14. Mario
Mario
Ben’s cottage at seven in the morning smelled like burnt coffee and regret. He’d texted at dawn with “Coffee and real talk. Not optional,” which in Ben-speak meant I was about to get lectured while severely under-caffeinated.
“You look like hell,” he said by way of greeting, handing me a mug that had seen better decades.
“Thanks. Great talk. I’m leaving.”
“Get in here before Mrs. Winters sees you and adds ‘early morning visits’ to June’s conspiracy board.” He gestured toward his living room, where his laptop sat open to what looked like Facebook. “We need to discuss your spectacular mess of a situation.”
I followed him inside, noting the stack of pancake mix boxes on his counter. “Making breakfast for the whole town?”
“Kate’s coming over later. I’m trying to impress her with my domestic skills.” He flopped onto his couch. “Spoiler alert: I have none.”
“Maybe stick to takeout.”
“Already ordered pizza for backup.” He turned his laptop toward me. “But we’re not here to discuss my dating disasters. We’re here to discuss yours.”
The screen showed June’s Facebook group page, complete with our hayride photo as the header image. Below it, a poll titled “Where Should Mario Propose?” was currently neck-and-neck between “Pumpkin Patch (Classic!)” and “Covered Bridge (So Romantic!).”
“Two hundred and thirty-seven members,” Ben said, scrolling through comments that ranged from wedding venue suggestions to speculation about my ring budget. “There’s a betting pool on the proposal date. June’s got money on this weekend.”
“There’s no proposal to plan.”
“Right.” He studied me over his coffee mug with the laser focus of someone who’d caught me stealing cookies as a kid.
“That’s why you’ve been carrying Olivia’s pipe cleaner ring around like it’s the Hope Diamond.”
My hand went automatically to my pocket before I could stop myself. Ben’s eyebrows shot up in triumph.
“It would hurt her feelings if I lost it,” I said defensively.
“Uh-huh. And the Italian lessons? The toilet repairs? The way you’ve memorized her peanut allergy and know exactly how she likes her hot chocolate?” He leaned back. “All just charitable work?”
“I’m being helpful.”
“You’re being domestic. There’s a difference.” His expression turned serious. “Which brings me to why I dragged you here at dawn. Marco Corazzo called yesterday.”
The name hit like ice water in my veins. Marco was team principal at the racing outfit I’d driven for before the crash—back when I had a career instead of whatever this limbo was.
“What did he want?” I asked carefully.
“You. Technical director position for their new car development program.” Ben watched my reaction with the intensity of a crash test analyst. “They want someone who understands both the driving and engineering sides. It’s a good offer, Mario. Really good.”
The words should have filled me with relief. A way back into the world I understood, where success was measured in lap times and championship points instead of how well I could fix a seven-year-old’s Halloween costume.
“When do they need an answer?”
“End of the month.” He set down his mug with deliberate care. “Which brings me to my real question—what the hell are you doing with my sister?”
“Following your brilliant plan,” I said flatly. “Fake dating to keep the town gossips happy.”
“Right. Fake.” Ben pulled up another photo on his phone—this one from yesterday’s school parade, showing me lifting my hand in that ridiculous supportive wave Olivia had demanded. “That’s why you look like you just watched her win the lottery every time she smiles.”
“I don’t?—”
“I’ve known you since college. I’ve seen you focused before a race, celebrating wins, dealing with losses. I’ve never seen you look the way you do when Lily walks into a room.”
His voice gentled. “Like she’s the best thing that ever happened to you.”
I stood up, needing to move. Ben’s living room was barely big enough for pacing, but I tried anyway. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters.”
“No, it doesn’t.” I turned to face him. “Because I’m leaving in December. That was always the plan. Your sister and her daughter deserve better than some washed-up driver who doesn’t even know who he is without a steering wheel.”
“They deserve someone who looks at them the way you do. Someone who shows up, who fixes things, who teaches a kid about aerodynamics like it’s the most important conversation he’s ever had.”
“Someone who’s going to leave,” I interrupted. “Just like Daniel did. You think I don’t see it? The way Olivia looks at me? She’s already planning a future that includes me, and I can’t?—”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.” The word came out harsher than intended. “My entire life has been about racing. Training, competing, the next race, the next season. I don’t know how to be steady. How to be the kind of man who stays.”
“You’ve been exactly that kind of man for three months.”
“By accident. Because I had nowhere else to go.” I slumped back onto his couch, suddenly exhausted. “My father called last night.”
“Oh, this should be good.”
“Wanted to know if I’d ‘gotten this tantrum out of my system.’ Said if I take the technical director position, all would be forgiven.” I laughed, but it came out bitter. “Forgiven for what? Having a crash that could have killed me?”
I shook my head.
“For embarrassing the family name. For walking away from ‘greatness.’” I made air quotes, tasting the poison in the word. “You know what the sick part is? Part of me still wants his approval. Even after everything.”
Ben was quiet for a moment, then leaned forward. “You want to know what I think?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me, regardless.”
“I think you’re terrified. Not of commitment or small-town life or even my sister’s questionable taste in reality TV.” He grinned briefly, then grew serious again.
“You’re terrified of being happy. Of choosing something just because it makes you happy, not because it’s expected or impressive or what Alessandro Marrone thinks success should look like.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? When’s the last time you made a decision based purely on what you wanted? Not what would advance your career or earn approval or look good in the press?”
I thought about the flour fight in Lily’s kitchen. About spending four hours on a cardboard Halloween costume. About the way my chest felt when Olivia called me family.
“This was supposed to be simple,” I admitted.
“Love never is. Whether it’s fake or real.”
“It’s not?—”
“Don’t.” He held up a hand. “Don’t insult my intelligence by claiming this is still fake. I saw you yesterday at the school. The way you handled that heritage project conversation? That wasn’t fake. That was a man making promises he intends to keep.”
My phone buzzed against the coffee table. A text from Lily.
Olivia wants to know if you’re still coming to help with her project this afternoon. No pressure, but she already told her class you would.
I stared at the screen, torn between the life waiting for me in Milan and the life asking for help with a second-grade heritage project.
“The technical director position,” I said slowly. “It’s in Milan?”
“Milan. Great opportunity. Exactly what you said you wanted when you got here—a way back into racing without the driving.” Ben’s voice was carefully neutral.
“Stable career, good money, your father’s approval.”
I typed back.
I’ll be there at 3.
“But?” Ben prompted.
“But Olivia has a school project that suddenly includes Italian Christmas traditions. And Lily needs help setting up for the Harvest Gala tomorrow. And I promised some lady I don’t even know that I’d fix her garden gate before winter.
” I ran a hand through my hair. “Since when do I have a list of weekend projects?”
“Since you started building a life instead of just existing between races.” Ben’s smile was gentle. “Those aren’t obligations. Those are reasons to stay.”
“Same thing.”
“No, they’re not. Remember when you were supposed to attend that sponsor dinner in Monaco and you flew to Switzerland instead to test a new setup?”
“That was different.”
“How?”
I didn’t have an answer. Or rather, I had an answer I wasn’t ready to voice. In Monaco, I’d had nothing to lose. Here, I had everything to lose.
“The Harvest Gala is tomorrow night,” Ben said quietly. “The whole town expects a proposal.”
“I know.”
“What are you going to do?”
I pulled out the pipe cleaner ring, now so permanently embedded with glitter it looked like a disco ball had exploded in my pocket. It caught the morning light streaming through Ben’s window, ridiculous and perfect and completely Olivia.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
“Well, you better figure it out fast.” Ben stood, grabbing his keys from the coffee table. “Because my sister’s been hurt before, and if you’re planning to leave anyway, it’s kinder to do it now before?—”
“Before what?”
“Before she falls completely in love with you.” He paused at the door. “If she hasn’t already.”
The words hit like a physical blow. “We agreed. No real feelings.”
“Yeah, well, feelings don’t usually check the contract before showing up.” He opened the door, then turned back.
“I’m going to the hardware store to buy supplies for my domestic disaster. While I’m gone, think about what you actually want. Not what your father wants, not what the racing world expects, not what makes logical sense. What you want.”
After he left, I sat in his quiet living room, staring at that glittery ring. My phone rang almost immediately—my mother, because the universe has a sense of humor.
“Mario!” Her voice bubbled with excitement.
“I just got off the phone with Margaret Sage. What a delightful woman! We’re planning to fly in for Christmas. She says you might be engaged by then?”
“Mama, there’s no engagement.”
“That’s not what the Facebook tells me. June added me to her group. Very educational! I like this Lily—she has a strong face in the pictures. Good childbearing hips. She’ll give us beautiful grandchildren.”
“Mama—”
“Your father, he pretends not to care, but I caught him looking at the photos last night. He said—what did he say exactly—ah yes, ‘At least if he’s not racing, he’s doing something useful.’”
“How touching.”
“He’s trying, in his way.” Her voice softened. “You sound different, caro .”
“Different how?”
“Lighter. Like you remember how to breathe again. Like you’re not carrying the world on your shoulders.” She paused. “Are you happy?”
The question caught me off guard. When was the last time anyone had asked me that? When was the last time I’d even considered it?
“I... yes. I think I am.”
“Good. Happiness looks better on you than trophies ever did.”
After she hung up, I walked back to my cottage through the crisp autumn morning. The maple trees were dropping their leaves like golden confetti, and somewhere nearby, someone was burning a pile of brush that made the whole neighborhood smell like campfires and childhood.
At three o’clock sharp, I knocked on Lily’s door. Olivia answered before the echo faded, already bouncing with project-related excitement.
“Mario! Perfect timing! I need to know about Italian Christmas traditions right NOW because Tommy Patterson says Italians don’t celebrate Christmas, and I told him he was stupid, but I need evidence.”
She grabbed my hand, dragging me toward the kitchen table where poster board and markers were spread out like battle plans.
Lily appeared in the doorway, hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing an old painting t-shirt that had seen better years. She looked tired and beautiful and like coming home after a long trip.
“You came,” she said softly.
“I promised,” I replied, and something passed between us—an acknowledgment that we were talking about more than just this afternoon’s project.
For the next two hours, I found myself teaching a seven-year-old about the Feast of the Seven Fishes and La Befana, showing her pictures on my phone of Italian Christmas markets and explaining why we eat panettone instead of fruitcake.
Olivia absorbed it all with the intensity of a tiny scholar, asking questions that would have made my nonna proud.
“So the witch lady brings presents instead of Santa?” she asked, carefully coloring a drawing of La Befana.
“In some parts of Italy, yes. She flies around on her broomstick looking for baby Jesus.”
“That’s so much cooler than reindeer.”
The whole time, I was aware of Lily moving around us—bringing us snacks, offering suggestions, watching with an expression that was tender and terrified all at once. Every so often, our eyes would meet, and I’d see my own confusion reflected back at me.
She was falling. Had already fallen, maybe. Ben was right about that.
The question was: would I catch her, or would I let both of us crash?
“Mario,” Olivia said suddenly, holding up her poster. “When you marry my mom, will we celebrate both American and Italian Christmas?”
The question hung in the air like smoke. Lily went very still at the kitchen counter.
“ Piccola ,” I said carefully, “your mom and I?—”
“I know you’re not married yet,” she said matter-of-factly. “But June says it’s just a matter of time, and I want to be prepared. Will your parents come visit? Will we make those cookies you showed me pictures of?”
I looked at her eager face, at the poster covered with Italian words and careful drawings, at Lily’s white knuckles where she gripped the counter edge.
Tomorrow was the Harvest Gala. The whole town would be watching, waiting for the proposal that existed only in their imagination.
Or did it?
I looked at the pipe cleaner ring sitting on the table next to Olivia’s markers and wondered if maybe the town could see something we’d been too scared to admit.
Either way, tomorrow would change everything.
“We’ll see, piccola ,” I said finally. “We’ll see.”
But as I helped her clean up her supplies, as Lily walked me to the door with careful politeness, as Olivia hugged me goodbye and whispered, “I hope you stay forever,” I realized the decision had already been made.
I just had to find the courage to make it official.