Page 48 of Babies for the Christmas Grump
I watch her for a second, then shrug, the smirk never leaving my face. “Yeah, I’ve been to Italy. A lot. But honestly? I was just a kid, caught up in all the noise. Filming, traveling, never really stopping long enough to take it all in. It was all a blur. But the food…”
I pause, taking a breath as I let the memory settle. “The food was the one thing that didn’t feel like a whirlwind. The smells, the flavors… they were real. No cameras. No scripts. Just… life.”
“Wow, that’s wild.” She shakes her head and smiles. “Such a different life to me.”
“Well, I wasn’t always this…” I pause, trying to find the right word, “grumpy.”
Sunny leans forward, intrigued. “Oh? And what were you?”
I chuckle, shaking my head, the truth not as easy to swallow as I want it to be. “I was a child star. A little too famous for my own good. And when you’re a kid, you don’t realize it, but all the things that are supposed to make you feel safe—your parents, your home—they’re… just distractions. Even in somewhere as lovely as Italy.”
Sunny’s expression softens, and she shifts in her seat. “That sounds… exhausting.”
I laugh, a little bitter. “Yeah, it was. And I didn’t even realize how lonely it all was until I was older. I got out of it eventually, of course, but there’s always a part of you that feels like you’re living someone else’s life. Even now. Like you’re never really in control of your own story.”
Before she can respond, the waiter reappears, bringing our antipasto and wine with a quiet flourish. The table is suddenlyfilled with plates. Vibrant, fragrant, the kind of food that instantly pulls you in.
The basket of warm bread alone is enough to make my stomach growl.
Sunny smiles at the spread, her eyes lighting up. “This looks incredible.”
I pour the Chianti, letting the dark wine swirl in the glass before passing it to her. “Italy knows how to do food,” I say, lifting my glass.
She raises hers to meet mine, the soft clink ringing between us. “To Italy, then.”
I nod, taking a sip. The rich, earthy taste floods my mouth, familiar, grounding. I settle back into my chair, feeling the conversation lift just a little.
There’s something about good food, a warm space, and the quiet hum of the night that makes everything feel… simpler.
But Sunny doesn’t seem ready to let the conversation go. As she picks at the antipasto, she watches me carefully, her gaze softer now.
“I get what you mean,” she says, “about feeling like you’re not in control of your own life. I felt that way, too, growing up.”
“Really?” I cock my head to one side. “Tell me more.”
“I never really felt like I belonged in Chicago. My life was just… noise. I mean, I had friends and family, but nothing ever felt right. I always felt like I was floating through it all, just waiting for something to click.” She sighs heavily. “But it never did. I tried a lot of things, you know? Tried to make myself fit in, tried to make it work… but it didn’t. None of it felt real.”
Her eyes are distant for a second, and I can tell she’s looking back on all of it. It makes me want to know more about what she’s been through.
“And then,” she adds softly, “I got the will after Auntie Evie passed, and everything changed.”
“The hotel feels morereal?”
She nods. “Yeah. I think so. Maybe that’s why it’s so important to me. It’s the first thing that feels like it could stick.”
I watch her carefully, absorbing her words. There’s a depth to them that makes the whole room feel quieter, as if time’s slowed down just for this moment.
It’s clear the hotel isn’t just a business to her, it’s a lifeline—a way to make something in her life real, finally.
“You’re right,” I say, breaking the silence. “This place has a way of sticking to you. Like it’s pulling you in, demanding you figure it out. I can see why it matters to you. And we’ll make it work. One way or another.”
After dinner, we step out into the chilly night air, the bustling energy of the North End fading behind us as we make our way through the streets of Boston.
The city feels alive, vibrant, and wrapped in its holiday magic. It’s basically straight out of a postcard. The sounds of distant laughter and chatter float through the air, mixing with the soft jingle of Christmas bells.
The world is lit up in a thousand different colors: streetlights, shop windows, and festive decorations on every corner. Wreaths dangle from lampposts, and the sweet smell of roasting chestnuts lingers in the air.
Every part of Boston is drenched in the warmth of the season, and for a moment, it’s hard to remember there’s anything outside of this glowing bubble.
