Chapter 16
Tessa
Words I’d never dare say aloud plague me: Giovanni was right.
But the long, scenic drive through the Italian countryside has swiftly transformed my unenthusiastic mood.
I thought it’d be filled with awkward conversation, but the winding roads and lush hillsides passed between us in comfortable silence.
We’ve barely made eye contact with each other because my face has been glued to the window for the past hour, mesmerized by the way the expansive sky stretches over the mountain peaks.
When we arrive at the outskirts of Brescia, Giovanni turns our rental car onto a small dirt road. My eyes light up at the picturesque, modest, limestone house sitting on top of a verdant, rolling hill, surrounded by short trees with wide crowns.
“Are those fruit trees?” I ask, curious about the ones bordering the house.
“Figs. In about a month, they’ll all be gone. We came just in time,” Giovanni replies with an almost childlike excitement.
The burnt orange terracotta roof of the house is a stunning contrast against the bright blue sky. Vibrant green climbing vines cling to the side of the exterior walls. I turn to Giovanni to compliment its beauty, but I’m met with a guarded expression.
“I know it’s not much, but my family has lived here for generations, and my parents won’t move,” he says self-consciously. “I’m sure, with your brother, you’re used to a lot of luxury.”
His assumption about me is almost laughable. “Yeah, growing up with one income and no dad really prepped me for high taste.”
My apartment is one tenth this size and certainly not surrounded by the freaking Italian countryside.
He expertly parks the car in front of the house, and I unbuckle my seatbelt. When I move to open the door, I feel a hand on my shoulder.
“Remember. You have to convincingly pretend to like me for this to work,” he reminds me, placing a large emphasis on “convincingly.”
“It’ll be the performance of a lifetime,” I joke. “Steven Spielberg will be knocking on my door afterwards.”
I turn away from him, reaching for the handle again, but this time, he reaches across me and gently grabs my wrist.
I sigh. “What now, Giovanni?”
“Try to open your own door again, Tèssa, and see what happens,” he murmurs.
My mouth opens to protest, but absolutely nothing comes out. I sit in stunned silence, watching him get out and walk around to my side. To make matters worse, the smirk on his face when he opens my door hits me right where it shouldn’t.
Compose yourself, Tessa. Pretend you have a shred of dignity left.
“Thanks,” I mutter, stepping out of the car.
I hear a shriek of delight and turn to find a short, portly woman rushing out of the house, straight for Giovanni.
She looks older than my mom, maybe close to seventy.
As she wraps him in a hug, I soak in the familial resemblance.
While his height must’ve come from his father, everything else—the shape of his nose, the thick, curly sable hair—mirrors his mother’s features.
“Tesoro! Ci sei mancato! Ti voglio bene,” she says affectionately against his chest, tightly closing her eyes.
“Ti voglio bene anch’io, Mamma.” Giovanni speaks with a level of emotion in his voice I’ve never heard before. He bends his knees and lifts her off the ground, drawing a laugh as her feet dangle in the air.
A reflexive smile sets up camp on my face at their reunion. Giovanni gently sets her down after one more peck on the cheek. His mom rubs her eyes and looks him up and down. She starts to seemingly interrogate him in Italian with an accusatory look, gesturing to his body like it deeply offends her.
Giovanni rolls his eyes with a grin. He glances down at his white button-down shirt and beige linen pants. “Mamma, I’m not too skinny.”
I bite my lip to stifle a laugh.
His mom turns toward me with a huge smile on her face. “And this must be Tessa. Molto bella, Gio, no?”
Inferring enough, my face heats.
“Sì. She is very beautiful,” Giovanni agrees, nodding like a good pretend boyfriend. The way he’s looking at me almost has me convinced he actually believes it.
I smooth down the floral blue and white dress I’m wearing, a fit and flare that stops above my knee.
As if Giovanni’s remembering I’m his, he grasps my hand and laces his fingers with mine. I try to ignore the current that hums beneath my skin at his confident touch.
“This is Tessa, my girlfriend. Tessa, this is my mom, Maria.”
“It’s good to meet you,” I say warmly, holding my other hand out to shake hers.
“Grazie, um, per l’ospitalità.” As I thank her for having me, Giovanni whips his head around, apparently shocked that I know how to use a language learning app.
I show off another phrase I memorized: “La sua casa è davvero bellissima, Signora Cattaneo.”
Giovanni gently rubs the side of my thumb with his, like he’s pleased with me.
I wonder if he knows he’s doing that. But there’s no time to dwell as I’m swept up by his mother, who squeezes me so hard my empty stomach feels full.
My right hand awkwardly hangs down, still intertwined with Giovanni’s.
“Welcome to the family, Tessa. And please, call me Maria,” she whispers into my ear.
Her kindness casts a happy glow over me, and I squeeze her back.
To my untrained ears, her accent is thicker than Giovanni’s, but perfectly understandable.
Giovanni mentioned that his parents went to a global university where they learned English.
“Mamma, Mamma, okay,” Giovanni protests, dropping my hand and tugging on her arms to release me.
“Always so grumpy. So serious,” Maria chastises. “Molte grazie for putting up with my Gio. It cannot be easy.”
Giovanni rolls his eyes as mine light up.
“Every day is a battle, but I persist,” I joke.
“I like her, Gio.” Maria chuckles, walking toward the house, gesturing for us both to follow.
“If you could both stop insulting me, that’d be great,” he says dryly, grabbing our luggage from the car.
Maria picks up her pace, completely ignoring him. I, on the other hand, whisper gleefully, “I love your mom. This is going so well.”
She pushes the arched wooden door open, and I feel like I’ve stepped into a quaint European movie set.
I take my shoes off and admire the charming interior of their home.
The inside is beautifully rustic, with exposed wooden beams on the ceiling, arched hallways, and open shelving. The tile feels cool beneath my feet.
We follow her into the kitchen, where copper-bottomed pots and pans hang from hooks on the wall. She yells at someone through the cracked window above the sink.
“Roberto, come inside! Ma guarda chi c'è!"
After a moment of silence, Maria sighs. “Let’s go out then, you know your papa’s hearing is awful.”
When we make our way to the garden, I’m shocked to find Giovanni’s dad bending down and setting little ravioli on the stone steps. A very fat pigeon pecks at the pasta.
“Papa! Stop feeding the ravioli to the pigeon. How many times do we have to tell you? It’s not good for birds,” Giovanni chastises.
Not even glancing up, Roberto continues placing the ravioli on the ground. He must be at least 6’5”, so it looks like he’s folding his body into thirds every time he bends down. The longer, curly, pepper-and-salt hair on his head flops in front of his face, and he blows it out of his eyes.
“Stop calling him the pigeon. You know his name, Gio. Everyone deserves good food, no? He’s a happy pigeon. A family pigeon.”
Giovanni runs his hand through his thick hair. “If you keep feeding it, it will continue to expect it!”
Roberto straightens to find Giovanni and faces him with a smile. His blue eyes, which are just a shade darker than his son’s, twinkle. “Exactly, Tesoro. Giuseppe expects it. It’s too late.”
My shoulders shake with silent laughter. Who are these lovely people? And how did their delightful personalities produce such a surly Giovanni?
Roberto holds out his arms and Giovanni walks straight into them, clapping his dad on the back and burying his head into his shoulders.
“My son… We don’t see you enough,” Roberto says, emotion thick in his voice. Pulling back for a moment, he finds me and smiles. “E la tua ragazza… ma quanto sei bella.”
Roberto opens his arms in my direction. Following Giovanni’s lead, I happily walk into them and get wrapped up in a tight hug.
I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be hugged by an actual father.
I close my eyes for a moment and soak up the strength of his affection.
My mom’s love and dedication was enough for two—maybe three—parents.
But Giovanni’s still lucky to have both.
Roberto loosens his hold on me, and I step back toward Giovanni.
They start discussing repairs needed around the house, Roberto pointing to the cracked stone pathway and a broken window shutter. Maria walks toward the kitchen, and I trail behind her.
“I’d love to help you with dinner,” I offer. “I’m not the best cook, but I’m very good at following instructions.”
“Ah, but guests shouldn’t put in any work.” She gives me a warm smile.
“Hey—I thought I was ‘family,’” I tease.
The brilliant light of her smile is all the answer I need. “Come, then, we have many things to do.”
I move to hurry after her, but feel a tug on my hand pulling me back. I spin around toward Giovanni.
“I have to fix a leak in the bathroom. Are you going to be okay?” Concern laces his voice, like I can’t be trusted with his mother.
“If you’re worried about me embarrassing you or something, don’t be,” I whisper, tilting my chin up.
Giovanni says nothing in response, but his brows knit together in an expression I can’t quite place. Fine, I think. The less I have to pretend to be in love with him in front of his parents, the better.
After a long sigh, he walks back toward his dad.