Chapter 20
Luca
The pilot’s voice buzzes faintly through the speakers, announcing our landing in Italy, but I barely hear him.
I’m too busy staring out the tiny window, watching the clouds melt into orange.
Italy looks the same as always.
I’m just sitting there, pretending my chest doesn’t feel like it’s been scooped out and left somewhere over the Atlantic.
Tilly still doesn’t and will never feel anything for me.
I kept replaying it, the way she said it. Almost like it’s just a fact.
It’s not just a fact for me.
Because facts don’t rip out your insides and dump them down the drain.
The thing that hurts the most is that I don’t even blame her.
I tell myself I came here for space.
For a break.
For family.
But deep down, I just need to stop seeing her face everywhere I look.
I love her still, but I need to push it back a little and look at her without either feeling sick or over the moon.
When the plane finally lands, the exhaustion hits me like a wave.
The kind that drags you under and makes you forget which way is up.
By the time I get through baggage claim, I feel like a zombie.
A six-foot-tall heartbreak in a blue hoodie, dragging a suitcase and a thousand what-ifs behind him.
The airport doors slide open, and the warm air hits me
Italy smells like memories that I hope will erase some of the memories I need a break from.
My chest tightens.
I haven’t been back since I was fifteen, but everything comes flooding in at once — the endless beaches, the kids chasing each other down the pier, Nonna yelling at me to eat more pasta even though I had three bowls.
The bus ride to her town is long, quiet, and I feel numb.
Sometimes, when emotions hurt you more than you can bear, I erase them.
It’s a form of relief that I never learned to stop using.
The sun is dipping low, painting everything in soft honey light.
I know that Tilly would love this view.
I take my phone out and take a picture, but don’t send it to her, which feels wrong.
I feel like I’m stealing something, even though that’s pathetic.
I’m not stealing a photo I just took.
But you are stealing a moment of joy from her.
I press my forehead to the window, letting the rhythm of the road remove me from myself.
When the driver finally stops in front of her street, I almost don’t move.
Her house stands at the end, small, two stories, with chipped yellow paint and flower boxes overflowing with red geraniums.
A cat is sleeping on the front step like it owns the place.
It is perfect.
Exactly how I remember.
I take a deep breath and knock once. I don’t get to blink before the door flies open.
“Mio dolce Luca!”
Nonna’s voice can make mountains move. She’s barely five feet tall, but her hug could crush bones.
She throws her arms around me like I have been gone for decades.
“Ciao, Nonna,” I manage, grinning despite the weight in my chest. “I missed you.”
She pulls back, squinting up at me. “You look too skinny. You don’t eat? What do they feed you in Australia, sadness?”
I laugh softly. “Something like that.”
She smacks my arm gently and waves me inside. “Come, I made food. Real food. Not that frozen garbage you eat over there.”
The smell hits me the second I step in — garlic, tomatoes, and fresh fruit.
The kitchen looks like a cozy war zone. Pots bubbling, herbs hanging from the ceiling, flour dusting the counter.
Nonna’s version of love is cooking enough food for an army.
If you refuse seconds, it’s a personal insult punishable by guilt.
She brings out plate after plate — lasagna, fried zucchini, bread still warm from the oven, and focaccia.
I sit down, pretending to be starved just to make her happy.
In my family, it’s rude to refuse food. There is no such thing as politely refusing.
It’s either you eat, or you hate me.
She watches me eat, arms crossed. “You look tired, Luca. Too tired. What’s wrong, huh? You fight with your coach again?”
I freeze with a fork halfway to my mouth. “No, Nonna. Not that.”
She tilts her head. “Then what? You lose a game?”
I smile weakly. “Yeah. Something like that.”
It’s not a lie, it’s a comparison.
She sighs like she doesn’t believe me for a second. “You think I don’t see, bambino? You have that face.”
“What face?”
“The one your grandfather used to have when he was in love but too stupid to say it.”
I choke on my water. “Nonna.”
She shrugs, smirking like she knows everything.
Because she does.
“Don’t Nonna me. I know boys. Especially my boys.”
I laugh, but it’s hollow.
He doesn’t know half of it.
After dinner, where I feel slightly sick, but it doesn’t count cause I’m in Italy, she hands me a towel and points toward the guest room. “You go to sleep. You go rest. Tomorrow, we can go to the market. And you tell me everything, sì?”
I nod, even though I know I won’t.
Not everything.
The guest room smells like lemons and old books. The window is open, and the sound of waves rolls in.
The one thing that is the same here as back home.
The ocean.
I sit on the edge of the bed, running a hand through my hair.
Nonna loves me, I know that. But sometimes I wonder if she’d love me the same if I weren’t the Luca who played volleyball.
The one who wins tournaments.
The one who makes her proud enough to brag to her friends at the market.
Who was I without that?
Without her pride, without the game, without Tilly?
I stare at the ceiling, fighting the tight ache crawling up my throat.
Because even here — miles away, surrounded by family — she’s still in my head.
Her laugh.
Her stupid cream-covered nose.
Her voice when she said, I feel nothing, I remind myself.
I swallow hard.
Maybe Nonna is right. Maybe I am in love, and too stupid to admit it.
But I already did, and that got me nowhere.
So why do it again?
I turn off the light, letting the hum of the sea fill the room.
Somewhere outside, a wave crashes.
Somewhere inside, my heart does too.
***
I wake up to the smell of espresso and the sound of Nonna aggressively clinking plates in the kitchen.
For a moment, I forgot where I am.
The sunlight spills across the room — like it’s trying to kiss you awake. I blink up at the ceiling, still half-asleep.
The memories hit me again, and I groan.
I sit up slowly, dragging my hands down my face. I feel heavy, like sleep hasn’t done anything but make the ache sharper.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, but I don’t check it right away.
I already knew who wasn’t texting me.
That’s all I need to know.
“Luca!” Nonna yells from downstairs. “If you don’t get up right now, I’ll feed your breakfast to the neighbor’s cat!”
I smile faintly.
Some things never change.
By the time I make it downstairs, she’s already setting the table like we are hosting a royal feast — scrambled eggs, croissants, fresh fruit, and three different cheeses.
“You’re insane,” I say, grinning.
She points a wooden spoon at me. “No. I’m Italian. Eat.”
I obey because I don’t have a death wish.
She pours me coffee — the kind that could wake the dead — and sits across from me, watching me like I’m an experiment.
“So,” she says finally, resting her chin on her hands. “You sleep well?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Liar.”
I blink. “What?”
“You have that look.” She narrows her eyes. “Like someone who is lying… about a girl.”
I almost spit out my coffee. “Nonna!”
“What?” She shrugs. “I was young once. I know heartbreak eyes when I see them.”
I stare at my plate. “It’s not… like that.”
“Mhmm.” She sips her espresso, unimpressed. “Then why do your shoulders look like you’re carrying a ghost?”
I don’t answer.
She stays quiet, but I know a plan is forming in her head, and I’m scared of what’s coming.
She has this unique way of solving problems.
First of all, the problems she solves were never problems until she made them.
Second, she did it in a way that would probably confuse a normal person.
After breakfast, she insists we walk to the market.
“Fresh air heals the soul,” she says.
I’m not convinced, but arguing with Nonna is like arguing with gravity.
The market is alive — vendors yelling prices, music floating from a nearby café, people laughing with bread in their hands and sun on their faces. The smell of basil hits me.
It’s the same market I used to go to as a kid, clinging to Nonna’s skirt while she haggled like she was fighting a war.
Now, I trail behind her with a basket in hand, half-listening as she flirts shamelessly with the fruit seller.
“You see, Luca?” she says, turning to me dramatically. “Life is too short not to buy good peaches and look beautiful while doing it.”
I laugh softly. “You never change.”
She gives me that sly look again. “You neither. Still quiet when you hurt.”
I freeze, eyes flicking down to the cherries she tosses in the basket.
They look like the ones Tilly put on the cake.
I swallow.
“Her name’s Harper, isn’t it?”
I whip my head up. “What?”
Nonna smirks, victory glinting in her eyes. “You think you can hide from me? I saw the way your eyes seek hers in every damn game. That’s amore, mio caro.”
“It’s not—” I stop, because what was the point?
How on earth does she know that?
I rub the back of my neck. “She doesn’t… feel the same.”
Nonna’s expression softens instantly. She reached out and cupped my cheek. “Then she is the one who loses, not you.”
My throat burns. “It doesn’t feel like that.”
She smiles sadly. “Because you are still in the middle of the story. You cannot see the ending yet.”
We walk in silence after that.
She hums an old song, the kind my mom used to play, and I try to pretend my chest isn’t caving in.
When we get back, I escape to the balcony with my phone.
The sea stretches out in front of me — blue, endless, and cruel.
I stare at my messages, thumb hovering over Tilly’s name.
I type something.
Delete it.
Type again.
Hope you’re doing okay.
Pathetic.
I delete it again.
The truth is — I want to say I miss her. That everything reminds me of her. That I can’t breathe without thinking about her laugh.
But I can’t.
So I put my phone face-down and lean back in the chair.
The sun is setting again, burning gold over the water.
I thought coming here would help me forget. Instead, it just made me realize how much I don’t want to.
The sea outside glimmers under the moonlight.
I sit on the balcony long after Nonna went to bed, the sound of waves and cicadas filling the silence that my thoughts refuse to.
I should feel lighter here.
I should feel at peace.
But instead, my chectic thoughts swirl around bluntly refusing to give me rest.
I lean forward, resting my arms on the railing.
Somewhere under all of everything, I can still feel that ache.
That quiet, hollow part of me that wishes love doesn’t have to feel so one-sided.
Maybe that’s what growing up really is.
Learning that sometimes you love people who can’t love you back in the same way.
Romantic or not, love is cruel.
I never trusted love.
It created competition between my siblings.
It broke my parents.
It ruined my grandma.
Love is nothing like the ocean. You can’t trust it, and you can’t depend on it.
I exhale, feeling done.
I hope the next time I fall will be the last. Because I don’t think my bones can take another crash.
I don’t want to keep giving pieces of myself away to people who don’t know what to do with them.