Because the second I knew Marlow was mine—the second I admitted I wanted her—fear dug its claws in. What if it happened again? What if she woke up one morning and decided I wasn’t worth the fight? The same hollow pit my mother left behind threatened to open up all over again, and I wasn’t sure I could survive reliving that kind of abandonment.
So I did what I’ve always done when the ache cuts too deep. I buried it. Layer after layer, I inked it into my skin, turned pain into permanence, pretending the art could hold me together. For a while, it worked—made me believe, made everyone else believe, I was fine. But when the ink dried and the sting faded, the fear was still there. Louder. Heavier.
Coach Saunders made me face it. Made me see that I can’t control anyone else’s choices. That my mother leaving wasn’t my fault. That if Marlow ever left, that wouldn’t be my fault either. People choose. Sometimes they choose wrong. Sometimes they choose to stay. But it isn’t on me to carry the weight of their weakness if they don’t. It isn’t my fault if they don’t have the capacity to love me.
And when I finally let go of that desperate grip on control, I found something better waiting in the space it left behind. Her. All of her. The chance to really learn her, love her, give her what she needed instead of what my fear demanded.
I take her hand, twining my fingers through hers. “I wish I could take you home to meet the family in Argentina. Let them see who you are, what you mean to me.”
“I know. Me too,” she says.
I kiss the palm of her hand, lingering there like I can seal the vow into her skin. “Once the season ends, we’ll go. I promise. I’ll introduce you to all of my family’s Italian traditions.”
The thought alone makes me smile. Because when I found out her mother had Italian roots, it was like puzzle pieces clicking into place. I knew there was something familiar about her from thestart—something that pulled at me, something that felt like home. Something that felt like forever.
Her smile, warm and teasing, steadies something in me. “Until then, you’re stuck with the Cinnamon Grove family traditions. There’s plenty of them, trust me. Biddy Mason Charter School is hosting their holiday bazaar next weekend, and the Strikers are major sponsors.”
I groan. “The bazaar, how could I forget? Games. Face paint. Kids.”
“And prizes,” she adds, lips twitching.
“And more children braiding my hair,” I mutter.
She nudges me. “Oh hush, you’ve come to enjoy it. Admit it. Meeting the fans, being part of the community…it’s good for you. And for them.”
I exhale, but the truth is, she’s right. At first, I hated it. The parades, the handshakes, the small-town carnival energy. But now, I look forward to the faces that light up when we show up. To the way, even the smallest kid feels big when we stop to listen. It isn’t home, not Italy, not Argentina.
But with Marlow’s hand in mine, it feels damn close.
I drop the ravioli into the pot, the steam curling upward like it’s trying to carry all the heaviness of my confession away with it. Wiping my hands on a towel, I move to the cabinet, open it, and pull out a small blue bottle. Without saying a word, I set it down in front of Marlow.
She blinks at it, like I’ve just handed her contraband. “What’s this for?”
I give her a look. A knowing one. “You fart in your sleep every time I feed you something with cheese. And lately, it’s gotten ten times worse.” I say, perfectly deadpan. “Leads me to believe you’re lactose intolerant…or whatever you Americans call it.”
Her gasp is so dramatic I almost laugh. She clutches the bottle to her chest like it’s a personal attack. “I will have you know, I do not fart in my sleep!”
I shrug. “Fine, Americana. Let’s say you don’t. But why don’t you take one, just in case one slips out in your sleep without you knowing?”
She bursts into laughter, cheeks pink, eyes sparkling as she gives me a playful shove. Then she actually pops the pill.
I let out a breath, leaning back against the counter as I watch her laugh—my favorite sound in the world. And I feel it again, the light she brings me, the way she makes all of this, all of me, bearable.
Chapter fifty-two
Sponsors & Snowflakes
Marlow
Ilove the holiday season.
I also hate the holiday season.
For me, it’s always been a mixed bag of emotions.
Growing up, it was mostly just me and Daddy, and we never quite fit into those picture-perfect traditions people bragged about. Our holidays were pieced together—family friends who invited us over, Daddy’s coworkers who let us crash their parties, the occasional extra seat at someone else’s table. And while I was grateful, it never felt like ours. Never felt like those commercials promised—the ones full of big families, noise, love, and warmth spilling out of every corner.
So we started making our own. Just me and him. Little traditions stitched together year by year—the movieswe watched every Christmas Eve, the way we stayed up to ring in the New Year by watching celebrations around the world. Every year Daddy would find something to add, something that made it feel like our holiday was designed just for us. For me.