Chapter 22
Frances
I’m just walking down the hallway, minding my own business, eager to get a snack, when a hand snatches my forearm and yanks me into the girls’ restroom.
“What the—”
I spin, ready to tell off whatever lunatic thinks it’s okay to ambush someone near the vending machines, but all my words stall in my throat when I come face to face with flame-red hair.
“Stella?” I ask, surprised.
What the hell is she doing at Sacred Heart?
Before I can ask, she’s already barking orders to the other girls in the bathroom. “Out. All of you. Move.”
One of the girls, still glossing her lips, stares at her through the mirror, ready to argue. Stella claps her hands once, loud and sharp, with a menacing look in her eyes. That does the trick. The girl bolts, along with everyone else, leaving just the two of us in the echoing silence of the restroom. When Stella locks the door, imprisoning us inside, a knot starts to form in my stomach.
“Stella, what’s going on? You’re kind of scaring me. Is it Lucky? Is he okay?”
“My idiot brother’s fine,” she replies, turning to the mirror to smooth her hair like any other Tuesday. “ You are the one I’m worried about.”
“Me?” I ask in confusion, my heart still thudding. “Why? What is this about?”
She turns around and leans back against the sink, gripping its edges to ground herself. “My brother did something really stupid yesterday. Dragged me into doing something equally stupid with him. And it’s all because of you.”
“Because of me?” I place a hand on my chest in astonishment.
“Yes. You,” she says, losing patience. “This leads me to think one of two things. Either you two are banging—”
“We’re not banging!” I interrupt, my cheeks burning all of a sudden.
“Or,” she says, talking right over me, “he’s in love. And before you make me repeat myself, yes, in love with you. ”
My heart slams against my ribs so hard I’m positive she can hear it. “What… what did he do?” I stammer.
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s not thinking straight, which means you have to.”
“I don’t understand,” I manage to say, barely above a whisper.
“Are you on the pill?” she asks, blunt as a hammer.
“I… I don’t think I’m comfortable having this conversation with you.”
“So that’s a no.” She groans. “Goddammit. Why am I even surprised? The nuns would rather hand out rosaries as birth control instead of condoms.”
“That’s not fair. And besides, aren’t you Catholic too?” I point out.
“Not by choice,” she grumbles. “Now come here.”
“Why? What are you going to do?”
“What I have to,” she says, fishing something from her coat pocket. “Believe me, neither one of us wants this. Especially me.”
“What the hell is that?!” I stumble backward when she pulls out a syringe, my eyes wide in shock.
“This?” She waves it casually. “This is a surefire way to make sure you don’t get pregnant and start pumping out tiny Lucianos anytime soon.”
“You are not going anywhere near me with that thing!”
“Fine. Then answer me this. Do you still want to be a nun?”
“I… I…”
“Ding! Time’s up,” she snaps. “If you’re unsure about your future, then you sure as hell better take precautions. Getting pregnant after high school isn’t a choice—it’s a sentence. It buries every dream you haven’t yet had time to name.”
“That’s kind of harsh, don’t you think?”
She crosses her arms with a tight expression. “Do you want to get pregnant?”
“No. Not right now—”
“Did you just say not right now?” she laughs, though there’s no joy in it. “Frankie, nuns don’t get knocked up. You get that, right?” Her tone softens for the first time, and the heat in her voice cools to something almost like concern. “Look,” she says, “I get that you’re in this tug-of-war between what you think you want and what your heart’s already chosen. But if you’re going to be in that war, you need armor. You need options. And if you’re not going to use this,” she continues, waving the syringe again, “then I at least need to know you’re thinking with this,” she finalizes by pointing at her head.
I stand there, frozen. Because the truth is—I don’t know what I want. But I do know what I feel. And I also know that standing here, in a locked school restroom with Luciano Romano’s sister planning an ambush injection like some weird, aggressive fairy godmother, is probably not the healthiest way to sort out my problems or figure my life out.
“Stella,” I start, taking a few steps closer to her. “I appreciate the concern. I really do.”
“I feel a ‘but’ coming on,” she groans.
“But,” I continue with a smile, “there is no way in hell I’m going to let you give me that shot. I would, however, accept your help some other way.”
She narrows her eyes suspiciously. “How?”
“Would you come with me to the free clinic so I can get the pill? You know… just in case Lucky and I do get… physical.”
“I can do you one better.” She pulls out her phone and drops the syringe into the wastebasket. “I’ll book you an appointment with the best gynecologist in the city.”
“You’re not just going to leave that in there, are you?” I ask, motioning toward the trash.
“Fine,” she sighs, rolling her eyes before grabbing a few paper towels and plucking out the syringe as if it offended her personally. “Happy now?” she asks while wrapping the syringe and pocketing it.
“Ecstatic.” I grin. “Thank you.”
“You can thank me after seeing a doctor,” she mutters, already dialing.
While she talks over the phone, I glance at my reflection in the mirror and realize there’s a new light in my eyes. Perhaps something about this whole chaotic restroom intervention feels… good. Like I’m not just drifting alone in my own world anymore.
Is Stella right? Does Lucky love me? Did our little games leave a mark on him like they did on me?
I’m still chewing on her words when Stella reappears at my side, looking more at ease, and says, “They can fit you in today. You up for a little joy ride into the city?”
Normally, I’d say no. I’m not the kind of girl who ditches class or skips chapel bells or skirts hallway check-ins. But this week? I’ve already stepped off the map with my taking-Lucky-to-church-moment in the utility closet.
“Yeah,” I say, surprising even myself. “Let’s go for a ride.”
She beams at me with pride. And for the first time since meeting Stella, I feel like I’ve passed some unspoken test. Like maybe, just maybe, I’ve earned my place in her impossible-to-please universe.
We glide into Sacred Heart’s parking lot three hours later in Stella’s flashy convertible with the top down and the wind in our hair as if starring in our own rebellious movie montage. I clutch the prescription bag tighter, still reeling from the doctor’s kindness and Stella’s supportive demeanor as she sat next to me the whole time without judgment, even when I got overwhelmed.
“Thanks for helping me with this,” I say softly.
“Don’t sweat it. We girls have to look out for each other.”
She means it. Stella may come with sharp edges and blunt opinions, but under all that fire is someone who protects what she cares about ferociously. She’s not just a champion of feminism. She’s a one-woman army. The kind who’d burn the world down if someone hurt you and then ask if you want ice cream afterward. I smile at her, feeling something strange and wonderful settling in my chest.
“I think I’ve gained a friend today,” I say.
She scoffs, but her mouth twitches into a half-smile. “Please don’t get all sentimental on me. That’s Anna’s department, not mine.”
“If you say so,” I taunt, now that I know what kind of heart beats underneath all that bravado.
“Oh, FYI,” she adds casually, shifting into park. “If Sister Agnes or Sister Margaretta ask you about this weekend’s sleepover with me and Anna, just nod and smile like you already knew all about it.”
“Huh?” I counter, confused.
“Don’t look at me and talk to your boyfriend. Lucky was the one who emotionally blackmailed Annamaria this morning into calling Sister Agnes with his signature puppy eyes,” she says with an exaggerated eye roll. “Apparently, we’re having a girls’ day and sleepover on Saturday. Sounds like he’s got big plans for your date.” She wiggles her eyebrows.
“Oh, that.” I laugh, heat rushing to my cheeks.
“Yeah, that. Now, aren’t you glad we saw the doctor?” She grins wickedly. “See? I’m always ten steps ahead.”
“I’ll make a note of that.” I giggle, stepping out of the car.
Even though the day started with awkward questions and an unsolicited syringe, it ended with something better—trust, sisterhood, and the sense that maybe, just maybe, I’m not just falling in love with Lucky but also being claimed by his whole world.
I didn’t expect to laugh this much. Or smile until my cheeks hurt. Or feel like the whole world had shifted just a few inches closer to perfect. But here we are.
Stella and Annamaria pick me up from the orphanage around ten o’clock Saturday morning, like Lucky had calculatingly organized. We drive away from Saint Mary’s, only to stop the car a few blocks down, where Lucky is anxiously waiting for me.
We start our date at Ann Sather, where Lucky insists I have to try the cinnamon rolls ‘or the whole day’s ruined,’ as he would say with a serious tone while crossing his arms and furrowing his brow. I would think he’s joking until I taste them and nearly cry. We sit in a little booth, the sunlight pooling through the window, and he steals the last bite off my plate like a criminal, his eyes gleaming as if he just got away with something major.
From there, we hop on the ‘L’ train with the casual ease of someone born into the city’s rhythm. We ride to Wicker Park, where he shows me a mural he helped Annamaria paint when he was ‘fifteen and dumber than he is now.’ It’s bright, bold, and a little messy, kind of like him. And, of course, I love it.
After that, we walk to an old convenience store nearby, where we grab slushies like kids ditching school. He dares me to race him down the sidewalk, and I lose, of course. Spectacularly so. But when he grabs my hand afterward, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, I forget all about keeping scores on our little games.
Later, we wander around Lincoln Park Zoo, which I find hilariously romantic.
“I just come here to watch the monkeys fling poop on everyone,” he jokes, but then lights up when he watches me lean over the railing to gawk at the lions cuddling each other to keep warm. When he buys me one of those ridiculous stuffed giraffes from the gift shop, I promise myself that I’m never throwing it away, not even when I’m eighty.
We continue to venture through the city on foot for a while, and even though it’s silly for me to think so, I have this crazy suspicion that Lucky made Chi-town come alive just for our date. There’s music on every corner, and food trucks parked like summer decided to last forever. The sky overhead is a perfect patchwork of blue and sun and city noise.
Even though it’s a cold winter’s day, we end up on the Lakefront Trail, shoes off, sitting at the edge of the water with Chicago’s skyline rising behind us like something out of a movie. To keep us entertained, Lucky skips rocks and pretends to be bad at it just to make me laugh.
It works. Of course, it works. Everything Lucky does works on me, apparently.
Though he hasn’t kissed me yet, the space between us closes every so often. He leans in, brushing his shoulder against mine, ensuring our legs touch. My heart doesn’t just beat. It stammers, stumbles, and falls.
I don’t even remember what we were talking about when his hand finds mine. Easy, as if it were meant to belong there.
As we watch the sun say its goodbyes, I know. God help me, I know. That I’m completely in love with him. That I love Luciano Romano with all my heart. Not because of the skyline, or the cinnamon rolls, or the way he made fun of my slushie mustache. But because I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be for the first time in a long time. Right here, next to him.
“I’ve got one more surprise,” Lucky says, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile like this. Not smug, not teasing. Just excited. As if sitting on this secret all day, dying to watch it unfold.
“Should I be scared?” I ask as he pulls me up.
“No,” he whispers, running his knuckles ever so gently over my cheeks. “You’ll never have to be afraid with me.”
How about petrified? Because by the way my heart is thumping, I’m pretty sure I’m about to pass out just by the longing in his eyes.
Lucky’s penetrating gaze falls to my lips, lingering on them for a minute before he catches himself and says, “Come on. We’ll need to get back to the car for my next surprise.”
“Okay,” I mutter, disheartened that he didn’t kiss me. But the sting quickly evaporates when he threads his fingers with mine.
Thirty minutes later, we pull up in front of a restaurant so elegant I almost ask if we’re lost. The windows glow amber from the inside, and through them, I see crystal glasses, white linen tablecloths, and people dressed as if they just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine.
“We’re having dinner here? This place?” I blink, looking down at my outfit—jeans and a knit sweater, nothing remotely close to couture. “Lucky, I don’t—”
Before I can tell him this may not be a good idea, he’s already out of the car, holding the door open for me. “Come on, Frankie. Trust me.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you. I’m just… underdressed.”
“You could wear a sack over your head and still be the most beautiful girl in the room,” he says with quiet certainty, threading his fingers through mine like it’s second nature to him.
Like I belong with him. To him.
Lucky leads me inside with that same confident ease he’s carried all day, nodding at the host, who greets him like an old friend before opening a sleek, matte-black door at the back of the dining room.
Wait. Is he taking us to the kitchen?
I get my answer when we step into the organized chaos of chefs calling orders, flames flicking up from sauté pans, and the smell of butter, garlic, and fresh herbs hanging heavy in the air.
I barely manage to breathe it all in before a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a pristine chef’s coat turns around with a grin and says, “Ah! So this is the girl who’s going to out-cook us all one day, eh?”
“Wait? You’re… Chef Luca Moretti?” He laughs and reaches out to shake my hand, the warmth and richness of his laughter making me giddy.
“I hear that you’re like me, someone who appreciates good food. Well, tonight, you’re going to eat it the right way. In the heart of the kitchen.”
My brain short-circuits for a second. Lucky just leans close to whisper, “You okay?”
“I don’t know. I think I just forgot how to talk.”
He grins. “Good. That means I did good.”
Good? Good?! This is a dream come true.
I manage to find my legs again as Chef Luca waves us over to a small table tucked right into the kitchen itself. It’s set simply but elegantly, and for the next hour, I watch the magic happen inches from my seat. Every dish arrives fresh from the line, handed to us by the sous chefs who take their time explaining what we’re about to taste like a sacred ritual. Each course is better than the last—creamy burrata with roasted figs, handmade gnocchi in brown butter, and steak so tender I swear it melts on my tongue.
And Lucky? He barely takes a bite. He just watches me, his chin resting on his hand, eyes soft, as if I were the star instead of Chef Luca.
“How did you pull this off?” I finally ask, wiping my mouth on a linen napkin and trying not to cry over my dessert.
Lucky just shrugs and says, “Let’s just say my family has a lot of friends.”
There’s something in his tone, playful but edged with meaning, but I don’t ask him the meaning behind it. Not tonight. Not when this day has been this perfect.
If I had ever imagined what it would be like to go on a date, I’m positive my imagination couldn’t concoct anything like this. It wouldn’t have had famous chefs or cinnamon rolls or Lake Michigan turning gold at sunset.
Lucky didn’t just give me a date. He gave me a day that felt like a dream.
And the terrifying, wonderful truth? I don’t want the night to end.
I want it to continue and add to the perfection by making it a night that Lucky won’t soon forget, either. And I know exactly what to do to make it memorable.
Even if that means that after tonight, my whole future might take an unexpected left turn, altering it forever.