if it’s like telling a woman you cheated on her just to relieve your own guilty conscience while crushing hers in the meantime?
I don’t want to do that to Tilly. I love her. I love her so much, it’s hard to breathe just thinking about it. Maybe living with this secret is more selfless than being open. At least then she won’t look at me differently. Because who can truly ever love the child of a monster?
I remember a train ride when I was a teen, and I was seated directly across from a young couple. The two were whispering back and forth and laughing hysterically, his hands sliding up her leg, her hands teasing the inside of his jacket. They were like that for the entire two-hour journey. I remember wondering, how have they not run out of things to talk about? What is always so funny? Isn’t it uncomfortable having her leg wedged up on his lap like that?
Santino and I…are now that couple.
The entire long train ride out to the Cotswolds, I cannot keep my hands off him. The smell of him, the feel of him, his husky voice whispering in my ear as we swap stories of our youth—it’s so lovely I can’t stop smiling. I may have babbled on a bit too long about my bed and breakfast memories with my grandparents, but Santino sat through it all with a smile on his face. I told him my grandmother used to pay me to make all the beds but then my grandfather would come in behind me and fix my shoddy work and demand half the payment for himself…which he later used to buy me ice cream.
I even told Santino a stupid story about being a flower girl for a wedding that was at the B&B because their own flower girl woke up vomiting. I was a big saviour until I ruined the entire ceremony by throwing a fit and ripping the flowers out of my hair.
I’m babbling for sure. And I’m babbling because this past week I find myself fantasising about things I’ve never fantasised about before. Like marriage and babies and happily ever afters. It’s the most bizarre feeling because not too long ago, I didn’t want kids. When I came back to London, I was all set to be Super Aunt Tilly, but now that I’ve fallen in love, everything has changed. And I’m old enough now to know that what I’m feeling with Santino is real and more important than anything I’ve ever experienced with past relationships.
It’s all quite overwhelming when I think about it.
I exhale heavily and try to stop my mind from racing. It’s far too soon to discuss such matters, and I think I freaked him out with the baby talk at Mac and Freya’s last weekend. He’s been a bit distracted this past week, and I’m not sure why. He said it was mostly work-related, and he was legally bound not to talk about it, but the truth is, there’s still a lot I don’t know about Santino. He’s tried to share something from his past with me on more than one occasion, but we always seem to get distracted, or he changes the subject just as things get deep.
I’m hoping he sees this trip as a turning point for us. Maybe showing me where he grew up and meeting his family in a more official capacity will help him feel safe with me. Then perhaps, I can begin to fully unwrap the rest of the mysterious box that is Santino Rossi.
We arrive at a train station about eight miles away from Santino’s village to find his grandfather waiting outside for us. He looks like a cute, proper granddad in a shirt, trousers, and white socks with sandals. Santino told me that we had to take the train today because if we didn’t, Nonno wouldn’t let him borrow his car to take a drive around the countryside like he wanted to. Apparently, Nonno is very possessive of his car. And when we walk out to the parking lot, I can see why.
“You like red?” Nonno asks, pointing at my hair and then to his Mini Cooper.
I take in the vintage box-shaped Mini Cooper that’s easily decades-old, but you wouldn’t be able to tell that by the paint job. The red is glossy and lush, a gorgeous contrast to the white roof and pipe design that rims the hood.
“I like that red better than this red.” I point