4. Anthony
— ? —
Anthony
Then - The Summer We Were Sixteen
She laughs like nobody has ever taught her to be careful with it.
It’s the kind of laugh that fills up a room, that makes strangers turn their heads, that wraps around my chest and squeezes until I can’t think straight.
Alessia Sartori is standing in the village square with gelato dripping down her wrist, laughing at something I said that wasn’t even funny, and I’m falling so hard I can feel the wind in my hair.
“You did not,” she gasps. “You did not tell your uncle you were allergic to olives.”
“I panicked! He kept putting them on my plate and looking at me like he expected me to enjoy them-”
“So you invented a medical condition?”
“I have a very sensitive palate!”
She laughs again, and I watch her tip her head back, watch the sun catch the highlights in her dark hair. I should look away. I should maintain some kind of dignity. Instead I stand there like an idiot, memorizing the curve of her throat.
This is the third time I’ve snuck out to meet her this week.
I’m supposed to be shadowing my uncle in meetings, learning the family trade. Richard put me on a plane to Tuscany with a speech about opportunity and responsibility, and I promised him I’d pay attention, I’d take notes, I’d make him proud.
Instead, I climb out the guesthouse window every afternoon and follow Alessia Sartori wherever she wants to take me.
“Your uncle is going to find out,” she says, finally getting her laughter under control. She takes another lick of her gelato - pistachio, which I know is her favorite now - and fixes me with a look that’s half warning, half dare. “He’ll tell my father. My father will kill you.”
“Worth it.”
The words come out before I can stop them. She goes still, and something shifts in the air between us. I watch her cheeks flush pink.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she says quietly.
“Why not?”
“Because.” She looks away, at the fountain where old men are playing chess. “Because you’re leaving at the end of the summer. And I’ll still be here.”
She says it like it’s simple. Like it’s a fact, unchangeable. And maybe she’s right - maybe I should be thinking about the end of the summer. But when I look at her, I can’t make myself care about any of it.
“Come with me,” I say.
Her head snaps up. “What?”
“When I leave. Come with me. Not forever, just - a visit. A trip. Something. I want to show you where I live. I want to take you to the places I love and watch you see them for the first time-”
“Anthony.” Her voice is gentle, and that’s how I know I’ve gone too far. “We’re sixteen.”
“So?”
“So that’s not how the world works.” She finishes her gelato and won’t meet my eyes. “We have a few more weeks. Let’s not ruin it by pretending it can be more than that.”
I want to argue. But the set of her jaw tells me she won’t hear it, so I swallow the words.
“Okay,” I say. “A few more weeks.”
She looks at me then, really looks, and her expression softens into something that makes my chest ache.
“Show me somewhere new,” she says. “Somewhere I haven’t taken you yet.”
Yesterday, while I was pretending to listen to Richard talk about shipping routes, I overheard one of the staff mention an old church at the edge of the village. A hidden garden, they said. Crumbling walls and jasmine growing wild.
“I might know a place,” I tell her. “If you trust me.”
Her smile is slow and devastating. “I trust you.”
The garden is exactly what the staff described - a walled courtyard behind a church so old it looks like it grew out of the ground. The gate is rusted half-shut, but Alessia squeezes through without hesitation, and I follow.
Inside, the jasmine has swallowed everything. It crawls up the walls and over the broken fountain, filling the air with a sweetness so thick I can taste it. Alessia goes still in the center of the garden, her face unreadable.
“Alessia?” I touch her elbow. “What happened? We can leave if you-”
“My mother’s. It’s like she’s here.”
She says it so quietly I almost miss it. She’s looking at a small white stone under the olive tree, half-hidden by weeds, and her eyes are bright with tears she’s refusing to let fall.
“She died when I was seven. I don’t remember her voice anymore.” She swallows hard. “I only remember that she wore jasmine. So I come here when I want to feel like she’s close.” A shaky laugh. “That’s stupid, right?”
“No.” My voice comes out rough. “That’s not stupid at all.”
I’m sixteen years old, and I’ve never been good with words when they matter. My father died when I was four - too young to remember - and my uncle raised me with a gruff affection that didn’t leave much room for talking about feelings.
But Alessia just handed me something fragile and precious, and I can’t let her think she made a mistake.
“My dad died too. When I was four,” I tell her. “I don’t remember anything about him. My uncle raised me.”
Something passes between us that I don’t have words for.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“I’m sorry too.”
We stand there in the silence, and I don’t know who moves first. But suddenly my hand is in hers, our fingers laced together, and she’s holding on like I’m the only steady thing in a world that keeps trying to knock her off balance.
My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure she can hear it. This is different from anything I’ve felt before. This is terrifying. This is standing at the edge of a cliff and wanting to jump.
Behind us, the church gate creaks.
We both go rigid. One of her father’s men is leaning in the shadow of the wall with his arms folded, staring straight at our interlocked fingers. His expression says everything - the slow scan from our hands to our faces, the slight shake of his head, the way he reaches for the phone in his pocket.
Alessia drops my hand like it burned her.
“We should go,” she says. “Now.”
The man watches us go, his phone already pressed to his ear.