Kiss Me Goodnight in Rome (The Senior Semester Series Book 2)

by Gina Azzi

  But then I saw him for who he really is.

  And he never stood a chance next to Lorenzo anyway.

  Lorenzo is complicated and intense. And when I’m with him, I can’t think straight. Lorenzo sees me for who I am and accepts me anyway.

  Lorenzo is real, raw, honest. He’s tough and strong and challenging. He makes my heart speed and slow all at once.

  And I don’t want to say goodbye.

  Should I invite him to New York for Christmas? Is that too presumptuous? Too much too soon?

  I sigh. I have no clue what to do.

  I sit down at a table in the back of Angelina’s and smile when I see Lorenzo clearing off the plates at a nearby table. His back muscles ripple under his black T-shirt. I want to reach out and run my fingertips across the tops of his shoulders, down his back, along the ink on his ribcage. He turns, his eyes finding mine. I blush.

  “Buona sera, bellezza.”

  “Ciao.” I smile as he makes his way toward me.

  “Hungry for lunch?”

  I nod slowly.

  “I’ll be right back.” He turns, disappearing into the kitchen.

  Over the past few weeks, Lorenzo has been helping me adjust to a healthy lifestyle. We both know it’s not enough, and I agreed—promised him actually—that I would seek out real, professional help once I get back home. But for now, he’s doing everything he can to take care of me. And I’m doing everything I can to let him. And to be honest.

  It’s hard, usually at night. My mind recalls everything I consumed during the day, each bite, every single calorie. Suddenly, I feel like I can’t breathe. Like there is a weight in my stomach, pulling me down, drowning me. I fight the urge to make myself throw up. I do sit-ups. I watch the clock. I try to read.

  The best distraction though is Lorenzo himself.

  And sex.

  Which is why I’ve been spending nearly every night with him, stretched out across his bed, underneath him, straddling him, snuggled against him. Just being with him makes everything better.

  “Here you go.” He smiles, coming into view again. He’s carrying two plates, and he sets them both down on the table. “Minestrone soup, no pasta.” He points to a steaming bowl. “And a grilled vegetable salad.” He gestures toward another plate.

  I smile. “Grazie.”

  “Prego.” He sits down across from me as I tentatively test the soup. “It’s hot,” Lorenzo warns.

  Too late. Scalding the tip of my tongue, I place the spoon down on a napkin. “It’s hot,” I tell him.

  He pushes the salad forward. “Start with this.”

  I nod, spearing eggplant, zucchini, and a roasted red pepper onto my fork. It’s really good. In exchange for my honesty, Lorenzo has named himself my personal chef, and has been making me well-balanced meals every day for lunch. And most days for dinner. He sits with me while I eat to make sure I really am eating.

  At first, I thought I would hate his meddling, his observant eyes glaring at me from across the table. But it’s really not like that at all. He picks at my plate, or makes a plate for himself, and acts as if we’re just like a normal couple, having lunch together. Not like I’m some kind of freak that will bolt any minute to purge my body.

  And in exchange, I promise to be honest with him. Which means that I do tell him when the urge is too strong, the burden too heavy. I confide in him when I skip breakfast, or throw up late at night. And even though pain flashes in his eyes at my confessions, I never see disappointment, judgment, or pity. Little by little, day by day, it seems to get just a tiny bit easier.

  Being with Lorenzo makes everything better.

  * * *

  It’s late when I work up the nerve to FaceTime my dad. I haven’t chatted with him, except for the occasional email here or there, in weeks.

  “Mia.” His broad grin lights up my screen.

  My heart momentarily aches as I stare at him. We used to be so close; we used to do everything together, make decisions as a team. Then Claire came along. Or maybe I distanced myself from him long before Claire.

  “Hi, Dad.” I smile.

  “It’s so good to see you, sweetheart. How are you? How’s Rome?”

  I nod, “Everything is great. I really like it here.”

  “Are you fluent yet?” He chuckles.

  “I think so.”

  “Really?” His eyes widen in surprise. “Mia, that’s wonderful. I’m so proud of you. Your mom…” his eyes are serious “…she would have been incredibly proud of the woman you’ve become.”

  I feel tears dot my eyes, stinging as I try to hold them in. If only my dad knew the truth, knew about me hiding food and throwing up and lying. Would he still be proud of me then? Would she? Guilt plagues my stomach, travels up my throat, makes it hard to swallow, difficult to breathe.

  “Thanks,” I say softly. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

  Good. Change the subject.

  “Oh, you know…” he sighs “…the usual. It will be quiet this year without you. We’ll miss you.” We. He and Claire. Gah!

  “I’ll miss you too.”

  He nods. “What are your Thanksgiving plans? Still planning to celebrate?”

  “Yeah.” I smile. “Paola and Gianluca are cooking a big feast for Lexi and me and some of our friends. It’s really thoughtful of them. I think I’ll make everyone go around the table and say one thing they are grateful for, just like Mom used to.” We hadn’t done that since the year she passed away, but somehow, surrounded by my transplant family in Italy, it feels like the right time to reintroduce an old custom back into my life.

  Dad smiles and it’s genuine. “That sounds really special. I’m happy you’re keeping up with old traditions. Mom always loved doing that.”

  I nod. When did we stop talking about her? And how are we conversing about her, bringing up memories from the past, so easily, so effortlessly now? Dad doesn’t seem awkward or upset or unwilling to talk about her. Was it always me, then? This whole time? Was I the one making things awkward and strained? The guilt chews at my esophagus, and I clench my hands into fists.

  “I wanted to ask you something,” I start.

  Dad waits patiently for me to continue. After several seconds of silence he prompts, “What is it, Mia?”

  I sigh. How to word it? I should just come out and say it, right? “I met someone.” Damn, I could have said it a little less direct then that.

  “Okay,” Dad says slowly, probably trying to follow my train of thought.

  “I would like to invite him to New York for Christmas.”

  Dad nods. “Okay. Where is he from? What’s his name? Will it be okay with his family for him to miss the holiday?”

  I smile. “His name is Lorenzo. He’s Italian. I’m not sure what his family will think. I wanted to check with you before I invite him.”

  “Oh …” He seems thoughtful. “Well, thank you, Mia, for checking, but you know you can invite anyone home whenever you’d like.”

  I nod. “I know. I guess I just wanted to give you a heads-up, then.”

  Dad chuckles, a hand coming up to stroke his chin. “Your mom, she would…” he laughs again “…she would really love this. You. Dating an Italian. Is it serious?”

  I nod.

  “Well then, I’d like to meet Lorenzo. Of course you should invite him. Let me know how it goes once you ask him.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Sure. And, Mia?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t think you’re off the hook. I still want the story on this guy. Maybe once you’re home we can do dinner one night, just you and me?” He stares at me, waiting for a response.

  My heart feels heavy as I realize that maybe I was more of a hindrance in our relationship than I thought. Memories of Dad trying to do things with me, talk about things, just be there and my rejection, my dismissal because of Claire, come flooding back. Internal cringe.

  “That would be great, Dad. I’d love to.”

  H
e smiles, the relief on his face only increasing my guilt. “Great. Okay, let me know about Christmas.”

  “I will. Thanks. I love you, Daddy.”

  He smiles. “Love you more, Mia. Have a good night.”

  “’Bye.” I hang up.

  I sit and stare at the blank screen of my laptop for several seconds. Dad wants to meet Lorenzo. Dad wants to spend time together. Dad never checked out. That was me.

  How did I miss this? Was I too self-absorbed in my own grief, my own unhappiness, my own issues? I shake my head. When I go home, I will spend more time with Dad, make things right between us again, the way they used to be, the way they always should be. I tap my fingers against the desk. And that means trying with Claire too.

  Maybe you do have to go away, leave your comfort zone, push past your own boundaries in order to see the pieces of your life that you’re missing, in order to be grateful for the ones you already possess, in order to shape what comes next.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Lorenzo

  “One green salad with chicken and a side of grilled vegetables.” I place the plate down in front of Mia. She’s sitting in Angelina’s for her regular lunchtime meal.

  “Grazie.” She smiles, picking up her fork and staring at the salad for several seconds before daintily dipping her fork in a side of olive oil. She spears a bite of lettuce, tomato, and a piece of chicken on the tines.

  I nod, sliding into the seat across from her. “How’s your day going? Did you and Pete submit your partner project?”

  “It’s going.” She shakes her head. “Not yet. We are meeting one more time to wrap things up and will submit it next Monday. I just want it done with so I can focus on studying for the final exam.”

  I sigh. I want them to hurry up and finish this damn project so Mia won’t have to see Pete anymore. And I won’t have to try and control my dislike of him so much around her. “That’s good,” I say instead.

  She snorts, picking up on my dislike anyway. Ah well, I tried.

  “I want to ask you something,” she says slowly, chewing a slice of grilled eggplant.

  “Good, because I want to ask you something too.”

  “Oh…” she looks up in surprise “…what is it?”

  I shake my head. “Ladies first.”

  She puts her fork down, the seriousness in her gaze unsettling me. Is something wrong?

  “Would you like to come home with me for Christmas?” she blurts out. “I mean, I completely understand if you can’t, or you have your own family thing planned, or whatever, but um, if you’d like to … uh … I …”

  “That would be awesome.” I place my hand over hers to stop her rambling. “Christmas in New York would be awesome.”

  “Oh,” she breathes out in relief, “great. Okay then.”

  I watch as the red of her cheeks subsides and she returns to her normal color. Poor Mia. She gets so nervous over everything. As if I would ever tell her no?

  “If you do something for me,” I add.

  “What?” Her eyes snap up again, the color returning to her cheeks.

  “Relax.” I pat her hand again. “I’d like to invite you over for dinner on Saturday with my family. Mama really wants to meet you. Especially…” I roll my eyes “…since Claudia has been going on and on about you. Mama’s jealous.” I laugh.

  She grins back, her beautiful face transforming into sunshine. “Sure. That would be really nice. I’d like to properly meet your mama, instead of just seeing her around Angelina’s from time to time.”

  “Great. I’ll pick you up at 7:00PM?”

  “It’s okay. I can just come to your home.”

  “No, I’ll pick you up,” I reiterate. Wow, is she stubborn. And different. The girls I’m used to, they would have expected a family dinner invitation weeks ago. And me picking her up to bring her to my home, well that would have just been expected. I smile. My independent American girl. She’s going to drive me crazy, I can tell.

  She shrugs. “Okay.”

  I lean forward, kissing her cheek. “I’ve got to get back to the kitchen. I’ll see you later tonight?”

  She nods. “Yeah. See you later.”

  * * *

  The rest of the afternoon drags slowly. And I’m glad. Because my head is already in New York. I’m going to New York. With Mia.

  And I’m going to meet my brother.

  Anthony’s response on Facebook was a complete surprise. Not that I thought that he would never write back, but I definitely wasn’t prepared for the response he did send. And promptly too.

  Hey, man. Good to hear from you. I’ve been waiting for your message. It’d be good to chat. Are you free to FaceTime this weekend?

  Good to hear from you.

  I’ve been waiting for your message.

  What the fuck? Does that mean he knew about me? And for how long? Rafaello said Anthony knew nothing of the Barca family, that Benito had set up the money through Carmela in a way that wouldn’t trace back to Papa. Did Rafaello lie? Or did Benito? Or did Carmela?

  I sigh heavily. Who the fuck knows what’s true anymore? Remembering what Mia said to me ages ago over breakfast, does it matter? No, I guess not. The only thing I can try to influence now is what happens from this point forward.

  And I want whatever happens to result in a real, honest relationship between Anthony, Claudia, and me.

  * * *

  On Saturday morning, several hours before I scheduled my FaceTime with Anthony, I tell Claudia.

  “Are you serious? You messaged him on Facebook and you didn’t tell me?” She’s pissed. I can tell by the way her shoulders tense and she straightens without noticing.

  I sigh. “I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you Claud. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t know if he would answer, and I didn’t want to get your hopes up if nothing came of it. That’s why I’m telling you now.” I hold my hands up in surrender. “It was one message. I haven’t talked to him yet or anything.”

  She sighs, twisting her long hair into a bun and securing it at the nape of her neck with a hair tie from her wrist. “Yeah, I get that. So what are you going to talk about? Do you think I should be there? Or wait? Does he know about me?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t know what he knows. That’s weird though, right? His message, I mean. He must know something.”

  Good to hear from you.

  I’ve been waiting for your message.

  Claudia nods in agreement. “He definitely knows something. The question is, what?”

  “Here’s what I’m thinking. Let me talk to him for a few minutes and then bring you up and you can jump on FaceTime if he’s open to it.”

  She thinks it over, chewing her lower lip. “Yeah. Okay. I’d like to meet him.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  I’ve never been more curious in my life than I am over my brother. Anthony Casale.

  * * *

  I literally do nothing the entire day except pace around the house and look at the clock. Around lunchtime, I message Mia to see how she’s doing and what she’s eating for lunch. Kind of stalkerish, I know, but I can’t help worrying about her.

  She calls instead of texting back. “A tuna salad.”

  Protein. Good. “Good,” I say aloud.

  “What are you doing today?”

  “Actually, this is going to sound crazy but I’m FaceTiming with Anthony in a little while.”

  “Your brother?” Her voice is incredulous. “Oh my God! That’s amazing! How did that come about?”

  I smile at the excitement in her voice. Only Mia can see the positive, the good in every situation. She’s good for me, that’s for sure. I can usually pick out every potential problem—not that it ever stops me from acting on something, but still …

  I fill her in on the Facebook message.

  “What? Why didn’t you tell me?” Hurt laces her voice, and I feel guilty for keeping it from her when I keep harping on trust and honesty as the most important aspects of
our relationship.

  “Sorry.” I say earnestly. “It just didn’t feel right to say anything before I knew if he would even respond. And I wanted to tell Claudia first. I’m sorry, cara. I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you, I swear.”

  She’s quiet for several seconds, and I feel uncertainty swirl in my stomach. It starts to give way to licks of anger, so I close my eyes, count to ten.

  “That makes sense. I get it,” she says calmly. “See, that’s what siblings are for. They’re always there somehow.” She laughs. “But promise to tell me how the conversation goes?”

  The anger quickly evaporates, gratitude for this beautiful girl filling my chest. Jesus, I’m all over the place. Quit acting like a bitch, Enzo.

  “Or course, amore. I’ll tell you everything.”

  “’Kay. Waiting for your call then.”

  “You’ll be the first person I dial.”

  “I better be.” I can hear the smile in Mia’s voice and it calms my nerves.

  “Ciao.”

  “Ciao.”

  I hang up the phone and check the clock. Another forty-two minutes.

  Jesus. I am a fucking girl.

  * * *

  Anthony’s mouth curls from a firm, thin line into a sincere smile and time stops. For a moment, it’s as if I am looking at a younger version of Papa. It’s him, the way his left eyebrow slants down sharply over his eye, the shape of his mouth, the line of his jaw. Even if I was harboring any doubt that Anthony was my brother—and I’m not—I wouldn’t have any uncertainty now.

  “Hey, man. I’m Anthony. Good to connect with you. Thanks for taking the time to reach out,” Anthony says cheerfully, his New York accent strong and bold. His casual familiarity is genuine; he instantly puts me at ease.

  “Ciao. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Lorenzo.” I nod in greeting.

  “Yeah, give me twenty. I’m busy with something.” Anthony turns away from the screen, yelling at someone over his shoulder. “Sounds good.” He turns back to me. “Sorry about that. Our delivery is late today.” He shrugs. “How you doin’? I’m glad you got in touch with me. I was hoping you would reach out. I’m really sorry for your loss.” He bows his head respectfully, his shoulders straight. Like Papa’s.