Page 85 of Replay
“Not particularly.” A thickness forms in my throat. “Do you want kids?”
“I don’t know for sure.” Tilly’s shoulders lift. “I think I’ll wait to see how that wee one turns out before I decide. The Logan bloodline can be horribly stubborn.” She giggles and tucks another bite of pudding into her mouth.
The sight is so lighthearted and sweet. The innocence of it all pokes at a very deep dark vortex in my soul. What if I can’t give Tilly what she wants? What if me telling her who I am and where I come from ruins this hopeful innocence she has? She’s come so far in her life, getting over her own pregnancy loss, getting sober, and now tackling a new job soon. She’s doing so well and is so optimistic about life. Maybe me hitting her with my truth will send her spinning.
My spine straightens as a new reality settles in over me. I always thought that the moment I truly fell for someone, I’d want to tell her the truth about me and who I really am. I thought it would be cleansing and might bring my true heart forward. But what if I’m wrong? What if those thoughts were all selfish, delusional bullshit? What if it’s like telling a woman you cheated on her just to relieve your own guilty conscience while crushing hers in the meantime?
I don’t want to do that to Tilly. I love her. I love her so much, it’s hard to breathe just thinking about it. Maybe living with this secret is more selfless than being open. At least then she won’t look at me differently. Because who can truly ever love the child of a monster?
Iremember a train ride when I was a teen, and I was seated directly across from a young couple. The two were whispering back and forth and laughing hysterically, his hands sliding up her leg, her hands teasing the inside of his jacket. They were like that for the entire two-hour journey. I remember wondering, how have they not run out of things to talk about? What is always so funny? Isn’t it uncomfortable having her leg wedged up on his lap like that?
Santino and I…are now that couple.
The entire long train ride out to the Cotswolds, I cannot keep my hands off him. The smell of him, the feel of him, his husky voice whispering in my ear as we swap stories of our youth—it’s so lovely I can’t stop smiling. I may have babbled on a bit too long about my bed and breakfast memories with my grandparents, but Santino sat through it all with a smile on his face. I told him my grandmother used to pay me to make all the beds but then my grandfather would come in behind me and fix my shoddy work and demand half the payment for himself…which he later used to buy me ice cream.
I even told Santino a stupid story about being a flower girl for a wedding that was at the B&B because their own flower girl woke up vomiting. I was a big saviour until I ruined the entire ceremony by throwing a fit and ripping the flowers out of my hair.
I’m babbling for sure. And I’m babbling because this past week I find myself fantasising about things I’ve never fantasised about before. Like marriage and babies and happily ever afters. It’s the most bizarre feeling because not too long ago, I didn’t want kids. When I came back to London, I was all set to be Super Aunt Tilly, but now that I’ve fallen in love, everything has changed. And I’m old enough now to know that what I’m feeling with Santino is real and more important than anything I’ve ever experienced with past relationships.
It’s all quite overwhelming when I think about it.
I exhale heavily and try to stop my mind from racing. It’s far too soon to discuss such matters, and I think I freaked him out with the baby talk at Mac and Freya’s last weekend. He’s been a bit distracted this past week, and I’m not sure why. He said it was mostly work-related, and he was legally bound not to talk about it, but the truth is, there’s still a lot I don’t know about Santino. He’s tried to share something from his past with me on more than one occasion, but we always seem to get distracted, or he changes the subject just as things get deep.
I’m hoping he sees this trip as a turning point for us. Maybe showing me where he grew up and meeting his family in a more official capacity will help him feel safe with me. Then perhaps, I can begin to fully unwrap the rest of the mysterious box that is Santino Rossi.
We arrive at a train station about eight miles away from Santino’s village to find his grandfather waiting outside for us. He looks like a cute, proper granddad in a shirt, trousers, and white socks with sandals. Santino told me that we had to take the train today because if we didn’t, Nonno wouldn’t let him borrow his car to take a drive around the countryside like he wanted to. Apparently, Nonno is very possessive of his car. And when we walk out to the parking lot, I can see why.
“You like red?” Nonno asks, pointing at my hair and then to his Mini Cooper.
I take in the vintage box-shaped Mini Cooper that’s easily decades-old, but you wouldn’t be able to tell that by the paint job. The red is glossy and lush, a gorgeous contrast to the white roof and pipe design that rims the hood.
“I like that red better than this red.” I point to his car and then to my hair.
“Both beautiful classics.” Nonno kisses his fingertips and smiles proudly as he takes my small weekend bag and tosses it in the back seat.
“You washed it already, Nonno?” Santino asks, walking to the front of the vehicle to take it in.
Nonno scoffs. “You have lady friend…Cherry needs to look her best.”
Santino laughs and walks over to open the passenger side door for me. “He named her Cherry, in case you didn’t pick up on that. And he usually makes me wash her when I borrow it so he must really like you.”
I smirk over at Nonno. “Well, I am really charming.”
“Cherry one…Cherry two,” Nonno replies, pointing at the car, then to me before he slides into the driver’s seat.
I beam proudly. “I think I just got a nickname from your grandfather.”
“Just get in the car, Trouble,” Santino growls and tweaks my arse as I slip into the tiny back seat. He hands me his backpack to sit beside me and then folds himself into the front. I can’t help but marvel at how two tall Italian men can even fit in this little rig because I have to sit with my legs off to the side on top of our bags back here. This must be why Santino told me to pack light. Had I known I would be wedged into a cute tin can today, I maybe wouldn’t have chosen to wear a dress.
However, last time Santino’s family saw me, I was wearing ripped jeans and had spilled sauce all over my white top. Meeting them in an official girlfriend capacity today means I wanted to look nice, which also means Freya helped dress me this morning. She found a floaty little spaghetti strap maxi dress in the back of my wardrobe that I hadn’t worn in years. It’s cream and a bit girlie, but I styled it with an oversized flannel and brown hiking boots to be more comfortable.
The journey is quiet as I sit in the back and try to quell the anxiety needling my belly. Last time I saw Santino’s mother, we had a moment of frank honesty in front of everyone when I asked her about being a teen mother. I hope it didn’t leave a sour taste in her mouth about me, but I couldn’t help myself. I’m a curious person by nature, and when it comes to Santino, I want to know everything. He certainly knows everything about me. I’ve been more open with him than I have with most of my family. Hopefully this trip will deepen his trust in me, and we can schedule a little trip to Scotland next. My parents would be thrilled.
We pull into Bourton-on-the-Water, and I can’t help but gaze wide-eyed at how beautiful it is. It’s a quaint British village full of traditional stone houses that remind me of places we’d visit in the Highlands when I was wee. The village got its name because the entire town centres around a gently flowing river with several low arch-stoned bridges crossing in different places. Their high street runs parallel to the river and features several ornamental shops, restaurants, and artisan bakeries.
Nonno glances back at me. “Have you visited here before?”
“No, it’s beautiful, though,” I reply as he brakes for several ducks to cross the cobblestone street.
