6. Alessia
— ? —
Alessia
Then - The Summer We Were Sixteen
Anthony has me pressed against the back wall of the vineyard shed, and we’ve been kissing for so long my lips are swollen and I can’t remember my own name.
His hands are on my waist, tentative and trembling. My fingers are tangled in his hair, and I’m pulling him closer, always closer, until there’s nothing between us but thin cotton and heat.
This summer, he taught me how to skip stones on the river. I taught him how to swear in Italian. We’ve spent every stolen moment together, sneaking out of windows and lying to our families and pretending that the end of summer is something that happens to other people.
“I go back to the States at the end of summer,” he says against my mouth. His forehead is resting on mine.
“Then don’t go.”
“I have to.”
“Then take me with you.”
He laughs, but his eyes are serious in the moonlight slicing through the slats. “Alessia, you don’t mean that. We’re sixteen.”
“I do mean it.”
I’ve never meant anything more in my life. I grab the front of his shirt and pull him closer.
“I’d go anywhere with you,” I tell him. “I’d get on the plane tomorrow. I’d-”
He kisses me before I can finish. It’s different from the kisses that came before - slower, deeper, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are wet.
“Hey.” I touch his cheek. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” His voice is rough. “I just - I don’t want this to end. I don’t want to be on a plane knowing you’re here, knowing I might never-”
He stops. Swallows. Tries again.
“You’re the first person who’s ever made me feel like I belong somewhere,” he says quietly. “When I’m with you, I’m just… me. And you like that. You like me.”
“I love you,” I say.
The words come out before I can stop them. They hang in the air between us, glittering and dangerous.
Anthony goes completely still.
“Alessia…”
“I love you,” I say again, stronger. “I know we’re sixteen. I know it’s crazy. I don’t care. But I’ve never felt like this before. It’s like magic. Like a fairy tale.”
He stares at me for a long, terrible moment. Then he kisses me.
It’s fierce and desperate, and when he pulls back just far enough to speak, his voice is wrecked.
“I love you too,” he says. “God, Alessia, I love you so much it scares me.”
I kiss him again. I don’t need to hear the rest.
We stay like that for what feels like hours. Kissing and whispering and making promises neither of us knows how to keep.
By the time we finally pull apart, my lips are raw and my heart is so full it hurts.
“I should go,” I whisper. “If Papa finds out I snuck out-”
“I know.” He doesn’t let go of my hand. “Tomorrow? Same time?”
“Same time.”
A flashlight beam sweeps across the gap under the shed door.
We both go rigid. Heavy footsteps. More than one person.
Then my father’s voice, calm and very close:
“Alessia. Come inside. Now.”
My blood turns to ice.
I squeeze Anthony’s hand once - I love you, I’ll fix this - and then I let go, slipping toward the shed door.
Papa is standing ten feet away, flanked by two of his men. I can’t see his expression, but I don’t need to. His silence is worse than any words.
“Papa, I was just-”
“I know what you were doing. Come. Now.”
Papa starts walking toward the house. His men fall into step behind him, and I have no choice but to follow.
When we reach the house, Papa stops at the terrace door.
“Go to your room,” he says. “Don’t come out until I send for you.”
“Papa, please-”
“Room. Now.”
I go.