Page 41 of Marry Me in Rome

“You think?” Matteo repeated.

“She thinks,” his mother repeated with a groan. “Come, Matteo. Let her play games with someone else. You’re an Italian heir with a long, upstanding history of culture and art and a bright future. You deserve far better than a poverty-stricken American girl from a broken family. We’ll find you someone far better.”

I felt as if I’d been sliced open, flayed, and scraped clean from the inside. My joy just five minutes earlier was nothing buta memory. I’d come to try, to offer myself, and his mother had effectively ruined everything.

“You could be right. I might be all those things, if they matter to you.” I turned to Matteo. “But they didn’t matter to you, so I’ll say this. I want you. I chooseyou, which is huge for me. Except I’m on this trip with my sisters and I’m learning how important family is. I don’t want to pull you away from yours. I want to be a part of them, actually. You made me fall in love with your family and your city and you, all at the same time. I hoped there would be a small place for me in all of that.” I paused, gathering the strength to say the last part. “But if you can’t have your familyandme, and you have to choose one . . . choose them.”

It could have been my imagination, but his mother’s expression softened ever so slightly. Maybe Clara would have yanked Matteo from the room and stalked out. Maybe that’s what I should have done. By this time tomorrow, I might regret not doing that. But I didn’t want Matteo to choose me unless he was willing to give everything. Because, for the first time in my life . . . I was.

He looked at his mother, then back at me. His mouth opened, then shut again. He wouldn’t meet my gaze.

Broken hearts didn’t always happen with yelling and a door slamming. Sometimes they happened in complete silence, without a single word being spoken.

“Goodbye,” I whispered. I gave the man I loved one last glance and left the room.

I walked through the studio, numb to the curious gazes of Italians who parted to make my path toward the exit. A whisper or two peppered the air, but as a whole, nobody spoke as I stepped into the darkness of night alone.

It didn’t take long to find the pizza place. I almost wanted it to be across town so I wouldn’t have to go. But a deep, terrible part of me also wanted a parent right now. Mom was gone and my sisters were probably back on the ship by now. Dad was the next best thing, as weird as that sounded.

I found him at a table near the window, a full pizza spread in front of him. Not Neapolitan, as most pizzas were in Rome. This one had far more toppings. His head, however, seemed the opposite—he’d definitely lost hair over the past decade. A ring of hair above the ears was all that remained. His shoulders were more stooped than I remembered too, as if tired from carrying a heavy burden. Of guilt, hopefully.

As I took a seat across from him, he looked up in surprise. A wide, relieved smile crossed his face, crossed with confusion at my outfit. Other than the baldness and stopped shoulders, he looked much the same. It felt odd, seeing a slightly different version of that face in person, after everything.

“Since when do you like Capricciosa pizza?” I asked, taking note of the ham, mushrooms, artichoke, olives, and single egg sitting on top. He liked pretty much none of those things except the ham. I set my clutch in an empty part of the table and scooted my chair forward, lifting the hem out of the way.

“The menu was in Italian,” he said with a shrug, handing me a plate. “Since when do you wear dresses like that on vacation?”

“I had an event. They have translation apps now, you know.” I scooped myself a slice. “Same with these things they call phones, for calling your family.” I didn’t hide the bitterness in my voice.

“And voicemail, which I’m all too familiar with.” His smile grew apologetic now. “I wouldn’t have blamed you for not coming.”

“I almost didn’t.” To be honest, I still wasn’t sure whether I should be here. This reconciliation felt like a betrayal of the family we’d made without him. “Where’s your wife?”

“With her new husband on their honeymoon in Barbados.” He stared at his food.

Ah. Divorce explained the whole change of heart thing. “And the kids?”

“With her parents in New Orleans. They’ve always preferred living there anyway.” He picked at a piece of crispy crust on his plate, detached and forgotten. He always had eaten the cheesy part and ignored the crust.

“Won’t you miss them?” I asked, surprised he could talk about them so callously. Well, maybe not surprised. Just disappointed.

“I love and miss all my children, Jillie,” he said sharply. “I know you don’t want to believe that, but it’s true.”

My voice was flat. “I believe what I see.”

“You’re an adult. Things are more complicated than that. If it weren’t for the court order, I would have called you every week.”

I paused, my mouth full of pizza, and swallowed it whole. “Court order?”

“Of course. The one your mom got, to keep me from contacting you girls. I still did once in a while, hoping she wouldn’t find out and get me in trouble. I don’t know if I can ever forgive her for stealing you two from me.”

Wait. This made no sense. “You’re saying that Mom got a judge to sign off an order keeping us apart? But what about Alexis?”

“She was supposed to be with your mom too, but we both agreed it was what Alexis wanted. Heaven knows what your mother told the judge to get him to keep a man from his own children.”

I tried to imagine Mom lying to the judge and came up blank. Whatever her reasoning, it was real. Mom wanted what was best for us through all of it, even if that meant losing Dad. I couldn’t doubt her now. “Mom wasn’t a liar.”

He snorted. “Your mother was a lot of things, God rest her soul, but a saint wasn’t one of them. Good thing nobody found out the truth of it while she was alive.”

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