Chapter Twenty-One Cammie
Chapter Twenty-One
Cammie
I make a new addition to my growing mental list of useful phrases to translate into Italian: “I’m so fucked.”
The lucky part of this whole ex-boyfriend surprise ambush is that Mom hasn’t yet had even a second to interrogate me.
She’s too busy catching up with her ex-boyfriends.
Plural, because it wasn’t wild enough for Paolo to show after ignoring my attempt to contact him like he was Jaspér the Ghost, Casper’s rude Italian cousin.
Tony Costa-Campbell decided to roll up, too, having escaped from his other obligation with enough time to stop at home and bring his wife, Luna, along.
He at least had the courtesy to arrive at the perfect time, distracting my mother right when she’d turned to ask me how or why or whatever other questions she had about my role in bringing Paolo here tonight.
“Tony?” she’d shrieked, somehow even more stunned than she was with Paolo.
I guess one long-ago ex at your party is a wacky coincidence. Two is a tinfoil-hat-worthy conspiracy.
“Buona sera, darlin’,” Tony said in his confounding Italian-Australian-fake-Matthew-McConaughey fashion. “Been a minute, hey? Allow me to introduce my missus.”
Before Not My Dad #2 could doubly blow my cover, I’d grabbed West’s hand and retreated to the other side of the terrazzo.
We’re behind one of the potted lemon trees brought in to create a “natural-yet-decorative border,” as I heard one of the event planners say earlier in the week, because I guess the many already planted in the ground all around the villa weren’t natural or decorative enough.
But I’m grateful for the sort-of-hiding-spot it creates without us having to leave entirely for some privacy.
“I know ‘RSVP’ is a French term, but surely the concept exists in this country,” I whisper sharply to West, once I’m confident enough no one can see our faces and I can drop my everything is bellisima smile.
“At least the food is buffet-style?” he offers by way of a weak upside.
“I don’t care if there’s enough food for these party crashers!”
“You mean the guests you specifically invited.”
“Weston, I need your commiseration right now, not the old ‘well well well, if it isn’t the consequences of your own actions’ schtick.”
We lock eyes, and the laughter in his, even if he’s trying to contain it, is a nice change of pace from the anxiety that’s been there since Paolo’s appearance.
I don’t want him to feel stressed over the scheme that was my idea all along, something I dragged him into and he shouldn’t suffer for, if anyone’s going to.
But I’m still holding out hope that no one will.
Now that I’ve seen both Paolo and Tony reunite with my mom, seen how little tension—romantic or otherwise—exists between either pairing, I get the sense that they ended on perfectly fine terms twenty years ago.
No huge, love-child-shaped secret looming over a fraught dynamic.
Mom and Luna are hitting it off so well, they’ll probably exchange numbers and save each other under the contact name “Bestie.”
In other words, I’m over 99 percent certain that neither man is my father.
At least they’re nice guys and seem to be enjoying catching up with Mom.
From what I can tell, the feeling is mutual, even if she still has questions about their presence here.
If she doesn’t find a natural way to interrogate me during this party, I’m expecting a long night on the receiving end of her we’ll-talk-about-this-later eyes.
While my dad may not be present, I do think I’ve acquired a new grandpa.
Dr. Constantini is the first to eventually spot West and me again, dragging us out from behind the lemon tree, then putting an arm around each of us while wedging himself in the middle.
I bet if I asked nicely, he’d turn this into the group hug I feel like I need right now.
West does, too, judging by the tight semblance of a smile he’s using to mask his nerves.
Instead, the older man brings his hands up from each of our shoulders to land on the tops of our heads and ruffle our hair, as much as mine can be ruffled with the copious amount of hair spray holding it together.
“I Bambini di Bronzo!” he declares with a conspiratorial wink in my direction, probably influenced by the handful of espresso martinis I’ve seen him go through. “I cannot imagine a more beautiful night for such a special gathering. I am very grateful you thought to include me.”
I’m about to say there’s no need to thank me, that we’re just glad he could make it, when a new voice pipes in from just behind us.
“Yes, that was very generous of both of you.” Gianmarco Russo makes the word generous sound like it actually means “heinous and unforgivable.”
“Johnny!” Dr. Constantini says, smile wavering as he turns the three of us around as a unit. Gianmarco’s posture somehow goes even stiffer at the name. I’m not even sure if Dr. Constantini is being petty or just using the only name he knows for the guy.
“Dr. Constantini,” he says to the older man. “If you will excuse us, I need to speak to Camilla.”
Dr. Constantini’s face is still as relaxed as can be, but I feel his grip tighten ever so slightly on my shoulder. I peer quickly at West out of the corner of my eye and, finding him already looking back at me, guess he felt the same thing.
“Oh, speak freely,” Dr. Constantini says. “There’s no need for either of you to miss out on the party.”
Russo’s perma-frown deepens before he opens his mouth, an argument on the tip of his tongue. But it snaps shut again, like he realizes he’s not going to pull me away from my squad.
“Very well. I simply wanted to inquire as to whether we should expect any more surprise attendees tonight, Ms. Lovett.”
His tone is severe, even though I know logically, this guy is in no position to scold me for anything. That right is reserved for my mother. I’m not going to apologize for things I didn’t even really intend to do.
Okay, maybe I once intended them. But I changed my mind, and I’m as surprised as anyone else that Mom’s exes showed up.
“Well, that’s the thing about surprises,” I answer, a clearly false innocence in the words. “None of us know when they’re coming.”
Russo’s face darkens and he takes a step closer, leaning forward to emphasize his height advantage over me.
“This is highly disrespectful, not only to the Villa Russo staff who put this event together, but also to me. We have a strict quota for attendees and only enough food for a precise number of plates, so I’m afraid that I will need to ask some of your guests to take their leave.
And in the future”—another step closer, and I flinch involuntarily—“I would advise you to refrain from exploiting the generosity of my institution by bringing whatever outsiders you feel like. Your mother’s name may have let you get away with everything you want thus far, but it will not keep you from facing consequences here. Is that understood?”
“Absolutely not,” says my mom as she suddenly steps in front of me, a ferocity in her tone that I’ve never heard her use, even when I’ve been in huge trouble or a student of hers has screwed up big-time.
She is a protective lioness as she faces Russo—red dress, red lipstick, copper-colored hair matching the fire in her expression.
“You do not get to speak to my daughter that way—not for any reason, but especially not for something as absurd as insufficient food to feed a few extra guests, when it is literally a buffet and your kitchen always prepares more than we need at meals. You will not take out your power trip bullshit on my girl.”
A wiser man would step back, would notice the attention this altercation is drawing from all the other attendees across the terrazzo, and stand down.
But Johnny Russo’s pride must outsize his common sense, because not only does he hold his ground, he also rolls his eyes.
Thirteen-year-old Cammie could have told him how well that one would go over with Dr. Alex Lovett.
She wouldn’t, though; there are some things people have to learn for themselves.
“Alex, please. If you want to go relive your tawdry past with every ex-lover from your wild years in Italy, you may do so outside a professional social function.”
“Johnny,” Dr. Constantini starts in as Mom calls the man something much less appropriate for polite company.
As for West and me, both our jaws are on the floor, stunned speechless at the behavior of our alleged elders.
Dr. Constantini steps up to my mother’s side, abandoning his post between West and me, and I slide into the gap he left, pressing close to West to reassure myself with the comfort of his presence in what is becoming a highly uncomfortable situation.
“That was uncalled for, mate,” Tony Costa-Campbell says, appearing at Mom’s other side in our growing semicircle of the People versus Gianmarco Russo.
“Yes,” Paolo agrees, “that is not why I came here tonight.” Turning to Mom, he starts, “Alex, I hope you don’t think—”
“God, of course not, Paolo,” she cuts him off. “You don’t even have to justify it. I’m glad to see you all. Sorry the hospitality leaves so much to be desired.”
She waves a dismissive hand toward Russo.
“Wait a second,” Tony says as realization lights up his eyes and he points to Russo. “You’re the prick who was always hanging around back in the day, upset that Alex didn’t want you. You’re not still trying to, what, make her pay for that? Because that would be—”
“Of course not,” Gianmarco scoffs. “If I still wanted Alexandra, I would’ve had her by now.”