways you could never have anticipated. Their warmth, their quirks, and their unwavering support seem to weave seamlessly into the fabric of my existence, making me feel like I finally belong somewhere.