Chapter Twenty-Two
Twenty-Two
I quietly rose from the bed and walked to the balcony.
The night was still and humid. Boats rocked gently on the water. Insects screeched out their songs. The moon skipped beams across the glassy surface of the ocean. I sat down on the chair, bringing my knees up and wrapping my arms around them. I stared at the scene before me, thinking of my conversation with my grandfather. Of the wedding. And of returning home.
My last Zoom appointment with Dr. Sariah had touched on my inclination to keep myself in a controllable space. After I’d shared my story of being bullied years ago, and how I’d remade myself after Dad’s death, she suggested that I’d learned to direct my life in analytical patterns with clear markers. I’d taken raw emotion that made me uncomfortable, broken it down into bite-size pieces, and found specific actions to feel better. It was kind of a breakthrough when I began looking at my past through that lens.
I also liked that Dr. Sariah had not labeled my behavior good or bad. It just was. If I was able to see my responses clearly, I could choose to react differently. Losing Mom had forced me to stay in full reactive mode and caused a mini breakdown. Coming to Sicily was something I’d probably never have done if my entire foundation hadn’t been eradicated. It would’ve been easier to do what Jason advised: set up a few Zoom calls and chats and get to know my family from a safe distance.
The big question still haunted me. What would I now do differently when I got back home? I had no desire to be alone anymore. I wanted true connections. Could I make new relationships in New York? Or would I be forever longing to be with my Italian family?
I sat and thought for a while, until I heard the sheets rustling. Minutes later, strong arms wrapped around me. I sighed and cuddled against Quint’s bare chest, enjoying the musky scent of his skin. “Is it a bad sign I didn’t exhaust you enough to sleep?” he murmured in my ear.
Shivers raced down my spine even as I laughed. “It’s not you. It’s me.”
“This keeps getting worse.”
I turned around, loving his sense of humor, and ran my fingers through his mussed hair. He was sexy fresh from bed. A crease cut across his cheek from being mushed into the pillow. His eyes held a lazy gleam. “My grandfather and I had a moment today. After the wedding.”
“Will you tell me about it?”
He sat down on the other chair and pulled me onto his lap. I leaned my head against his shoulder. “I called him Babba, and it finally felt right. It was the first time I felt like he loved me and that I had a true grandfather.”
“I’m so happy for you, bella .”
“I can’t believe a month ago I had a completely different life. Being here, surrounded by my blood relatives, has changed me.”
“You changed us, too. Brought us adventure and laughter and a new way of seeing things.”
“I came with an intention to fix my brokenness. Losing Mom took away everything I’d put stock in. Stripped me of what I thought I knew.” My sigh escaped into the quiet night. “How odd that so much loss could bring something good.”
Quint stroked back my hair. “There’s nothing to fix within grief. It just is. You accept the new part of yourself, and eventually you embrace it, because the world no longer owns a person you once loved. There is a new space that must be filled. Sometimes people want to do the work of filling it up too soon. They do not want to feel the empty place, but it is only in that pain that new things will come. Beautiful things. Such as this.”
He waved his hand in the air at the scene before us. “Without your mother’s passing, you would not have found family.” Suddenly, his gaze swerved and pinned me tight. My breath rushed out of my lungs and my heart pounded in my chest at the intimate gleam in his beautiful eyes. “I would not have found you. Pleasure within pain, no?”
And just like that, I realized I was in love with Quint.
I knew now why I couldn’t say the words back to Jason. I knew now why my mother could have felt brave enough to leave everything behind to follow the unknown. The realization didn’t even terrify me, just revealed itself with a gentle awareness like a petal blooming under the sun after a long winter.
God, I wanted to tell my mom.
I closed my eyes and reminded myself she already knew. She would have loved Quint. He was a good man, as my grandfather said.
Trembling with wanting to share my feelings, I swallowed them back and sensed it wasn’t the right time. I knew we shared a strong connection, but was it enough to sustain long-distance or obstacles after we’d only known each other for four weeks?
I wasn’t ready to find out. Not yet.
Instead, I slid my arms around his neck and pulled him down toward me. Kissed him. Then whispered, “Why don’t we concentrate on the pleasure tonight?”
His lips curved under mine in a smile.
He picked me up and brought me back to the bedroom.
—
My final days in Sicily were bittersweet. Each second took on a sharper, more emotional edge. I leaned into each moment, spending as much time with Quint and my family as possible. I allowed myself to bloom and give without worry about the future or getting hurt. I threw myself into my emotions full force, like flinging myself off the cliff to dive into the uncharted depths of the Mediterranean.
My gift was being not only caught by the water but embraced in a warm, comforting grip.
On the night of my final goodbye meal, we gathered at my grandparents’. The house was overflowing with relatives, spilling out onto the balcony and street until it became a bit of a block party atmosphere. My grandmother and aunts busied themselves in the kitchen like captains of infantry, barking orders to the younger women and directing a massive plate dispersion and retrieval.
I tried to help, but Nonna shooed me out, saying I was the guest of honor.
I took nonstop pictures, cataloging the beautiful gift of a meal cooked and planned with so much love, smiling with my aunts, uncles, and cousins, and laughing over bad selfies. I played with the children on the hot, dusty street and stole kisses with Quint in hidden corners.
When we finally sat to eat, I felt as if every day in Sicily had been training me for this particular meal.
Nonna brought out the very best. Platters of caponata on thick crusty bread and sarde a beccafico —baked sardines stuffed with breadcrumbs, spices, pine nuts, raisins, and garlic. Grilled swordfish dripping with lemon and herbs, potato croquettes crispy on the outside and fragrant tenderness inside. The pasta dish was busiate al pesto trapanese —baked with pesto sauce, ripe tomatoes, almonds, basil, and garlic. The simplicity and fresh flavors elevated the food beyond a five-star restaurant, and I told Nonna that through each dish and each bite of delicious, swoon-worthy carbs.
Finally, the platters began to slow and I gave a prayer of thanks. I was truly at my limit—afraid if I took another bite I’d get sick. And then Nonna appeared by my side with a dish of sliced bright red meat. I shook my head and smiled.
Nonna stopped and stared at me. “It is polpette di cavallo ,” she said. “ Delizioso. ”
I opened my mouth to say no.
Babba gave a loud humph. I glanced over to his usual spot at the table and found him glaring. I swallowed. “ Grazie ,” I said weakly.
Nonna happily filled my plate. I stared at it for a while, moving my fork through. It looked extremely tender and fragrant, but my stomach was rebelling and there was an odd inner warning that told me not to eat it. When I looked up again, I noticed Quint watching me with a strange look on his face. Like he was waiting for me to take a bite.
Like he was waiting to see what I thought.
“Um, what exactly is this dish?” I asked. Everyone was talking loudly and yelling across the table, so no one heard me. Quint immediately involved himself in a conversation with my uncle, increasing my suspicion. Something was going on here.
“ Scusate , what is this dish?” I yelled, not caring who answered me.
Babba frowned fiercely at my interruption. “ Mangia ,” he commanded.
Normally, he’d scare the hell out of me enough to eat it, but I was braver now. “What is it?” I asked for the third time.
Catena pressed her lips together as if trying hard not to laugh. “Horse balls.”
I stared at her in shock. “What did you say?”
“Horse balls,” Babba repeated. “It is good. Your nonna has been preparing this dish for you. Mangia. ”
Horse balls?
I stared at my plate. I sensed an air of tension tightening around the table, in the atmosphere becoming charged around us, and I knew I had to make a decision.
Horse balls.
And I knew with crystal clarity that I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t eat this dish.
My gaze swerved to Quint. A tiny smile played about his full lips. He was waiting to see what I would do.
I remembered my safe word. My voice burst out from my inner soul, passionate and desperate and stubborn. “ Basta! ” I yelled. “ Basta! ”
A gasp echoed in the air. Silence fell. Slowly, I met my grandfather’s eyes, preparing myself for the battle ahead on my last day in Sicily.
Then it happened.
Babba began to smile, then laughed out loud. It was a deep bellow, a joyous sound that filled me with an overwhelming happiness and love for this man, my mother’s father, the patriarch of the family, a man who’d made mistakes and had regrets but was here with me right now, loving me back.
I began to laugh and then everyone joined in. Nonna shook her head, grinning, and took my plate away.
Quint gave me a wink and mouthed, “Nice job, bella .”
I shook my head at my ridiculous, chaotic Italian family and asked for more wine.
—
Later that evening, I sat with Nonna and Aunt Philomena and leafed through the photo albums. We pored over pictures of my mother when she was young and shared stories that made us cry and giggle and hug. While I listened and told my own accounts, Mom came alive again, her presence shimmering around me. I’d told Dr. Sariah that I begged to dream about her or recognize certain signs, but she never appeared. I’d read that the harder you chase the ones you love, the less you find. Tonight, as I sat in her childhood home, she burned bright.
“How will we keep talking?” Nonna demanded, squeezing my hand.
“We’re lucky, Nonna. We have the computers now. Zoom, FaceTime, WhatsApp.”
“What’s what?”
I smiled and hugged her. “You don’t need to worry—Catena and Theo will set it up for you. Maybe we can schedule a day and time each week to talk?”
“ Sì. I would like that.”
I moved to each of my relatives to spend dedicated time, until most had said their goodbyes and left. A pat on my shoulder made me turn.
“We walk,” Babba said.
I nodded and followed him out. We fell into our usual leisurely pace and headed toward the square. An easy silence settled between us, so different from how our relationship had begun. I greedily devoured the sights and sounds around me, tucking away the images to revisit later in my memory. We greeted the older men sitting on benches, nodded to families on their balconies, awash in the lyrical Italian chatter rising around us.
We sat down at our spot and surveyed the square. Children shrieked and played. Mothers strolled with their babies. Friends gathered in tight groups to gossip. Shops opened and the scents of baked bread and garlic rose in the air.
“When do you leave?” he finally asked.
“Thursday. Tomorrow, I’ll pack and visit Bar Sciacca for my last night.”
He nodded. “What will you do when you get home?”
I studied the stubborn set of his chin, wrinkled face, and familiar hazel eyes behind his black glasses. “I don’t know. But for the first time in my life, I feel good about not knowing. I think something different. Being here has changed me.”
A serious expression settled into his features. I frowned, sensing he was troubled. “Will you be alone?”
“ Sì. ” I paused. “But now I know I’m not anymore.”
With slow, methodical motions, he reached into his pants pocket and removed a black-and-white photo. It was creased and battered, as if it had been viewed hundreds of times, lovingly tucked into a wallet or drawer or tight space. He handed it to me.
My breath caught. It was Babba with my mom. They were holding hands and she was probably about twelve years old. They stared at the camera, both smiling, both obviously being silly and happy. It was taken right here in the square, in front of this bench. My fingers traced over my mother’s beloved face. “I love this picture,” I managed to say.
“I had just gotten her gelato. She was sticky and dancing around the piazza, and when I called her name, she ran to me and jumped into my arms.” Babba paused, and I sat still, willing him to go on. “She said, ‘I love you, Papà, and I will never, ever leave you.’ We had taken the camera out that afternoon, and your nonna saw us and told us to get together so she could take our picture.”
My throat burned with emotion. “I could tell how much you loved each other.”
“I did not tell her. Before she left. I yelled. I was very angry. I said bad things and I never saw her again.”
His confession broke me apart. I hugged him hard and started to cry. “She knows that, Babba. And so do I.”
“You will come back?”
I nodded, swiping the tears from my cheeks. “I will come back. I promise. You will never lose me.”
“ Va bene. Ti amo moltissimo, piccolina. ”
“ Ti amo , Babba.”
We sat on the bench for a while, quiet, with no more regrets.