18. Lily #2
“My daughter already loves you,” I said, the words coming out raw and honest. “If you leave again?—”
“I won’t.” His voice was fierce, certain. “I love her too. And I love her mother, who’s brave enough to build a life on her own terms and stubborn enough to fix broken machines with office supplies.”
Olivia tugged on Mario’s jacket, demanding his attention. “Are you staying for real this time? Not just pretending?”
He crouched down to her level, his expression serious. “For real, piccola . If that’s okay with you and your mom.”
She studied his face with the intensity of a federal judge. “Can you handle June’s Facebook group? Because they’re very intense about relationship updates.”
“I’ll learn to cope.”
“And Sunday dinners with all the relatives asking personal questions?”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“And you’ll keep teaching me Italian curse words even though Mom says I can’t use them until I’m sixteen?”
“ Assolutamente .”
She looked at me expectantly. “Mom?”
I thought about all the ways this could go wrong. All the complications of trying to build something real from the wreckage of something fake. All the gossip and pressure and small-town scrutiny we’d have to navigate.
Then I looked at Mario’s face—vulnerable and hopeful and absolutely terrified—and realized he was just as scared as I was.
“Yes,” I said softly. “Okay.”
The crowd erupted like we’d just won the World Series.
People actually cheered and applauded like we were performers in some elaborate romantic theater.
June was openly weeping while holding her phone steady, probably narrating the whole thing for her livestream.
My mother appeared from nowhere and enveloped all three of us in a group hug that smelled like cinnamon and happiness.
“This is highly irregular!” She sobbed into Mario’s shoulder. “A public declaration without proper coordination! I didn’t even have time to do my hair properly!”
“Sorry, Mrs. Sage,” Mario said, but he was grinning.
“Don’t be sorry,” she commanded, pulling back to cup his face in her hands. “Just be on time for dinner tomorrow. I’m making lasagna, and I want to hear every detail about how you plan to support my daughter and granddaughter.”
“Mom!” I protested.
“What? I’m allowed to ask practical questions. This is a very practical family.”
As the crowd began to disperse and drift back to their pumpkin-carving stations, Mario pulled me aside to a relatively quiet corner near the apple cider stand.
“I know we have a lot to figure out,” he said quietly, his hand warm around mine.
“We do,” I agreed. “Like where you’re going to work, and how we’re going to handle the gossip, and what happens when the novelty wears off?—”
“And I know I hurt you,” he continued. “Both of you. I should have told you about the job offer the moment I got it.”
“You should have. I felt like such an idiot, finding out from Patricia Downs of all people.”
“I was scared,” he admitted. “Scared that if I told you about it, you’d assume I was taking it. Scared that if I didn’t tell you, you’d find out anyway and think I was lying. I handled it badly.”
I studied his face—the honest regret in his dark eyes, the careful way he held himself, like he was prepared for me to walk away again.
“You did handle it badly,” I said finally. “But I understand why you were scared. I was scared too.”
“But you want to try? Really try this time? Not for the town, not to stop the gossip, just... for us?”
I looked at this man, who’d carved his intentions into a pumpkin and declared his love in front of half the county. It was ridiculous and over-the-top and absolutely perfect for a man who was still learning how to use words instead of actions.
“Okay,” I said. “But we’re taking it slow.”
“How slow?”
“Glacial. Antarctic. Geological time scales.”
He laughed, the sound rich and warm. “I can work with glacial.”
“And we’re having real conversations this time. No more secrets, no more assumptions. If something’s bothering you, you tell me. If I’m being crazy, you call me on it.”
“Deal.”
Olivia appeared between us, somehow having acquired cotton candy that was roughly the size of her head. “You forgot this,” she told Mario, holding out the pipe cleaner ring with sticky fingers.
“Olivia!” I protested. “We talked about this?—”
“What? I’m being practical. These things take forever to make, and my schedule’s getting really busy with second grade and my new karate class.” She pressed the ring into Mario’s palm. “You’re going to need it, eventually.”
Mario laughed, carefully tucking the ring into his jacket pocket. “I’ll keep it safe.”
“Good.” She looked between us with satisfaction. “Now, can we please get back to the contest? Tommy Patterson is already halfway done with his pumpkin, and it looks like a diseased elephant. We need to defend the family honor.”
As we walked back to our carving station, Mario’s hand found mine. Not for show, not for the benefit of our audience, just because he wanted to hold it.
June intercepted us near the judges’ table, phone at the ready. “Can I get a quick statement for the Facebook group? Just a few words about?—”
“June,” Mario said, his voice gentle but firm. “The statement is: we’re carving pumpkins with Lily’s daughter. Everything else is private.”
She looked genuinely shocked. “But the group members are going to want details?—”
“The group members can carve their own pumpkins,” he said with a smile that took the sting out of his words. “Thank you for caring about us. Really. But we’ve got this.”
She actually backed away, though I could see her fingers twitching with the need to post something, anything, about this development.
“Did you just successfully manage June?” I asked, amazed.
“I’m a quick learner when properly motivated.”
We spent the rest of the afternoon carving pumpkins in the golden October light.
Olivia’s crowned cat turned out magnificently regal, my attempt at a sunflower looked more like a small explosion, and Mario’s racecar was so detailed and perfect that several other contestants came over to examine his technique.
“Show-off,” I muttered as he added tiny carved racing stripes.
“I have to impress my girls somehow.”
“You stayed,” Olivia said simply, carefully cleaning pumpkin guts off her tools. “That’s impressive enough.”
And maybe that was it. Maybe staying was the most impressive thing any of us could do.
As the sun began to set behind the maple trees, painting the square in shades of amber and gold, the judges announced the winners. Tommy Patterson’s diseased elephant somehow managed to snag third place, which Olivia declared a travesty of justice that she would be appealing to higher authorities.
We packed up our tools and our carved pumpkins, the domestic routine feeling both foreign and familiar.
Mario carried our pumpkins without being asked.
Olivia chattered about her plans for next year’s design—something involving a dragon and possibly actual fire.
Everything felt normal and extraordinary at the same time.
“Hey,” I said as we reached the parking area where our cars sat waiting in the gathering dusk. “This is real now. No safety net, no fake rules, no exit strategy.”
“I know.”
“It might not work out.”
“It might not,” he agreed, setting our pumpkins carefully in the back of my car. “But it might be everything we never knew we wanted.”
I thought about that as we drove home—separately, because glacial meant glacial—with Olivia singing off-key Halloween songs in the backseat and our carved pumpkins glowing softly in the trunk.
It might not work.
But it might be everything.
And for the first time in a very long time, I was brave enough to find out.