The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(10)

I shake my head. Matt has never understood my family. He and his three younger brothers are best buds. Nobody in the Cusumano family ends a phone call without saying “I love you.”

“My family shows love differently than yours,” I say, already weary of this tired conversation. “But that doesn’t mean they don’t care. You remember when my uncle Vinnie had that scare with his heart eight years ago?”

He rolls his eyes. “Your entire family rallied.”

“That’s right. They did, Matt, so don’t give me that look. Every night, Nonna delivered dinner to Aunt Carol. Carmella and Lucy stayed with my dad and me for an entire month. And they’ve been there for me, too—especially Nonna. She dedicated her entire adult life to helping raise Dar and me. She’s never asked for a thing in return.”

“Except your complete obedience,” he mumbles.

I skate right over his sarcasm. “And when I was in the accident back in college, Nonna closed the store for three days so they could be by my side. That,” I say, “is what family is all about. So please, don’t act like my family has no soul. They’re good people.”

“To everyone but you and your aunt Poppy.”

Mercifully, my house comes into view. “Thanks for the umbrella and the hoodie.”

He turns to me. “You know, it just hit me. I think I finally realize why you put up with their abuse.” He chews his lip and studies me. “You’re scared.”

I laugh. “Scared? Whatever, Cusumano.” I step into the rain. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

He grabs hold of my—his—coat sleeve. “C’mon, Ems. Think about it. You’ve seen firsthand what happens to people in your family who don’t conform.”

Rain speckles my glasses and drips from my nose. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Poppy. And the fact that you’re both treated like shit, like you’re somehow less worthy, all because of that fucking lie.”

My heart trips. He’s talking about the curse.

“It’s not natural, the way your nonna cut off all ties with her sister. I’ve always thought it was weird. And you . . . you tiptoe around her and Daria, bowing to their every need—even forfeiting a trip to Italy that I know damn well you want to go on—just so they’ll love you. Because if you don’t, you’re afraid one day you could end up alone and abandoned, just like your aunt Poppy.”

I want to argue, but I don’t trust my voice. I cover my chin. Matt’s eyes go soft.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Without warning, he leans in and kisses my cheek. Instinctively, I flinch. Then, as if he needed further humiliation, I swipe the spot where his lips were. Even in the dim streetlight, I can see I’ve hurt his feelings.

“I’m sorry, MC. I didn’t mean—”

He lifts a hand to silence me. For a moment, he just stares at me, shaking his head. “Can’t you see, you’ve got a chance of a lifetime here? And you’re about to lose it. You’re about to throw it away, because you’re too damned scared to move forward.” His voice is picking up steam, the way it does when he’s frustrated. “You’re twenty-nine years old, Em. You’re not a kid anymore. Stop pretending you don’t see what’s right in front of your nose. You’ve got an opportunity. Grab it. Because one day, mark my words, you’re going to regret losing the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. There’s not a doubt in my mind, this conversation has nothing to do with Italy.

He places a hand on my wet cheek. This time, I make sure I don’t recoil. “Do you understand where I’m coming from?”

“Yes,” I whisper, my heart pounding in my chest.

This is a pivotal moment. He’s waiting for me to elaborate, to say something that gives him hope. My lifelong friend, my easiest companion, the man I’d step in front of a train for, wants more than my friendship. I close my eyes, intoxicated with terror and rebellion and guilt.

“I know exactly where you’re coming from,” I say. “And you’re right.” I smile and slug his arm. “I do want to go to Italy.”

I wave good-bye and turn up the sidewalk. God help me, I’ve become just as good as my sister at deflecting.

I nudge the front door open ever so slowly, and I’m assaulted by a blast of heat, the one indulgence Nonna, who’s never gotten acclimated to New York winters—or even summers—allows. My mind whirls. Matt is flat-out wrong. My family would never cut ties with me, the way they did with my great-aunt. With the slightest whisper of a click, I lock the door behind me. In the darkness, I navigate the terrazzo foyer. I’m almost to the staircase when I stumble over a pair of shoes.

“Damn!” I cry, and immediately I slap a hand over my mouth. But it’s too late. The hallway light flickers on. In an instant, Nonna Rosa’s butterball frame appears at the door to her first-floor apartment, her faded green robe zipped knees to chin.

“Silenzio!” she hisses, knuckles planted on her wide hips. “You will wake your father.” She speaks with a heavy accent, using broken English sprinkled with her native Italian. After fifty-eight years of living in the United States, my grandmother, whose world is largely made up of Italian immigrants like herself, is only moderately fluent in English. She’s a woman who chooses seclusion over inclusion and then complains about not fitting in.