Chapter 6 #10
I kiss him once, quickly, because if I do more than that, I'll probably start crying all over again. Then he takes Antonio from my arms.
I smile at him as they go. "Go with dada, bean." He waves at me happily, not knowing he just ripped my heart open and stitched it back together in the same ten minutes.
Then they walk away. And I turn back to the stone.
I crouch down in front of it slowly and press my fingers against the date.
Today you would've turned fifty-one, Dad.
Fifty-one. That number looks wrong on you. It looks too old and too young at the same time. Too old because in my head you are still frozen somewhere else, somewhere I can still almost reach if I let myself remember too hard.
Too young because fifty-one is still a life. It's still years. It's still birthdays, dinners, random phone calls, gray hair and all the stupid ordinary things that people don't understand are miracles until they stop getting them.
It's been sixteen years.
Sixteen years since the day my whole life split in half.
The day you ended your life and I was only twelve.
Twelve is such a disgusting age to lose your father like that. Too young to understand it. Old enough to remember every part of it forever. Old enough to know something had been ripped out of my life. Too young to know how to survive it.
And I did survive it. I kept growing.
I kept getting older without you. I got taller than I was when you knew me. My voice changed. My face changed. My whole life changed.
I fell in love. I became a father. I built a home. I learned how to laugh again. I learned how to be okay on some days. And sometimes that feels like betrayal.
I feel like I should've stayed broken in the exact same shape you left me in. Like some part of me thinks if I healed too much, it means I didn't love you enough.
I stare at your name and swallow hard.
I still don't know if I'm angry at you or just heartbroken. Maybe both. Maybe that's what makes this grief so dirty even after all these years.
It never got to be clean. It never got to be simple. You didn't get taken by some random accident or some cruel disease I could point at and hate from a distance.
You left.
You made the choice yourself.
You were hurting enough to leave me anyway. And I know that pain like that eats people alive. I know it isn't that simple. I know none of it was about not loving me.
But I was twelve.
There is still a part of me stuck there, looking at the aftermath and thinking, why wasn't loving me enough to make you stay? I hate that question. I hate it because it still lives in me. I hate it because I know it's unfair. I hate it because it sounds exactly the age I was when you died.
I rub my thumb over the numbers of the date. "Antonio said happy birthday to you," I whisper.
My voice sounds wrecked. "He brought you a flower."
I let out a shaky breath. "And he has your name."
That one still hurts every time I say it out loud.
I gave him your name because I didn't know what else to do with all the love that had nowhere to go. So I put part of it into my son. Into something alive. Something that laughs, runs and asks too many questions.
And maybe that isn't fair. Maybe it is. I don't know. I just know that when I hear your name in his little voice, it hurts and heals me at the same time.
And I'm so fucking tired of missing you in new ways.
At twelve, I missed my dad.
At twenty, I missed the man who should've seen me become a mess.
At twenty-eight, I miss the grandfather my son should've had. I miss you in layers now. I miss you in places you never even reached. I drop my head for a second and wipe under my eyes.
I'm crying again, like I haven't done enough of that over the years already.
"You should've met him," I say, smiling through the tears.
"You should've seen him. He's funny. He's loud.
He asks things that wreck me. He's got this little serious face he makes when he's trying to understand something, and it looks so much like you.
It kills me every time because he should've been making that face at you across a table… Not in a cemetery."
My hand presses harder to the stone. "He should know what your voice sounded like."
It hits me so hard I have to stop for a second.
Because he doesn't. My son knows your name, but not your voice. Not your laugh. Not the way you said things. Not how your hug felt. That is such a cruel fucking thing to lose that I don't even have words ugly enough for it.
He should've known you as a person.
Not as a story I tell carefully. Not as a grave we visit on birthdays. Not as a man I try to piece together for him without letting him see how much it still destroys me.
I wipe the tears away. "I still needed you."
Not needed. Need.
Present tense. Because I do. I still need you. Even now. Even after all this time. Even with a husband who loves me right and a son who wraps his little arms around my neck and gives me reasons to stay.
There are still days I want my dad. And I hate how small that makes me feel. I hate that grief can turn a grown man back into a twelve-year-old in one second flat.
"I still had so much to show you," I whisper. "I still do." That's what makes me cry harder.
Not just what I lost then. What I keep losing now. Every good thing that happens still hurts because you're not here for it.
Every beautiful thing in my life drags your absence behind it.
I got married. You weren't there.
I became a father. You weren't there.
Your grandson said happy birthday to your gravestone today. And you weren't there.
I laugh once through my tears.
Sometimes I'm so happy now it makes me sick. Because my life is good. It is. I love them. I love him. I love our kid so much I feel insane half the time. And then I come here and all I can think is that you missed all of it.
And I hate that you left before any of this had the chance to find you.
33) Just The Three of Us
Rava
We're at my mom's place, getting the table ready. I've already cried twice and we've been here for like an hour. It's ridiculous.
A few years ago, in this exact house, I remember screaming at Charles because he called the cops on Gio.
I remember Daisy chasing us with a sandal because her hair turned blue.
I remember hiding Gio in my closet because my mom was coming upstairs.
I remember the time I was ready to leave Italy after accidentally sending him a half-naked photo of my body.
I remember throwing a party the night before my wedding and ending up crying again because of something Charles said. And now we're all here, in the same house.
Only now it's me, Gio, and our bean. Daisy with Lorenzo, waiting for their own first bean. Jin with his new girlfriend who's trying her best not to look terrified by all of us.
Noah with his tree guy who physically can't detach from him for more than three seconds.
And Valentina, who just casually happens to be carrying our daughter. The parents are all here too. All of them. Gio's mom. Lorenzo's parents. Marco's parents. My mom. We are literally a herd of starving people, and the moms made it their mission to feed us.
I'm pretty sure Lorenzo is already drunk with Marco. They've been "tasting" wines for like half an hour and now they're laughing like idiots because Antonio is just staring at them.
That's it. That's the joke.
Our child is looking at them and they're acting like it's the funniest shit they've ever seen in their lives. Lorenzo slides off his chair and hits the grass and then his dad starts laughing too.
Which, by the way, is unsettling because they look the same. It's like watching Big Lorenzo and Mini Lorenzo glitch in real life.
Gio, on the other hand, is basically in a full-blown debate with Marco and Valentina's dad over whether Ducati is better than BMW.
Their dad is obsessed with bikes too, obviously, that's why Marco rides like that. I can't hear exactly what they're saying, but judging from Gio's hand gestures, it's serious.
He looks pissed in that passionate-Italian way, and every two minutes he wipes sweat from his forehead. Antonio is sitting next to me on the grass, picking at it. I nudge him gently.
"Bean, I think Daddy needs a hug. You wanna go give him one?" He suddenly giggles, stands up, and starts walking toward Gio in that slow, determined toddler way.
Gio doesn't notice at first, still arguing, but then he glances down and sees him. His whole face changes. All that fake rage melts off like it was never there.
He opens his arms automatically. He scoops Antonio up, kisses his cheek, then sets him down carefully on top of the BMW. He holds him steady, one arm around his waist, and immediately turns to look at me, grinning.
He hits me with the happiest "look what our son is doing" face I've ever seen. I laugh and pretend to be shocked, hand over my mouth like 'oh no, not our innocent child on a motorcycle.'
Gio reaches for the throttle, wraps Antonio's little fingers around it, and twists it. The engine roars and the sound makes everyone's head snap in our direction.
Antonio starts scream-laughing. Gio does it again. Antonio dies laughing again, louder this time, kicking his little feet. Marco and Valentina's dad grab Gio's phone, lining up the shot. He takes a bunch of pictures of Gio and Antonio on the bike.
After a few, Gio turns again and motions at me with his eyebrows up, like 'come on, get your ass over here.' I get up instantly and go squeeze myself in next to him.
My shoulder is pressed to his, and I lift Antonio's hands a little higher.
My smile is huge. When we go to check the photos, I notice Jin in the background of every single one, standing there eating chips like an extra who refused to leave the set.
Perfect. Marco and Valentina's dad disappears inside the house to grab a beer, and the second the door shuts behind him, Gio's arm snakes around my neck and drags me closer.