Page 42 of Third Degree

“You said that earlier.”

“Gianna.” His voice was low. “I will tell you that you look beautiful every single day, every single minute, and every single second because from the moment the sun rises to the time the sun sets, your beauty leaves an imprint upon my very being.”

I felt my face flush from his confession, but I just kept reminding myself of what I’d learned in therapy. I was in control of my world. I controlled this narrative, not my father or my family.

“You always had a way with words.” I leaned to him and kissed him on the side of his cheek before pulling away and looking out the window.

An hour in the air and we were already landing.

“I cannot tell where we are from the window.” I was so excited that I felt like a kid in a candy shop. “This was supposed to just be dinner, Elio.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, but he merely shrugged his shoulders with a playful smile.

We got off the plane and into a car, where a driver drove us around and down a cliff. It wasn’t until we pulled into the neighborhood that I started to recognize the streets.

“Are we in Half Moon Bay?” I gasped, recognizing the street we were pulling up to.

Just like it had looked twelve years ago, as if time stood still, was the little blue house with the twinkling fairy lights and the garden in the back.

“Elio,” I murmured, the words stuck in the back of my throat. He had always been a romantic. The one person who showed me what freedom really tasted like and was willing to sacrifice to give it to me. It was hard to ignore how in love I was with him.

“Come in.” He helped me out of the car, and we walked into the house together.

“You actually lock it now?” I laughed, noticing as he used a key to open the door.

“Ah. I’ve learned that the deeper into the family I get, the more I have to lock.” His forlorn eyes gazed toward the door before he shook his head and opened it.

Once inside, the house was exactly the same, as if it were an artifact from the past. I knew it stood as both a reminder to him of the time he had with his late wife and the moments we shared together.

“Nutella?” I offered, hoping to lighten the mood.

Elio’s gaze dropped, and he spoke softly, his voice tinged with sorrow. “She was old, rosa mia. She passed away, but it was simply her time.”

A heavy silence filled the air as the weight of loss settled upon us. I couldn’t help but feel the depth of sadness that seemed to permeate the atmosphere.

“You’ve experienced so much loss in your life,” I murmured, my voice filled with empathy, acknowledging the pain that had shaped his journey.

I felt him behind me as he ran his hands down my shoulders and around my waist, bringing his chest tight against my back. I could smell him now. A familiar smell of gin. It was hard not to peer down the hallway where I had shared my first and last intimate encounter with a man.

I paused, feeling a blush creep to my cheeks. Without Nutella here, the house was quiet.

“Don’t be embarrassed, amore.” Elio pressed his lips against my cheek. He had a knack for kissing me without actually pressing his lips against mine, which made me feel jittery in the knees. “Come.” He gestured to me, yet again interlacing our hands together and guiding me to the patio.

I noticed that outside in the garden, a soft glow enveloped the surroundings as hundreds of flickering candles cast their warm, golden light. Their gentle flames danced in the night, illuminating the vibrant blooms that adorned the flower beds, creating an enchanting ambience that felt straight out of a fairytale.

Amid this ethereal setting, a table draped in fine linen cloth stood, adorned with delicate floral arrangements and shimmering glassware.

As I approached the table, Elio stepped beside me, a smile playing on his lips. “I wanted tonight to be something truly extraordinary,” he murmured, his voice laced with a blend of excitement and affection. “I arranged for a chef to prepare our dinner while we were flying here.”

In that moment, as we stood there, basking in the beauty of the candlelit garden, I knew there was no way anyone could ever compete with this.

“You did this for me?” I started to feel the anxiety creeping in. “I thought this was just dinner.”

He shrugged and led me over to where the food was. He pulled out my chair for me, and I sat while he took the seat across from me.

“Tell me about yourself, rosa mia,” he softly requested, a gentle smile playing at the corners of his lips. His eyes held a genuine curiosity, a longing to uncover the layers that had shaped the woman before him.

And so, I began to share. I spoke of the journey that led me to San Diego, sensing a tinge of discontentment in his expression as I recounted the years it had taken. I bared my soul, revealing the deep-seated loneliness that had washed over me upon my arrival and the subsequent months spent in therapy navigating the intricate web of emotions. I spoke of the friends I had found, the connections that had blossomed amid the vastness of this new city. And I proudly disclosed that I worked at a bustling brunch restaurant during the day, my determination driving me to be self-reliant rather than relying on my parents’ wealth.

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