16. Isabelle #2
The words were quiet. Italian. But I recognized them.
"What?"
"I love you." He said it in English this time, his eyes never leaving my face, steady and sure. "I love you, Isabelle."
My heart stumbled. Stopped. Started again with a painful lurch.
I should say it back. The words were right there, pressing against my teeth.
But they wouldn't come.
Instead, I grinned. Wide and helpless and probably stupid-looking.
"Come on." I stood, pulling him up with me. "Take me to bed."
His eyes searched my face for a moment. Then he smiled and let me lead him inside.
Later—much later—we lay tangled together in the dark, our breathing slowly returning to normal. His hand traced lazy patterns on my back writing messages I couldn't read.
"I love you," he murmured against my hair, so soft I almost missed it.
I kissed him instead of answering. Deep and thorough, pouring into it everything I couldn't say, everything I wasn't brave enough to voice.
He didn't ask for the words. Just held me closer and let me fall asleep in his arms.
Morning came soft and golden.
I woke up with my head on Matteo's bare chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. He was already awake, one hand in my hair, the other was tracing down my arm. Slow, absent. The way you touch something precious without thinking about it.
"Matteo."
"Mm?"
I took a breath. The question had been sitting in my chest all night, growing heavier with every passing hour. "About what you said. Last night."
His hand stilled on my arm. "What about it?"
"I..." I sat up, pulling the sheet around me. "I care about you. So much it scares me. But I—"
"You didn't say it back."
I shook my head. "No."
He was quiet for a moment, processing. Then he sat up too, turning to face me with patient eyes. "Can I ask why?"
"I'm trying to be careful." The words came out smaller than I intended, vulnerable. "With my heart. I've been hurt before, and I just... I need to protect myself."
"From me?"
"From everyone." I looked down at my hands. "From getting too close, too fast and then losing everything when it falls apart."
Matteo was silent, studying me with those warm brown eyes.
"Bella." His voice was gentle, careful. "You know I'm not him, right?"
"I know."
"Do you?" It wasn't accusatory. Just honest. "Because sometimes it feels like you're waiting for me to hurt you."
I looked down at my hands twisted in the sheet. "I'm doing my best. To open up. To let you in. But it's hard for me. I'm not... I'm not good at this."
He nodded slowly, absorbing my words. The silence stretched between us.
"Can I ask you something?" His voice was measured now, careful in a way that made my stomach tighten.
"Yes."
"Do you still love him? Femi?"
The question hit me like cold water, shocking and inescapable.
"No." The denial came automatically, defensive. "I don't—we're on a break. It's over."
"That's not what I asked, Bella."
I opened my mouth to deny it again. To insist that whatever I'd felt for Femi was dead and buried, that Matteo had nothing to worry about.
But the words wouldn't come.
Because somewhere, in a place I'd been avoiding, I knew the truth.
Femi had been my first love. My first heartbreak. My first everything. And as much as I wanted to believe I'd moved on, there were still pieces of him lodged in my chest. Feelings I hadn't dealt with, questions I hadn't answered, and wounds that hadn’t properly healed.
Matteo read my silence with painful accuracy. I watched the understanding settle over his features. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my forehead. Soft. Sad.
"Figure it out. Whatever you're feeling for him, whatever you need to resolve—figure it out."
"Matteo—"
"I told you weeks ago that I would wait for you." He pulled back, met my eyes with heartbreaking clarity. "I meant it. I'm not going anywhere. But you need to be sure. About me. About him. About what you actually want."
"I want you."
"Part of you does." His smile was gentle but it didn't reach his eyes, didn't erase the hurt there.
"But another part is still holding on to something, still tangled up in the past. And until you let go completely—" He shook his head.
"I'll be here, Bella. When you're ready, when you've figured it out, I'll be waiting. "
The drive to Milan was quiet.
Matteo's driver—a kind-faced man named Paolo—made small talk at first, but eventually fell silent, perhaps sensing that I needed space. I stared out the window at the passing countryside and tried to make sense of the storm in my chest.
Matteo loved me. He'd said it twice, and I hadn't been able to say it back.
Because of Femi.
Because some part of me was still tangled up in feelings I'd never properly examined, never properly mourned. He was my first love, and first heartbreak. He was the boy who'd proposed in a Swiss garden and shattered something fundamental in me when I said no.
I'd thought I was over it. Over him. But Matteo's question had cracked open a door I'd been keeping firmly shut, and now I couldn't ignore what was behind it.
Before I left the vineyard, Elena had hugged me again at the car.
"I'm sure I'll see you again soon," she'd said, her hands warm on my shoulders. "Take care of yourself, Isabelle. And take care of that heart of yours."
She'd known. Maybe mothers always knew when their sons' hearts were at risk.
Matteo had walked me to the car, kissed me softly—a kiss that tasted like goodbye even though neither of us said the word. He didn't ask me to stay. Didn't beg or plead or pressure.
"Call me," he'd said simply. "When you're ready."
"I will."
"I know you will, Bella. I trust you."
And then I was in the car, and he was getting smaller in the rearview mirror, and I was driving away from something that felt like it could have been everything.
My hotel room in Milan was quiet and impersonal, all clean lines and neutral colors.
I dropped my bag on the bed and stood at the window, looking out at the city. The sun was setting, painting everything in shades of gold and pink.
My phone rang.
Femi.
I stared at his name on the screen, at the photo I still hadn't deleted—him smiling at some event, handsome in a perfectly tailored suit. Let it ring once. Twice.
Then I answered.
"Isabelle." His voice was warm with relief. "I know you're probably still in Tuscany, but I couldn't wait any longer. I needed to hear your voice."
"I'm in Milan, actually. Just got in."
"Oh." A pause. "How was your trip?"
"Good. It was good."
Silence stretched between us, awkward and heavy. I could hear him breathing, could picture him pacing wherever he was, phone pressed to his ear.
"I miss you," he said finally. "I've been thinking about you constantly. About us. About everything."
"Femi—"
"The wedding is coming up soon. We'll both be in Hawaii." He paused,and I could hear the hope threading through his voice. . "Can we talk? Properly? Figure out where we stand?"
I closed my eyes.
Matteo's face swam before me. His patient smile, his gentle hands. I'll be waiting.
And then Femi, the boy I'd loved at seventeen. The man who still held a piece of my heart, whether I wanted him to or not.
"Yes," I said. "We can talk. In Hawaii."
"Really?" Hope flooded his voice.
"I think we need to. Sort things out, one way or another."
"Okay. Yes. Hawaii." He exhaled shakily. "Thank you, Isabelle. For giving me a chance. For not shutting me out completely."
We said goodbye. I hung up and sat on the edge of the bed, my phone heavy in my hands, the weight of my choices pressing down on my shoulders.
I had feelings for Matteo. Real, deep, terrifying feelings. The kind that could build into something lasting. But I also had unfinished business with Femi. Feelings I'd never resolved. A first love I'd never properly mourned.
I needed to figure it out. For Matteo. For Femi. For myself, most of all.
Hawaii would give me answers. One way or another, I would know.
I just hoped I was brave enough to face whatever truth I found waiting for me there.