I pulled out the pipe cleaner ring, now so permanently embedded with glitter it looked like a disco ball had exploded in my pocket. It caught the morning light streaming through Ben’s window, ridiculous and perfect and completely Olivia.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
“Well, you better figure it out fast.” Ben stood, grabbing his keys from the coffee table. “Because my sister’s been hurt before, and if you’re planning to leave anyway, it’s kinder to do it now before?—”
“Before what?”
“Before she falls completely in love with you.” He paused at the door. “If she hasn’t already.”
The words hit like a physical blow. “We agreed. No real feelings.”
“Yeah, well, feelings don’t usually check the contract before showing up.” He opened the door, then turned back.
“I’m going to the hardware store to buy supplies for my domestic disaster. While I’m gone, think about what you actually want. Not what your father wants, not what the racing world expects, not what makes logical sense. Whatyouwant.”
After he left, I sat in his quiet living room, staring at that glittery ring. My phone rang almost immediately—my mother, because the universe has a sense of humor.
“Mario!” Her voice bubbled with excitement.
“I just got off the phone with Margaret Sage. What a delightful woman! We’re planning to fly in for Christmas. She says you might be engaged by then?”
“Mama, there’s no engagement.”
“That’s not what the Facebook tells me. June added me to her group. Very educational! I like this Lily—she has a strong face in the pictures. Good childbearing hips. She’ll give us beautiful grandchildren.”
“Mama—”
“Your father, he pretends not to care, but I caught him looking at the photos last night. He said—what did he say exactly—ah yes, ‘At least if he’s not racing, he’s doing something useful.’”
“How touching.”
“He’s trying, in his way.” Her voice softened. “You sound different,caro.”
“Different how?”
“Lighter. Like you remember how to breathe again. Like you’re not carrying the world on your shoulders.” She paused. “Are you happy?”
The question caught me off guard. When was the last time anyone had asked me that? When was the last time I’d even considered it?
“I... yes. I think I am.”
“Good. Happiness looks better on you than trophies ever did.”
After she hung up, I walked back to my cottage through the crisp autumn morning. The maple trees were dropping their leaves like golden confetti, and somewhere nearby, someone was burning a pile of brush that made the whole neighborhood smell like campfires and childhood.
At three o’clock sharp, I knocked on Lily’s door. Olivia answered before the echo faded, already bouncing with project-related excitement.
“Mario! Perfect timing! I need to know about Italian Christmas traditions right NOW because Tommy Patterson says Italians don’t celebrate Christmas, and I told him he was stupid, but I need evidence.”
She grabbed my hand, dragging me toward the kitchen table where poster board and markers were spread out like battle plans.
Lily appeared in the doorway, hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing an old painting t-shirt that had seen better years. She looked tired and beautiful and like coming home after a long trip.
“You came,” she said softly.
“I promised,” I replied, and something passed between us—an acknowledgment that we were talking about more than just this afternoon’s project.
For the next two hours, I found myself teaching a seven-year-old about the Feast of the Seven Fishes and La Befana, showing her pictures on my phone of Italian Christmas markets and explaining why we eat panettone instead of fruitcake. Olivia absorbed it all with the intensity of a tiny scholar, asking questions that would have made my nonna proud.
