Friday. Last day before Saturday. A knock. I opened my door to Mama Rossi, Matteo’s mother. She had gentle eyes, determined mouth, the kind of smile that doesn’t argue but never loses.
“Bella, cara. May I come in?”
I stepped aside. She walked past my scattered books and the blue dress on a chair like a question. She looked at me—really looked.
“We can all see you’re struggling,” she said softly. “Your father. Matteo. Luisa. We’re worried.”
“I’m fine—”
“No, cara.” She took my hand, warm, flour-scented. “You don’t have to tell me. But I can see you’re in pain.”
That word cracked something. Tears blurred the room.
“Come to my kitchen,” she said. “We’ll cook. Your favorite—you always begged for it on your birthday.”
“I don’t think I can—”
“Just a few hours. Just hands and food. Sometimes our hands can do what our minds can’t.”
I tried to refuse. She waited the way sun waits on stone. “Okay,” I whispered.
The Rossi cottage sits near the lane, ivy on the walls. The kitchen smelled like bread and bay leaves. On the table: potatoes, flour, eggs, gorgonzola, butter, nutmeg, a board with knife scars.
“First, the dough,” she said. “Gentle hands. Like this.”
Steam kissed my face as I riced hot potatoes. Flour snowed down. We folded the mixture until it barely held together.
“You used to beg for this every year,” she said. “You’d roll three and eat one.”
“I remember.” My voice surprised me—lighter.
We worked in a pocket of silence. She corrected my grip, guided my palms. “There,” she said. “Your hands remember.”
I rolled ropes, cut pillows, dragged each piece across a fork. Press, flick, repeat. Thought turned quiet. Butter sighed; the cheese melted blue. She grated nutmeg like a secret.
“Taste,” she said, tapping a spoon to my knuckles.
I tasted. Birthday afternoons ran through me—paper crowns, Mama laughing, Papa stealing gnocchi, Matteo and I sword-fighting with breadsticks. Whole. That was the flavor. “It’s perfect.”
“You made it perfect,” she said, pleased in a way that warmed my ribs.
The door opened at noon. Matteo came in with his father, both smelling of sun and vine sap. Shirts dark where work clung—elbows, collar, the shoulder where baskets rest. Matteo stopped in the doorway. I was in his mother’s apron, flour on my wrists, hair braided tight.
“Matteo,” his mother called. “Come taste Bella’s sauce.”
He crossed the tiles. Offered me a small nod. I held out the spoon. Our eyes met. The kitchen leaned closer.
He tasted. A slow exhale. “Delicious.”
“Sit,” Mama Rossi said. “Lunch is ready.” She set the dish between us. Matteo’s father—quiet eyes, steady shoulders—poured water, then wine for his wife. He said grace in a voice made of weather. We ate.
The talk stayed simple—harvest dates, a broken valve, a cousin’s baby with too much hair. Matteo’s foot found mine under the table. Stayed there, still. I didn’t move. For one hour the room felt almost normal.
After, Matteo stacked plates. “Walk with me?” he asked, neutral as a question can be. I nodded. His mother kissed my cheek, leaving a print of flour. “Come back anytime,” she said. “You’re ours, too.”
We took the side path, past rosemary and the low wall where lizards sun themselves. He led me between tight rows to an old grape press—weathered beams, iron crank scarred by decades, a ring of crushed violet in the stone.
“I come here to think,” he said. “No one knows.” He was offering me a sanctuary. I sat on the low wall. The vines murmured.
He stayed standing for a moment, hands in pockets, chest rising slowly. Then he sat, not too close. Silence, full of meanings.
“Bella,” he said finally. “I need to tell you something.”
My heart did its gymnastic routine.
“You’re someone very important to me,” he said. Simple. Clean. “Since always.” He looked at the press, not my face. “Whatever’s happening—whatever you’re facing—I want to help.”
He reached for my hand like you reach for a ledge, carefully. I pulled back. Stood too quickly; the world tilted. “I can’t. Matteo, I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“This.” My hands tried to explain and failed. “I can’t be close to anyone right now.”
Hurt flickered, then went still. “I wasn’t asking for—”
“I know.” The words were glass. “But I can’t even accept… kindness. Touch. Anything. I’m too broken.”
“You’re not broken,” he said, quietly.
“I am!” Too loud. Birds startled. “You don’t understand! I need you to stay away.”
He held very still. A breath in—a breath out. “Alright,” he said without anger. I walked fast, trying not to run. The vineyard hummed.
Guilt hit halfway home—hot, unfair to the person who least deserved it. He had offered a hand; I had returned it empty. But if he came any closer now, he could be cut on the edges I carry. Saturday was a cliff. Better to keep him off it.
Back in my room, I looked at the dress I’d chosen for tomorrow—simple blue, no history stitched into the seams. Good. I needed a color that belonged to me.
Tomorrow Ferraro would arrive. Tomorrow the house would fill with polite words and knives under napkins. Tomorrow everything would either break completely or—no, stop. There was no “or.” Only through.
My phone vibrated on the desk: I’m sorry if I pushed too hard. I’ll keep my distance like you asked. But I’ll still be watching you. That hasn’t changed.
Matteo. Of course he would say exactly that.
I typed: I’m sorry too. Deleted. Typed: Thank you for understanding. Deleted that, too. He deserved better than fragments.
Outside, the estate exhaled into the evening. Somewhere, Papa’s radio played a waltz; somewhere, Mama Rossi sang to her basil. I stood at the window and swore to the hills I would survive tomorrow. Then I sat on the floor, put my palms flat, and breathed until my ribs remembered how to move. And I kept breathing, count by count.