Epilogue Cammie
Epilogue
One Month Later
Cammie
“I realize Luca’s only been in my life for, like, two minutes,” I tell West as we watch the man in question order a drink at the bar, oblivious to his onlookers, “but he needs to remember he’s a father now. And there are some things a daughter can’t unsee.”
West laughs into his club soda. “I don’t know, I think he rocks the white jumpsuit.”
I scoff, bumping my hip against his. I bet it almost looks like we’re using this dance floor for its intended purpose, rather than standing here playing costume police.
“You don’t have to side with him in some effort to win his approval, so he’ll give his blessings upon our courtship or whatever.
Luca’s still concerned with winning my approval. ”
As if he can hear us clear across the deck, Luca catches my judgy gaze, meeting it with a teasing lift of one sandy-brown brow. I hide my smile behind my limoncello spritzer—heavy on the spritz, as I take bambina steps into the world of adult beverages.
“Which he did pretty quickly,” West teases as he bumps me back. “Not that you give him any sign of your good opinion.”
I give a faux indifferent shrug. “Yeah, well. He missed my most angsty teen years. Making him work for it a little bit is probably healthy, for his…parental development.”
“A very mature take. I can tell you’re in your twenties now.”
As of today, that’s true—it’s the very reason we’re on this boat, cruising along through the Mediterranean waters under the glow of the late-August evening sun.
Paolo was generous enough to offer the largest vessel in the Bianchi Voyages fleet for my big twentieth birthday bash, one they normally use for their “Sunset Booze Cruise.” Tonight, it’s been transformed into a nautical nightclub, complete with karaoke, a photo booth, a DJ, and a dance floor, all aligned with my chosen theme, “Bambina di Disco.”
So in that way, I am personally responsible for every hideous outfit on board.
The good ones, too, like Ilaria’s bell-bottom flares and scandalously sheer lace top, with matching orange platform heels.
Or Mom’s belted minidress in this swirly, psychedelic floral print with white go-go boots.
Those two were together when I first saw them, as the whole group of partygoers—thirtysome of the people I’ve spent the most time with this summer, basically—met up at Villa Russo to shuttle over to the marina.
“It’s rude to upstage the birthday girl,” I told them.
“Bellissima Camilla, we could not if we tried,” Ilaria insisted as she fawned over my own outfit and fluffed my hair. One of the girls on my hall helped me style it today, blowing it out into long, sleek, straight layers that still have volume, thanks to how much freaking hair is on my head.
“Come on, my little disco ball.” Mom wrapped an arm around my waist, rustling the silver sequin fringe that covers the short sheath dress. “Let’s try this party thing again, maybe without an almost-physical altercation or paternity bombshell? Not that those weren’t their own boatload of fun…”
“Do you ever think it’s pretty impressive that someone as unserious as you has kept another human alive for twenty years?” I mused as we headed toward the driveway, checking over my shoulder to ensure West was still following, talking to Dr. Danny a little behind us.
“Darling daughter, you have no idea.”
Our most recent Villa Russo terrazzo–hosted party was the reason I immediately ruled that out as a location for ringing in my twentieth.
But it was my mother who reached out to Paolo and got us here, on just about the dreamiest birthday party venue I could’ve imagined.
And even without the extra “excitement” tonight, it’s been the best birthday of my life.
“Okay, everyone, it’s cake time! Birthday song and candles and cake and crying—but maybe the last one’s just me—on the upper deck, if you’ll all make your way there,” Mom announces, projecting her Dr. Lovett voice enough to reach a boatful of pupils, a good number of whom have certainly been enjoying the open bar.
“May I escort the Birthday Bambina to the upper deck?” West asks, extending his hand my way.
I smile as I turn to take him in again, head to toe, just to bask in my own luck and love and happiness.
Not only because I have the kind of boyfriend who let me choose his entire costume and offered no complaints.
It’s also because I have a boyfriend who—miraculously—looks damn good in faded jeans that are tight on top and flared at the bottom, a button-down with flowy sleeves that I left unbuttoned to his mid-chest (“showing all my cleavage,” West had said, cheeks flaming red), and a fake Tom Selleck–style mustache.
“Naturally,” I answer primly, sliding my hand into his and still feeling the little swoop of excitement in my stomach when we touch, even with a couple months to get used to it. “There’s no other man I want to accompany me there, or to kiss me senseless despite the squirrel stuck to his upper lip.”
I can barely see West’s lips twist under the so-called squirrel. “I can’t decide if that’s more a reflection of my good looks, or your weird taste.”
“How does one say ‘por que no los dos’ in Italian?”
“Maybe by the time we come back to Italy, we’ll know.”
We ascend the stairs hand in hand, amid all the strangers who became friends this summer, dressed in their wild combinations of patterns and colors, postcard-worthy views in every direction from this party boat, and I’m hit with both sorrow over leaving this remarkable place and happiness knowing that I will be coming back.
Again and again, for the rest of my life.
Starting on my next school break, which serendipitously aligns with one of West’s from his research program in Germany.
It’ll be our first reunion after we go long-distance in a couple weeks, happening right back here at the Villa Russo Research Residency, where we’ll visit its new director—my mom.
It’ll double as a visit with the man I may or may not ever come to call Dad.
For now, he’s just Luca. But getting to know Just Luca has been a gift in so many ways I didn’t expect.
He’s nothing like the many iterations of a mystery dad I imagined, but even better for it.
Because he’s real, and quirky, and cares so deeply and tries so earnestly to learn everything he can about me and my life without smothering or scaring me off.
He hasn’t yet realized that I don’t scare easily.
But he will, as we spend more time together on my future trips here, and his and Mom’s visits to the States to see my grandparents and me. He’ll also realize, at some point, that he’s already won me over.
It took no more than a few minutes in his apartment on Via Camilla, our first meetup with Mom and me a few nights after we all learned the truth.
Luca made us his nonna’s Bolognese recipe, and walking into the open living area that was exactly as inviting and cozy as young Alex had described it, surrounded by the smells of tomatoes and garlic and spices marinating on the stove, I’d suddenly felt tears welling in my eyes.
They spilled out before I could hide them or find an onion to blame, and I wasn’t even sure of their real cause.
Mom had already beelined for the kitchen and lifted the lid of the sauce pot for a sneak peek, practically sticking her face down in it, and didn’t immediately notice my meltdown.
But Luca had barely looked away from me since we’d arrived, and instead of pretending he didn’t see the waterworks or calling out in panic for the nearest available woman, he’d efficiently gathered up a box of tissues and a fresh glass of water—not even carbonated—and guided me gently to his couch.
He hadn’t said anything, but emotion shone in his eyes, too, when I chanced a look at his face.
Our watery gazes locked, and one corner of his lips had turned up in the slightest smile while his head dipped in what could barely be called a nod.
But I felt it—his unspoken I understand and maybe I’m right there with you.
It settled in my chest like a puzzle piece I hadn’t even known was missing until I found it.
Luca got me, in this innate, intangible way I wouldn’t have believed if I hadn’t experienced it myself.
Finding him has felt like not only discovering a whole new side of who I was and where I came from, but also like coming back to a familiar home that’d always been there.
It wasn’t hard to see why my mom fell for him twenty years ago—nor why they’ve more or less picked up where they left off, as much as two people can with all the time and struggles between them.
What I haven’t said out loud to anyone yet—though I know West can tell—is that watching Luca love my mom has made me love him.
It’s complicated, and an ongoing process, but I think this family of ours might just go the distance.
Just as I plan to with the guy beside me, who draws me forward to the cake table, right as the DJ starts “Dancing Queen.” Every single person in the circle around us begins to sing along, and when Mom appears at the fringes and holds up her candles and lighter with a questioning look, I wave her forward.
It feels fitting as my birthday song this year. Celebrating twenty years since the redheaded wild woman walking my way brought me into the world on the dirty grounds of an ancient villa, surrounded by friends from around the world who know every word to the universal language of ABBA.
Behind Mom, Luca carries the cake carefully, like a life hangs in the balance rather than a combination of butter, sugar, and flour.
When he delivers it oh so gently to the table in front of me, I see the design for the first time, and my head falls back on a belly laugh just as the chorus kicks in.
A picture of my newborn baby face, one that became synonymous with the Bambina di Bronzo story as it had its moment in global news, has been transposed onto a disco ball in a way that’s both the best thing I’ve ever seen and completely horrifying. I adore it.
Almost as much as I adore singing and twirling through the rest of the song, lifting my arms in the air and clumsily shouting “TWENTY” with everyone else over each “seventeeeen” in the chorus.
Adore not knowing what to wish for as I blow out my candles but sealing it with a kiss from West afterward.
Adore our long history of birthdays spent together and a future with many more to come.
“I adore you,” I whisper against his lips, as effortlessly as breathing.
“I’m keeping you,” West whispers back, a promise that never gets old.
I wrap my arms around him as the song fades out on the speakers but replays in my mind, on a loop for the rest of the night.
I am, in fact, having the time of my life.