Chapter 21 #2
Her mother’s face breaks into a grin, and the next thirty seconds are a blur of hugs, rapid-fire Italian, and overlapping exclamations. I catch enough English to understand they decided to surprise her a day early.
And then, like a light switch, the flurry of movement slows. All three of them turn to look at me.
Francesca moves to my side, giving me an apologetic look that says Sorry… I had no idea this was going to happen.
“Mamma, Papà… this is Ronan Barnes.” She then touches my lower back. “Ronan… my mother, Giulia, and my father, Luca.”
I nod at them, afraid to shake hands because my palms are sweaty. “Pleasure to meet you both.”
Then I glance at Francesca and there’s a flash of worry there, like she’s bracing for me to bolt. And as much as I’d prefer to, I can’t do that to her. I try for an encouraging smile and hope she understands.
Her mother’s brows lift, and her father’s mouth tips in a knowing smile. “We didn’t know you were friends,” her father says with a twinkle in his eye.
Francesca doesn’t miss a beat. “We’re dating.”
That earns me another look from them both. Wide eyes assessing, curious but certainly not unfriendly. Her mother’s lips twitch like she’s holding back a dozen questions. “Dating,” she repeats, drawing it out.
Francesca waves them off, moving back to the stove. “You can save the interrogation for later, okay? Dinner’s ready, and you’re lucky that I don’t know how to make anything other than a large pot of ragù.”
“My favorite,” her father exclaims and pats his belly, giving me a wink. “Got to be careful, Ronan. It’s a dangerous meal.”
“I’ve heard it’s sacred,” I say, and that earns a grin from Francesca just before she barks orders.
I’m told to add two place settings to the table and her dad is to open the wine and grab a platter for the pasta.
Surprisingly, we operate like a well-oiled machine and in less than five minutes, all four of us are at the table with our plates piled and red wine in our glasses.
I brace for one of them to ask for details on us dating and almost breathe out a sigh of relief when Luca asks, “Silvercrest this weekend… that’s a big race for you, Ronan, being on your home turf.”
I nod, keeping my tone even. “Home soil for Crown Velocity and both of its drivers, so yes, there’s a lot of pride in getting it right.”
“It’s different when you’re racing on home soil. Francesca always performed better when she raced in Italy. It’s such a thrill to see a home crowd screaming her name.”
Giulia sips her wine. “I bet your parents are incredibly proud of you.”
My fork stops twirling, and I stare at her mum, not knowing what to say. I can’t lie to the woman because that would not start our relationship off on the right foot, and yet I don’t know her well enough to tell her that my parents don’t care about me at all.
It’s Francesca who comes to my rescue, her voice soft but firm. “Ronan’s parents aren’t involved in his career.”
Her parents look embarrassed, and Giulia apologizes. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to get too personal.”
I hold up a hand. “It’s fine, really. Maybe we should start with an easier topic, like how your daughter and I started dating.”
Francesca chokes on her laughter, her eyes shining at me. “When you decide to go all in, you go all in.”
I lift a shoulder. “I thought meeting your parents and getting grilled by them about our relationship would be the worst thing, but apparently it’s not.”
Luca guffaws and Giulia chuckles. Francesca stares at me with what I think is pride. We stare at one another for a long beat and then she turns to her mom. “Let me tell you about the commercial we had to do together.”
They’re both regaled with our ridiculous on-camera antics, but Francesca leaves out her meeting my mother. She ultimately concludes, “We just clicked.”
“Well, I for one am happy about that,” Giulia says. “This sport can be very lonely, especially with all the travel. I’m glad Francesca has someone to look out for her. Now, I’m not up to speed on all the dynamics in FI, but how long have you been doing this, Ronan?”
I set down my fork, leaning an elbow lightly on the table. “Started karting when I was six and never looked back. It replaced a lot of stuff I was missing in my life.”
Across the table, Francesca’s gaze catches mine. She’s got a soft, almost private smile, like she’s hearing it for the first time—not the facts, but the part where I allude to the truth about my absent parents.
Luca shakes his head with a smile “Six years old… racing around a track and already filled with the spirit of competition.”
“Yes,” I say, allowing the corner of my mouth to twitch upward. “Once you get the bug, it doesn’t let go.”
Giulia chuckles, glancing at her daughter. “Sounds familiar. It was practically impossible to get her home from the track.”
Francesca laughs, reaching for her wine, and I realize the three of them are looking at me like I’m part of the conversation, not just a guest on the periphery. And I’m pleased to note… it’s easy.
Luca leans forward. “You know, she was a natural. I could tell from when she first sat in a kart, she was going to be a legend.”
Francesca rolls her eyes, but there’s a faint blush on her cheeks. “Papà…”
Giulia’s laugh is bright and unrestrained. “Yes, a natural—until she tried to drive the family car.” She turns to me, eyes sparkling. “Do you know what happened, Ronan?”
Francesca groans and covers her face with one hand. “Don’t.”
“Oh, I must,” Giulia insists, leaning in as if sharing a great secret. “She’s fourteen, barely tall enough to see over the wheel, and Luca—foolish man—decides to let her practice in the lane by the olive grove.”
“I thought she was ready,” Luca says, throwing up his hands. “She had the confidence and was great on the track.”
“She had no brakes,” Giulia corrects, grinning. “She comes down the lane, fast—so fast—and instead of slowing, she presses harder.”
Luca’s laughing now, shaking his head. “Straight toward the olive trees! I’m shouting, ‘Brake! Brake!’ and she—”
“—is shouting, ‘I’ve got it, I’ve got it!’” Giulia finishes, the two of them talking over each other, laughing so hard they can barely breathe.
Francesca drops her hand from her face just enough to glare at them, but she’s fighting a smile. “I didn’t hit the trees.”
“No,” Luca says, eyes warm with pride, “but only because I grabbed the wheel.”
The three of them dissolve into another round of laughter, and I sit back, watching it unfold. No scathing words, no bitterness—a family who knows one another’s stories by heart and loves telling them anyway.
“Nothing’s changed,” I tell her father with a wink. “Still takes her corners too fast.”
“Better than being slow,” Francesca fires back, and we all laugh.
As the conversation flows and pasta is devoured, I hear story after story about Francesca’s teenage years, her first race in Italy, the time she tried to make her own pasta and somehow glued it to the ceiling.
The tales keep coming because I keep asking questions, starved for more information about this woman.
This isn’t what I grew up with. My parents’ dinner table was a cold stage for silence or carefully curated pleasantries. But sitting here, hearing her parents tease her with affection, watching her throw it right back at them, I don’t feel jealous.
I feel… glad. Genuinely glad she has this. That she knows what love without conditions looks like.
When her father pours me another glass of wine and Francesca asks if I’d like to stay for tiramisu, it’s the easiest thing in the world to smile and say, “Absolutely.”