Chapter 18
tell me to stop
Alexander
“Ethan, are you sure? I can catch the next flight today. If you or Alicia need me, I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
I stand there with both drinks in my hands, feet sinking into the sand. Cecilia sits at the small table beneath the thatched umbrella, her phone lifted close to her face, earbuds in place.
She must have finally reached him. All morning she’s been saying she needed to hear his voice because something wasn’t right, forcing her mother’s instinct on hold until it was a reasonable hour back in the States.
A tight knot forms in my stomach. The dread that she might already be preparing to leave coils there. I push it down. If something is wrong, if she needs to go home today... then my only role is to make sure she gets there.
I set her drink in front of her, a peach spritz, and I’m about to step back and give her privacy when she touches my arm and gives the smallest shake of her head.
I sit across from her, my gaze fixed on the endless blue water beyond us. I try not to listen, but worry puts me on edge.
A few minutes later, the call ends. She exhales, lifts her glass, and takes a long sip. “Thank you,” she murmurs.
“Everything okay with the children?” I ask, watching her closely.
Her eyes shift from the horizon back to me. “Yes,” she says, a relieved smile on her lips. “But my intuition wasn’t entirely wrong. Ethan flew home yesterday. It seems he’s having trouble with his girlfriend.”
Even as my throat tightens at the idea of her leaving, I say what is right. “If you want to go back today, I can arrange for one of the pilots to take you home.”
The words cost me more than I let show. But I would rather have her far away and at peace, knowing her children are safe, than keep her here while her heart is somewhere else.
Watching her worry throughout the morning as we walked through the city—checking her watch, calculating the time difference—only made my chest tighter. I brought her to Marina di Pisa for lunch, hoping the sea breeze would calm her. Yet her eyes kept drifting back to her phone.
Now she shakes her head. “No. Ethan assured me it’s just... a situation with his girlfriend. And even though I didn’t have much experience with boyfriends at his age, I know how intense young relationships can be.”
Her gaze goes back to the water.
“I won’t lie—part of me wants to catch the first flight out and wrap my son in a hug that makes everything better. Or do something incredibly cringe, as Alicia would say... like calling his girlfriend to give her advice the way I did with Ethan.”
She sighs. “But he’s a young man now. And if he’s going to learn how to live, he has to stumble sometimes on his own and figure out what’s right for him.”
I reach across the table and lace my fingers with hers.
“If you change your mind,” I murmur, “you only have to say the word. I’ll take care of everything.”
She answers with a grateful smile.
When we finish our drinks, we walk along the shore hand in hand, the afternoon sun beating down on our skin, the sea crashing beside us. Neither of us feels ready to let go of this moment.
“I think this is the first time the house has been empty since we arrived in Pisa,” Cecilia murmurs as we walk down the hallway in search of Nonna.
Most of the family has gone ahead to the village celebration, and we’ll be joining them shortly. I only want to check on Nonna before we leave.
We find her settled into her armchair in the living room, knitting what looks like a scarf.
“Can you see those stitches clearly, Signora Carmela?” I tease.
Nonna looks up and grins. “I see better than any of you young ones. My generation was built to last.”
I translate it for Cecilia, and her laughter fills the room. It’s the first real laugh I’ve heard from her all day. And it stops me in my tracks. I do nothing but watch her.
“Vieni qui, ragazza mia,” Nonna says, her gaze locking onto Cecilia with affection.
“She’s asking me to come closer, right?” Cecilia murmurs, glancing at me. “And ragazza means girl?”
I nod, smiling. She’s picking up my language more every day, and it grows harder not to lean into every sound she makes. Especially when she says my name.
“Your eyes have shadow today,” Nonna says in her broken English the moment Cecilia sits on the couch.
Cecilia glances at me, and I only shrug. “She sees even what we don’t say out loud.”
Turning back to my grandmother, Cecilia gives her a reassuring smile. “It’s nothing serious. I was a little worried about my son, but we talked and everything is fine now.”
“Sì...” Nonna murmurs, nodding knowingly. “A mamma’s heart always knows.” Then her eyes brighten. “Hai foto dei tuoi bambini, eh? [LIII]On your phone?”
Cecilia smiles, reaching into her bag and pulling her phone out. “This is Ethan, my oldest. He’s eighteen now.”
“Etan?” Nonna repeats, testing the sound on her tongue. “Etan?”
Cecilia doesn’t correct her. She only nods.
“Bel ragazzo,” [LIV]Nonna declares. “Strong eyes. Same color your eyes.”
“Yes, he looks like his father, but he has my eyes.”
I watch her swipe across the screen and show her another picture.
“And this is Alicia. She’s thirteen.”
“Alicia has your hair, your smile,” Nonna says, leaning closer. “Una bella ragazza[LV]. You have bambini very beautiful... and seem buona gente.”
Cecilia glances at me, uncertain. I lean closer and translate. “She says you have beautiful children, and they seem like such good people.”
I look at her with a gentle smile.
Cecilia’s expression melts, and she turns back to my grandmother. “Thank you, Signora Carmela.”
“Ah, Cecilia,” Nonna exclaims. “How many times have I told you to call me Nonna, eh? They call me Signora Carmela only to tease me!”
She fires it off in rapid Italian, her hands flying through the air for emphasis. I translate, and Cecilia laughs.
“Okay, Nonna,” she says, smiling.
Nonna gives Cecilia’s hand two little pats, then asks with a grin, “Cookie?”
Cecilia blinks, clearly thrown by the quick change of subject.
“They like cookie, i tuoi bambini[LVI]?”
“Oh—yes. They love them.”
Nonna pushes herself upright and motions for Cecilia to follow.
Cecilia stands, laughing, and glances back at me before following Nonna into the kitchen. I trail after them but stop in the doorway, leaning against the frame to watch.
Nonna moves busily around the space, pulling ingredients from cupboards and drawers. When she finally lays everything out on the table, she announces:
“Alexander preferito[LVII]... your bambini will like too.”
She slips an apron over Cecilia’s head, and soon they are deep in the sacred ritual of mixing dough for biscotti al limone[LVIII].
I don’t move from the doorway. It’s impossible not to be entranced by the way Nonna finds a language without words.
.. and how patiently Cecilia answers it, following every gesture and look.
The kitchen is filled with flour, laughter and loud Italian instructions.
When it’s time to roll the dough into little balls, Nonna scolds me, telling me to wash my hands and stop standing there like a useless decoration.
Cecilia tries to hold it in, but the moment I translate, she laughs out loud.
As I pass her on my way to the sink, I lean down and press a soft kiss to her forehead.
About half an hour later, we’re walking toward where I parked the car, laughing like we’ve carried the kitchen’s warmth out with us.
“You’ve always talked about your Nonna,” Cecilia says. “I felt like I already knew her. But nothing compares to the real thing. She’s an incredible woman.”
The way she looks at me makes answering impossible.
I don’t stop to think as my hands come up to her face, holding her there, and I kiss her. She moans into my mouth as I press her body against the car. What begins gentle, almost shy, becomes hungry and needy in a heartbeat.
My tongue brushes hers as I deepen the kiss. One hand slips into her hair. The other tightens on her waist, drawing her closer until there’s no space left at all. Her gasp goes straight through me, and just as quickly reminds me that if this goes any further, I won’t be able to stop.
We break apart, our foreheads touching, her eyes fixed on mine. I run my thumb along her cheek, my voice rough as I say, “We should go to the village. Now.”
Cecilia laughs. I give her one last kiss before opening her door, then walk around to the driver’s side. Adjusting my pants does little to hide the erection straining the fabric.
I take a breath before turning the key. The drive passes with easy conversation and low music in the background. But the tension between us feels like a presence of its own.
I park along the curb. The second we step out, there’s music and laughter everywhere. But the best part is the smell of fried food and sugar coming from the stalls.
Like they do in every celebration, there are colorful flags strung between lampposts.
Wooden tables bowing beneath the weight of fruit, cheeses, wine, and cured meats.
People flow between artisan stalls and carnival games.
Somewhere nearby, an accordion plays a fast-paced melody while someone else belts out a loud, joyous Tuscan song without the faintest concern for pitch.
Cecilia walks beside me, her arm tucked into mine. I can feel her excitement as she looks around, her curious eyes taking in everything.
Then my family sees us and, as always, there is no escape.
Before I can even think to protest, hands reach for her, pulling her from me. My aunts and cousins sweep her into the middle of the street with frantic hand gestures, laughing as they show her how to dance, as if this weren’t her first celebration with us, but her hundredth.
I just stand there, unable to look away.
She moves like someone who has decided not to care who is watching, laughter rising freely from her chest. She follows the steps, trips, then laughs harder when my cousin pulls her back into the beat, teaching her the tarantella as if it were a secret language.