Can't Stop Loving You

by Miranda Liasson

  Stop it, she scolded herself. He was handsome. Besides, he didn’t look like he went around mooning people or pinching girls’ asses anymore. People change from high school, right?

  People can change, period. And she could get over obsessing about Roman. Once he was in town for a while, the novelty of seeing him again would wear off. Besides, she’d probably be long gone anyway. Either way, she wasn’t going to waste precious time thinking about him.

  Even though she could’ve sworn he was about to kiss her the other night. That she’d wanted him to, despite having a litany of reasons why that was a very bad idea. Tell that to her body, which seemed to react to him with all the combustibility of dry kindling confronted by a match.

  “I’ll be out in a second, sweetheart,” Bruno said with a wink.

  She looked around. Nope, no other woman in sight. That sweetheart was meant for her. Cute. And better than the cowboy. Mrs. Santoro led her to a quiet booth in the back corner, near the kitchen. “Sit here and let me get you something until he’s done, okay? What would you like, sweetie? A Coke?”

  “Oh, I’m fine, Mrs. Santoro. I’ll just wait for Bruno. Why don’t you sit with me for a minute?”

  “You know, I think I will.” She slid into the booth and let out a big sigh. “Oh, that feels good. My back is killing me today. I’m so glad Bruno got rid of that bad wife of his. Now he’s finally home where he belongs.”

  “And I hear he’s a chef now, too.”

  “Yes. He went back and finished cooking school after his divorce. Now that he’s back, I’m going to cut down to working part time. I’m so excited. It’ll be the first time in thirty years.”

  “Well, you deserve to slow down a little,” Bella said. The Santoros had run their restaurant like her father had run the garden center—with a lot of hard work and plenty of family labor.

  “So what’s it like being a psychologist?” Mrs. S asked. “Do you like your job?”

  “I love my job. I’m very happy.”

  “I’m sure you must have long hours, what with being a professional woman and all.”

  “Well, sometimes, yes, but it’s totally worth it. I really enjoy my work.”

  “I see. I bet it’s hard to work those hours and cook dinner and do the chores around home for your father and brother?”

  Why was Mrs. S so concerned about how much she worked? “Sure, but you know how that is. Chef’s hours are hard, too, right?” Besides, she made Joey toe the line, but she didn’t say that.

  Bruno came out. Up close, he looked just as good. Maybe a little too much gel slicking back the hair, but she barely noticed. He hugged his mother and handed her his apron. Then he kissed Bella on the cheek.

  Okay. Bruno the Mooner had grown up. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad, after all.

  Bella picked up her sweater and purse from the booth. “So, where are we going?” she asked. She was glad she’d taken the time to freshen up after work and change into a black cashmere sweater and black heels with her skirt.

  “Well, I was thinking we could go to the place that serves the best food in town.”

  He smiled widely—at his mother. Mrs. Santoro blushed. Bella glanced between the two of them. Oh dear, it suddenly dawned on her that—oh my. Every word of their date was going to be overheard by Mama and Papa Santoro. Great.

  Well, he was proud of his family’s restaurant. That was a positive thing, right?

  He gestured for her to sit back down in the booth. “Mama, bring us a menu. And a bottle of red, all right?” He looked at Bella. “You don’t mind, do you?” He lowered his voice. “It would make her so happy to wait on us.”

  “Sure, Bruno. Great with me.” She was starving anyway. It was good food—the best pizza in town—so, why not? Family was important. Maybe not to tag along with you on a first date, but whatever.

  “How about you let me bring you some wedding soup as an appetizer?” Mama Santoro asked.

  “Oh no, thank you,” Bella said. Yep, she was an Italian who didn’t like wedding soup. It made her a little nervous saying no. If this family was anything like hers, if you refused their food, they took it personally.

  “What’s the matter, you don’t like it? You’re too skinny, you need to get a little meat on your bones, no? You’ll like my wedding soup for sure. I’m going to bring you some while you look over the menu.”

  Bella loved anyone saying she was skinny, even though she wasn’t, but she really couldn’t stomach wedding soup. It was tied to an old memory with Gina and throwing up, and she’d never touched it since. Not that she could explain all of that at the moment. “But—” Her but was wasted, as Mrs. Santoro was already halfway to the kitchen. Fine. She was used to eavesdroppers and food forcers. It was the Italian way. In that respect, Bruno and she shared a common heritage.

  “You look very pretty, Bella,” Bruno said.

  He was saying all the right things. And he had nice eyes, even though they lacked the intensity of Roman’s, whose gaze always seemed to flame straight through her and turn her insides to charcoal. “Oh, thank you, Bruno. So tell me, how’ve you been?”

  He rubbed his neck. “My wife divorced me. It’s been a year and a half.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Do you have any kids?”

  “No, no bambinos,” Mrs. Santoro said loudly from the kitchen. “Thank God. After the divorce, that would be even more heartache.”

  “I told Louise it was time to start having some,” Bruno said, “but she kept insisting that she needed to keep working, even after she had them. There was never a good time.”

  “Imagine that,” Mrs. Santoro added with undisguised outrage, back with a basket of steaming, fragrant bread straight from the oven and the dreaded soup. Bella’s stomach rumbled, for the bread anyway, and she remembered she’d had to skip lunch today because of a regional meeting with other mental health providers. “She wanted to work and put the children in day care.”

  “I even compromised,” Bruno said. “Told her we could move back here and my mother would watch the kids during the day . . . but that wasn’t good enough.”

  “How come you’re not eating your soup?” Mrs. Santoro asked, eyeing her closely. And taking note of the fact that she was eating a piece of bread, which really was melt-in-your-mouth delicious.

  Bella guiltily put down the bread and picked up her spoon. “Oh, I was waiting for it to cool.” She picked up her spoon and made a gesture, like, See? I’m going to force feed it to myself right now. Because it was looking like she didn’t have a choice. She even glanced beneath the table. Nope, no pet in sight to maybe lap it up. She was starting to stress a little. She really did hate wedding soup. In a gagging, bad way.

  “I’m going to be honest with you, Bella,” Bruno said, leaning in and giving her a serious look as Mrs. Santoro hustled back into the kitchen.

  “What is it, Bruno?”

  “I’m a certain age.”

  A certain age? Wait, wasn’t he thirty like her? “Thirty’s not ol—”

  “I want to get my life started as soon as possible. I want lots of kids and a wife who’ll be around to take care of them and me. In return, I can cook every Italian dish known to mankind. How’s that sound?”

  Did people still barter for brides? Was he . . . proposing marriage? Because it sure sounded like it. And the funny thing was, she’d do almost anything for food. She loved every Italian dish under the sun, except for that damn soup.

  A vision formed in her head. Of herself, heavy with child, hanging sheets on a clothesline, chasing miniature Brunos around the Santoros’ yard while Mama S chided her to eat her wedding soup. She needed to get out of here fast.

  “Well, Bruno, I—”

  “I’m lonesome, you’re lonesome. You’re pretty, you’re Italian, we can make beautiful children.”

  She cleared her throat. “This is a little quick for me.”

  “Okay,” Mrs. Santoro said, hovering at her side and wringing her hands with worry. “Is there a p
roblem?” Oh my God, the woman was back again.

  Bella forced a polite smile. “Oh no, it’s just that we’ve been enjoying talking so much that I haven’t taken the time to eat it.”

  “You don’t like my cooking.” She looked like she was getting upset. Bella forced a spoonful of the soup to her lips and tried to push the old memory out of her mind. She and Gina were in the backseat, and she’d just come from Uncle Tony’s house, where she’d eaten two whole helpings of soup. But stomach flu was going around school, and just then she’d felt a rumbling in her stomach. Waves of nausea had suddenly hit her and then she’d projectile vomited all over herself, Gina, and the backseat of their station wagon. It had smelled like stinky socks for months afterward and never failed to make her feel like retching every time she got in the car, no matter how many times her mother scrubbed it or hung tree air fresheners from the rearview mirror. Sure enough, as soon as the spoon went into her mouth, she choked a little.

  “I’ve never seen such a face,” Mrs. Santoro said, now standing with arms crossed over her ample bosom.

  Suddenly, Mr. Santoro walked out of the kitchen and stood next to his wife. “She doesn’t like the soup?”

  “It’s nothing personal, honest,” Bella said apologetically. “It’s just that when I was a kid—”

  “It’s delicious, Ma,” Bruno said, an offended expression on his face.

  “Yes, it is,” Bella said. “Honestly, it’s just that I had a little childhood trauma after I ate some—”

  “You’ve insulted my mother’s cooking,” Bruno said. “She, who’s done nothing but wait on us.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

  “Bruno, can we see you in private for a moment?” Mrs. Santoro gestured toward the kitchen.

  They exited en masse. Bella tried to slow her breathing. She took a big gulp of wine. But she couldn’t help hearing their voices. “She’s too skinny. She’s a career woman. She’ll never be around for the children. I wasn’t sure about her anyway, after what happened to her in high school.”

  Bella set down the wine. Forced herself to swallow the liquid that suddenly seemed trapped in her throat. She couldn’t have heard that right.

  The wine churned in her stomach, and she really did feel like she was going to be sick. There it was again, the one thing the entire rest of her life would always be judged by, for as long as she stayed in this crazy town.

  But, hey, at least they’d called her skinny.

  Oh, this had happened before. Not in quite this way, but, especially in earlier years, she was used to the little whispers, the quick glances in her direction as people discussed the big scandal. She’d had enough practice that she always out of habit sat up a little straighter and held her chin up a little higher, even as she reminded herself of how hard she’d fought to get to where she was today. The years of night classes, the constant fight to become something other than that girl.

  No, she was made of tougher stuff now.

  Bruno returned, looking a little sheepish. “Hey, listen, Bella, it was a mistake to try and do this here. Next time we’ll go someplace different.”

  “You know what, Bruno, I’m going to go. Please give my apologies to your mom about the soup, okay?”

  As Bella walked out of the restaurant, she wondered what it would be like to walk down a random city street and be anonymous. To not have anyone know you or your past mistakes. Just walking to her car, she passed three people, all of whom she knew: Mr. Marks from the hardware store, Teddy Lawrence from the bakery, and Alex Rushford from Bridal Aisle. Everyone smiled and waved, stopped to make a little bit of pleasant small talk. Not that everyone wasn’t nice.

  Just that when she finally believed her past was truly in the past, it reared its ugly head again. It was impossible to be anonymous . . . or forgiven.

  Or maybe the problem was that she simply hadn’t forgiven herself.

  All she knew was that moving on, having a clean slate, wasn’t ever going to happen in Mirror Lake.

  Roman didn’t hear the knock on his door with Journey cranked up on his phone at full blast. It was only after he’d stirred the cooking macaroni from the macaroni and cheese box and finished singing along to the chorus of “Don’t Stop Believin’” that he saw Bella staring at him from outside his door. Caught in the middle of a few bad dance moves, he quickly turned down the music and let her in.

  More startled that she was there than embarrassed she’d caught him singing and dancing, he told her to come in, looking her over to try and figure out what was wrong. Because why else would she show up at his door? “Is everything okay?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” she said, biting back a smile. “Nice air guitar.” He quickly set down the wooden spoon he was holding, hoping she was too busy toying with a ceramic collie figurine to notice his prop.

  “You just happened to be passing by?”

  “Yeah,” she said, looking up. “After another bad date.” He was struck by her understated elegance, as always. She wore a classic black skirt and heels, and red lipstick that looked like it hadn’t been kissed off, thank God. He loved the way she had of casually hooking her hair behind her ear. She seemed a little nervous and a little subdued, but not upset. He figured he’d let her explain why she was here in her own time.

  “The bad date made you think of me, huh? Like, bet you’re really glad I wasn’t around to tell this one off.” He drained the pasta, then dumped it back into the pot and stirred in the milk, butter, and cheese packet.

  She laughed. “The cowboy was an idiot. I’m grateful you stood up for me.”

  “Oh.” He stopped mixing for a second. “You are?”

  She shrugged. “I mean, I can admit now that it was nice of you to be concerned.”

  “Want some mac and cheese?” He held up a spoonful of the bright-yellow stuff.

  “Sounds great. I’m starving.”

  “You’ve got to start going out on dates with men who like to eat.” He placed the pot in the center of the table and brought over two wineglasses and a bottle of wine. He brought over bowls and spoons too but somehow they ended up eating right out of the pot. They didn’t talk much while they ate, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable, either.

  After a while he asked, “So, want to tell me what happened during dinner with Bruno?”

  She frowned. “How’d you know I went out with him?”

  “Joe told me.”

  “He decided we should eat at the restaurant. His mother gave me wedding soup.”

  “Oh no. Not wedding soup.”

  “So it all ended in disaster.”

  “Because of the wedding soup?”

  She grew quiet. “That and the fact that I’m not likely to give up my career after the babies come.”

  She put down her wine and fingered the stem, tapping on the base.

  He reached across the table and grasped her hand, held onto it until she met his gaze. “Surely that can’t be what’s upsetting you?”

  She swallowed. “I—I’m not sure why I’m here.”

  She tried to tug her hand away, but he wouldn’t let her. On impulse, he brought it to his lips and kissed it. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  This time she didn’t pull away, which he took as a good sign. “I heard them talking in the kitchen,” she said. “They said I was too skinny—that’s a laugh, right?—and that I was too career oriented.”

  “I’d consider both of those compliments,” he said, still holding her hand.

  She looked him in the eye. “Then I heard Mrs. Santoro say it didn’t matter anyway because I was the girl who got pregnant in high school.”

  Roman just reacted. Before he could think, he’d pushed back his chair and gathered her up in his arms. He wanted to punch someone. It would have to be Bruno to make up for the callous remarks of his mother. Instead, he held Bella tight. At first, he felt only the pounding in his chest, the sickening churn of his stomach as he imagined how someone’s ignorant remark could be so hurtful.

&n
bsp; But despite himself, everything changed. From comforting to an acute awareness of her in his arms, soft and warm and curvy. An intense gut-burning ache came over him, a desperate need to protect her and save her from pain and, dammit, to kiss her until she turned boneless and trembling in his arms.

  He knew she didn’t need his protection. And she sure as hell didn’t want him tackling her to the floor. She probably just needed a friend. He cleared his throat. “You’re not that girl anymore. You’re an accomplished woman, a doctor.”

  “This is what happens when you stay in the same town your whole life. Your past follows you.”

  “I’m sorry for your pain. I’m sorry for ignorant people.” He drew back and held her at arm’s length, struggling to keep his thoughts clear. They hadn’t talked about the past. But maybe now they could.

  “I—I didn’t come here because I needed consoling. Honestly, I could care less about Bruno or his parents.” She suddenly looked up—straight at him. “I guess I just felt bad, and all I could think of was coming to talk to you.”

  “Why me?” he asked quietly, despite his blood suddenly rushing in his ears. This was important. He had to know. “I mean, why not Maggie or Jess or Sam?”

  His gaze locked with hers. She looked uncomfortable, like she might bolt at any minute, but he needed to hear what she had to say. “Tell me, Bella. Why me?”

  She lay one hand against his chest. The warmth of her hand penetrated through his shirt, searing him. His heart was beating so strongly he was certain she could feel it under her palm. But still, he didn’t release her.

  “I knew you’d understand,” she said. “Not that it’s really hurtful anymore, but small towns have big memories. I don’t know why it got to me tonight.”

  “Tell me how it was for you after I left.”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t care so much about the gossip. It made me understand who my true friends were. The worst thing was that my father took it hard. I don’t think he’s ever completely gotten over it.”