a street corner to cover for him? Better yet, why am I wasting my time?
I accept the transition from call to FaceTime. Might as well look into his face because I look good today! I’ve worked out and gotten a facial. I melt at the sight of him. All the retorts I’ve practiced fade from my mind.
“Gina, speak Italian for me.”
Past the formalities, I inquire in Italian, “Are you Santino’s mom?”
“Who?” A woman holds the phone close to her face. A thin eyebrow as well as an array of crinkle, are the only identifying factors in the frame.
“C’mon, Ma.” Santino groans in the background.
Adrenaline rushes through my veins, though I continue playing along. “So, are you familiar with Toni?”
“Antonia, Ma—”
The old bitty starts cussing about a woman named Antonia. Since all I can see is her eyebrow, it’s leveraged in anger as she spews a colorful array of cuss words. Perfectly aware of ‘slut’ in Italian, I hang up.
Not a second later my phone rings in my hand. “What, Santino? And if you’re not getting the picture, this is entertaining. I have shit else to do tonight.” God, Gina, TMI.
“My mother is—”
“I’m blocking you. Bye, Santino . . .” An unfamiliar sting pricks my eyes as I hang up. Images float through my mind of the way he looked at me and smiled. Damn, I’ve already grown addicted to that feeling. Magic surrounded us as he’d carried me over 1.3 miles to his apartment! Yeah, I mapped it later!
Finger hovering over the ‘block’ button, I murmur, “Why me?”
The term ‘settling’ sounds mighty pleasing right now. I could be married, anticipating my first child, had I said ‘yes’ to the first and only guy who asked me. I was straight out of college then; not even a year of grad school under my belt.
A notification comes in. Reluctantly, I read the text aloud. “Watch the video, Bella.”
Cocking a brow, I mumble, “What video?”
As if on key, the stream of text messages loads again. There’s a still shot of Santino, with an old lady. I know that thin eyebrow! That’s the woman who just denied him and designated “Antonia” as another synonym for whore.
I arch a brow.
“Hmmm, is his mother racist?” What game is he playing? Who forgets they have a son . . .? As soon as thought, I cease from my paranoid antics. The video begins. I start watching something that breaks my heart in half. Damn, Gina, you are way too suspicious!
On the video: Light pink roses are on tables with matching linen. Santino’s mother has walked into the middle of a convention room. At her sides are two old ladies, similar in age. While the two ladies who escorted her inside feign shock, her expression is sweet and priceless. She asks why all the lovely people are there, and Santino’s telling his mother how she’s 70 years old today.
She exclaims, “Davide! I love you, my love.”
“No, Ma.” Santino’s deep voice fades, as he’s overtaken with emotions. He patiently explains that his father, Davide’s waiting for them all one day, a very, very long time away from now.
The short video ends. Santino has something that money can’t buy. From watching that clip, I soften in a way I'm not familiar with; the video has opened up my mind . . . dare I say, even my heart. All the money and assets at my disposal can’t buy what Santino has in his heart. Chewing my lip, I call Santino.
He answers, and my gaze drops. “So . . . apologizing isn’t one of my strong suits, Santino. I’m so sorry.”
“Listen, I feel like a dick for even using my ma’s situation. Toni is—”
“You don’t have to—”
“My niece.”
“Santi, who are you on the phone with, my love?” His mom speaks in Italian. She peers at the screen. “Oh, my God, you can see a person on the tiny TV! You’re a gorgeous actress.”
“No, Ma. This isn’t a tiny TV.” He rubs a hand over his face. “You just saw her.”
“Well, is she an actress?”
I’m wearing a smile as I speak to Mrs. Morelli like it’s our first time. “I wish. I’m no Sofia Loren or anything.”
I wink at Santino in the background as his mother gushes about how Loren is her all-time favorite actress. Mrs. Morelli says, “You must come over, let’s watch Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow. I’m cooking dinner now.”
“No, Ma. You’re putting my future . . .” He gets up. The tiny woman hardly comes to his shoulder in