“I’ll learn to cope.”
“And Sunday dinners with all the relatives asking personal questions?”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“And you’ll keep teaching me Italian curse words even though Mom says I can’t use them until I’m sixteen?”
“Assolutamente.”
She looked at me expectantly. “Mom?”
I thought about all the ways this could go wrong. All the complications of trying to build something real from the wreckage of something fake. All the gossip and pressure and small-town scrutiny we’d have to navigate.
Then I looked at Mario’s face—vulnerable and hopeful and absolutely terrified—and realized he was just as scared as I was.
“Yes,” I said softly. “Okay.”
The crowd erupted like we’d just won the World Series. People actually cheered and applauded like we were performers in some elaborate romantic theater. June was openly weeping while holding her phone steady, probably narrating the whole thing for her livestream. My mother appeared from nowhere and enveloped all three of us in a group hug that smelled like cinnamon and happiness.
“This is highly irregular!” She sobbed into Mario’s shoulder. “A public declaration without proper coordination! I didn’t even have time to do my hair properly!”
“Sorry, Mrs. Sage,” Mario said, but he was grinning.
“Don’t be sorry,” she commanded, pulling back to cup his face in her hands. “Just be on time for dinner tomorrow. I’m making lasagna, and I want to hear every detail about how you plan to support my daughter and granddaughter.”
“Mom!” I protested.
“What? I’m allowed to ask practical questions. This is a very practical family.”
As the crowd began to disperse and drift back to their pumpkin-carving stations, Mario pulled me aside to a relatively quiet corner near the apple cider stand.
“I know we have a lot to figure out,” he said quietly, his hand warm around mine.
“We do,” I agreed. “Like where you’re going to work, and how we’re going to handle the gossip, and what happens when the novelty wears off?—”
“And I know I hurt you,” he continued. “Both of you. I should have told you about the job offer the moment I got it.”
“You should have. I felt like such an idiot, finding out from Patricia Downs of all people.”
“I was scared,” he admitted. “Scared that if I told you about it, you’d assume I was taking it. Scared that if I didn’t tell you, you’d find out anyway and think I was lying. I handled it badly.”
I studied his face—the honest regret in his dark eyes, the careful way he held himself, like he was prepared for me to walk away again.
“You did handle it badly,” I said finally. “But I understand why you were scared. I was scared too.”
“But you want to try? Really try this time? Not for the town, not to stop the gossip, just... for us?”
I looked at this man, who’d carved his intentions into a pumpkin and declared his love in front of half the county. It was ridiculous and over-the-top and absolutely perfect for a man who was still learning how to use words instead of actions.
“Okay,” I said. “But we’re taking it slow.”
“How slow?”
“Glacial. Antarctic. Geological time scales.”
He laughed, the sound rich and warm. “I can work with glacial.”
“And we’re having real conversations this time. No more secrets, no more assumptions. If something’s bothering you, you tell me. If I’m being crazy, you call me on it.”
