Chapter 1 #12
Rava nearly trips over the exit ramp. His hair is a complete mess, his face is flushed, and he’s breathing heavily. He looks like he just came back from a bar fight, not a carnival ride.
I can’t stop laughing.
He turns to me, hands flailing. "That was actual torture—"
"I told you it wasn’t bad."
"You lied! I felt my brain slide down into my fucking spine! I saw my ancestors, Gio."
I wipe my eyes, still wheezing. "Your ancestors think you’re dramatic."
"My ancestors think I should murder you."
I grin, walking backwards as he follows, still fuming. "Admit it. You had fun."
"I blacked out for a second. That’s not fun."
"You screamed so loudly. The kid next to you almost cried." "Gio, I was the kid next to me."
I laugh again, and the impossible happens again. He cracks. Just for a second. A small sound, almost like a snort, escapes him. I stop walking, raise an eyebrow.
He tries to straighten up, regain control.
"Shut up."
"You laughed."
"I did not."
"You did."
"Did not."
"You did," I grin. "You’re laughing now."
"I’m having a nervous breakdown."
"Whatever makes you feel better, Ravioli." He shoves me lightly in the shoulder, but he’s still smiling. We pass a stand selling wine in plastic cups.
Cheap, probably terrible, but Rava looks excited. He grabs one, tosses back a full gulp like it’s water.
I blink. "Holy shit."
He turns to me, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, shrugs like it’s nothing.
I blink again. "Who are you?"
He smirks. "You said I needed to loosen up."
I hold up both hands. "Didn’t say I want you to self-destruct." He just walks past me, still drinking, eyes scanning the crowd, looking for his next bad idea.
So of course, I decide to help.
I dart toward a random drink stand. I grab the most neon-looking concoction they have. It’s in a small cup with fruit on top and some kind of chili-rimmed edge that screams "ew."
I turn back to him, raise it high.
"RAVIOLI! TRY THIS!"
He looks over, skeptical as hell.
I jog toward him. "It’s amazing," I shout, trying to be louder than the music. "Trust me!"
He gives me that look again. I’m pretty sure he knows I’m full of shit. He takes the cup, holds it up, sniffs it, wrinkles his nose. "What is it?"
"Liquid heaven, trust me," I say while dancing to the rhythm of "NUEVAYoL" by "Bad Bunny."
He narrows his eyes. "Gio, what’s in this?" he yells.
"Doesn’t matter!" I shout, spinning around him. "If it doesn’t kill you, it fixes your mood!"
He sniffs it again, looks at me like he’s considering throwing it at my head. "Drink iiiit!" I chant.
He takes one big sip…
Cough. Gag. Spit. Right on the ground. He doubles over, coughing. His eyes scream "betrayal."
I completely lose it. I fall back against a pole, dying. I can’t breathe. I’m wheezing, bent over, face in my hands.
"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" he shouts, wiping his mouth.
"You drank it!" I gasp.
"Because you told me to!"
"Because you finally listen to me! I didn’t expect it to work!" I yell back.
He flips me off. "That is disgusting. What even was that?!" "No idea," I say through laughter. "But your face? Worth it."
He glares harder, still wiping his mouth, and then he smiles… with a weird smile. Not a real one.
"You’re dead, Gio."
I hold out my arms. "Come on, baby. I die for less every day."
He lunges.
I run.
We crash into each other seconds later in the middle of the crowd, laughing, moving through people.
For a moment, nothing else exists. Not the ride. Not the drink. Not the past. Just me and that little fucker.
Suddenly, the music changes.
Fucking nostalgia.
"‘Sara perché ti amo’… Damn, I haven’t heard this song in years," he says under his breath. The entire square loses its mind.
People start screaming. Old ladies toss their purses aside.
A group of teenagers grab each other and immediately start spinning.
And then, a woman appears, this glorious woman, late fifties maybe, glowing with sweat and way too much perfume.
She points straight at Rava. "TU!"
He blinks. "Me?"
"SI, BELLO. VIENI!"
Before he can argue, her hand is on his wrist, tugging him toward the middle of the chaos. He turns to me, wide-eyed.
"Gio help me—"
I take a bite of my dessert.
"Goodbye, Rava." I nod solemnly. "Duty calls." He glares, but he doesn’t fight it. With a dramatic sigh and the world’s most reluctant shuffle, he lets himself be pulled into the dance floor. And then he just dances with them.
I don’t know if it’s the wine, or the adrenaline, or just the perfect storm of music, lights, and fried sugar in the bloodstream, but Rava transforms.
There’s no awkward "what’s happening" moment.
One second he stands next to me, holding his wine like a confused tourist, and the next he’s in the circle, surrounded by five women easily twice our fucking age, clapping, laughing, spinning around him like satellites.
He moves with the rhythm, clapping his hands, laughing with his whole face.
The older women adore him.
They cheer for every move, drag him by the wrists to spin, shout "bravooooo!" like he’s headlining the damn show. And he doesn’t hold back. Doesn’t fake-shy. Doesn’t glance around to see if anyone judges.
He lets go. His hands are in the air. His hair is wild. He looks alive for once, not the stiff, polite version of himself. Not the quiet, careful one.
He’s glowing.
And I…Goddamn, I’m staring.
Some kids run past me. People are yelling, clapping, singing out of tune.
He is now holding a random beer bottle, possessed by the spirit of every Mediterranean auntie ever.
A tall woman, mid-fifties maybe, with bold red lipstick, comes closer to him. They dance, they clap, and then she winks at him.
He blinks, then he grins. He dead-ass grins.
"CHE CAZZO?!" The words come out of me loud. I almost drop my food. People turn. I don’t care. I’m laughing, offended. The guy I dragged here??
Mr. "I hate fun," "I don’t dance," "I read books alone on balconies" Rava??
Is currently grinning back at a MILF with rhythm??
"ARE YOU FLIRTING RIGHT NOW?!" I shout across the square.
He doesn’t even look at me. Just dances harder. I throw my napkin down in defeat.
I give up.
That son of a bitch is absolutely unrecognizable.
My chest hurts from laughing.
13) Kinda Sexted Me
Rava
Christ.
What is this headache? It’s like someone took a hammer and aimed directly at my skull, going at it all fucking night while I was screaming “PLEASE STOP.”
I groan into the pillow. My whole body feels… greasy.
I lift my head a little. The room tilts like it’s on a boat.
I smell like burnt oil, food, and cigarette smoke.
Note to self: never fall asleep without showering again, no matter how exhausted or fucking drunk I am. Because waking up like this? Disgusting. My skin feels sticky.
I curl into a ball. I’m never drinking again.
Well. That’s probably a lie, but I need the emotional support right now.
My phone buzzes against the nightstand, muted but insistent. I reach for it, rubbing my eyes.
Three new messages. From Sophia. Of course she texts. She probably wants to break up after the absolute circus that happened yesterday. Yeah. This is it. Take me, Lord.
SOPHIA:
-I’ve been thinking all night.
-I messed up, Rava. I said things I didn’t mean because I was scared of how much you mattered.
-Please… can we talk? I don’t think I’ll ever find someone like you again.
I read them once. Then again. And again.
She wants to talk. She misses me. And maybe, maybe she still believes in us.
I flop back onto the pillow, phone resting on my chest, staring at the ceiling as a weird little laugh escapes me.
"Rava Weston, you better be ready in half an hour. We’re going to the office." My mother yells from downstairs.
"Oh fuck me in the ass," I mutter, dragging the pillow over my face like it can suffocate the memory of last night.
Of course it can’t. It all comes rushing back.
The lights. The spinning ride. The goddamn laughter.
And him.
Of all people. Of all the possible versions of stupid decisions I could’ve made while buzzed and emotionally vulnerable, I had to pick him.
Why did I even go with him? Why did I laugh like that?! Who told me to have fun?? Who gave permission???
I press my palms into my eyes. I can’t believe I did that in front of Gio.
Gio. The man who literally wakes up every morning ready to bully me recreationally. What possessed me to scream in his face while the ride was throwing us around?
Why did I let him see me with my hair looking like a fried broom after that wind??
GOD.
And the worst part? He saw me happy.
He saw me comfortable. He saw me laughing, not the polite "hehe" laugh.
No.
The full demon cackle, ugly scrunched nose and all. I never laugh like that around him. Because he notices everything. Every weakness. Every crack.
And now he has ammunition. I roll onto my side and groan into the pillow again.
Why did it have to be Gio Fontana?
Why not anyone else? A stranger? A random tourist?
No.
It had to be him. Because apparently I’m cursed. And now I have to see him again today, with the memory of me dancing off-beat to Bad Bunny and drinking God-knows-what he shoved into my hand.
It was the desperation. That’s all.
The drinks, the music, the stupid, stupid nostalgia. And it’s not happening again.
He gets to me because I’m vulnerable. Because he knows I am vulnerable.
He takes one look at me and thinks, easy target. Drags me to that hellhole of fried food and neon lights, pumps me full of beer.
Fucking Gio, man. Human chaos with piercings.
If temptation had a middle finger and a Ducati, it would look like him. Next time he tries to "cheer me up," I’m spiking his drink with holy water.
I finish showering and wrestle with my tie. I drag a comb through my disaster of a hair. I look more like a human now. The headache is still knocking behind my eyes.
I descend the stairs slowly, adjusting my tie. In the kitchen, chaos is already served. Jin and Daisy sit at the table, halfway through breakfast.