Between Loyalty and You

Chapter 12 (Elena's POV)

By the second week of November, I could climb the stairs without stopping.

I noticed on a Tuesday, with a bag of groceries in one hand and my keys in the other.

For a moment, I stood outside my apartment and smiled.

Then I reached for my phone.

The impulse came so naturally that I had opened Luca’s conversation before I understood what I was doing.

His last message was four days old.

I hope work is going well. There’s no need to reply.

I closed it.

Inside, I put away the groceries and called Marta to complain about the price of coffee.

He had stopped calling after the first week.

The messages had become less frequent, too. Once he asked whether I would allow him to explain in writing. Another time, he told me he would be in Florence on business and would like to see me if I wanted.

I didn’t answer.

He didn’t appear at the workshop.

I was grateful.

Sometimes, walking home, I still looked across the street before turning into mine.

I never told Marta that.

At work, I graduated from paperwork to a small panel with flaking paint along its lower edge. My supervisor watched me settle at the bench, then left me alone.

I worked for almost an hour without thinking about Luca.

When I realized, I felt pleased.

Then sad.

Apparently, getting better allowed room for both.

Papa began his Christmas campaign before the end of the month.

“I need dates,” he announced over the phone.

“For what?”

“Your visit.”

“It’s November.”

“Rosa starts planning early.”

“Rosa doesn’t live at your house.”

“She’s helping.”

I leaned back in my chair.

“Of course she is.”

“Come on the twenty-third. Stay until New Year.”

“No.”

“Boxing Day.”

“Papa.”

“Three nights. That’s barely a visit.”

I looked at the calendar pinned above my desk.

The workshop closed on the afternoon of the twenty-third.

There was no practical reason not to go.

That annoyed me.

“I’ll come on Christmas Eve.”

“And leave?”

“The twenty-sixth.”

“Morning or evening?”

“You’re negotiating hours now?”

“I take what I can get.”

I smiled despite myself.

Then he said, “Luca will collect you from the station.”

My smile faded.

“I’ll take a car.”

“He won’t mind.”

“I know how taxis work.”

“Elena, don’t be difficult.”

I pressed my fingers against my forehead.

I could explain.

Not everything. Enough.

I don’t want to be alone with him.

But Papa would ask why, and I had spent weeks trying to stop arranging my life around an answer I couldn’t give.

“I want to make my own arrangements,” I said.

He sighed.

“All right.”

I marked the dates while he told me which cousins were coming.

Luca’s name came up twice more.

Once about the wine.

Once about where he would sleep.

I kept writing until the pen left a small hole in the paper.

“You don’t have to go,” Marta said.

We were eating lunch on the workshop steps, taking advantage of a weak patch of winter sun.

“I want to see my father.”

“You could invite him here.”

“He’d bring someone to inspect my heating.”

She broke a piece from her sandwich.

“Does Luca know you’re coming?”

“Probably.”

“Has he said anything?”

“I haven’t checked.”

That wasn’t entirely true.

I still saw the previews.

The most recent had arrived the night before.

Your father mentioned Christmas. I won’t make arrangements for you. If there’s anything you need me to—

I had cleared it before reading the rest.

Marta studied me.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That never meant nothing.”

She brushed crumbs from her coat.

“I just hope you know what you want from going.”

“Christmas.”

“Elena.”

I looked across the courtyard.

A student hurried past carrying a canvas almost as tall as she was.

“I want to sit with my father without wondering whether I’m going to cry if someone says Luca’s name.”

Marta nodded.

“That seems a reasonable place to start.”

In December, Florence filled with lights.

The bakery hung silver stars in the window. Someone placed a small tree in the workshop, where it immediately acquired a dusting of plaster.

I worked.

I met friends for dinner.

One evening, I laughed so hard at Paolo’s account of a disastrous date that my side ached faintly afterward.

The tenderness surprised me. I had almost forgotten it was there.

At home, I examined the scar in the bathroom mirror.

It was still pink, still unfamiliar, but it no longer frightened me.

I touched the uninjured skin beside it.

For weeks, memories of the shooting had arrived with Luca attached to them. His voice, his hands, his shirt beneath my fingers.

Now I could remember other things.

The nurse bringing ice.

Papa asleep with his head against the hospital wall.

Marta answering the phone.

I had been cared for by more than one person.

It helped to remember that.

The Christmas card arrived on the nineteenth.

Rosa’s handwriting covered the envelope.

Inside, she had written three lines about the house, the weather, and a cake she was saving for me.

A smaller envelope slipped out when I opened the card.

My name was written across it in Luca’s hand.

I left it on the table while I made tea.

Then I opened it.

There was no long letter.

Elena,

Your father tells me you’re coming for Christmas. I’m glad you’ll be there.

I know you haven’t wanted contact. I won’t use the visit to force a conversation. You should be able to spend Christmas with your family comfortably.

I’m sorry it has become something you might need to prepare for.

Luca



I sat with the note in my hand.

Of all the things he could have written, that last sentence was the hardest to read.

He understood.

At least some of it.

I placed it back in the envelope.

Then I called Rosa to thank her for the card.

We talked about the cake.

On Christmas Eve, I returned to my father’s house with one suitcase and no plan beyond staying for two nights.

The car passed through the gates shortly after four.

Lights shone in the downstairs windows. Someone had wound greenery around the stone pillars, exactly as they did every year.

For a moment, all I wanted was to be inside.

Papa opened the front door before the driver reached it.

“There she is.”

He embraced me on the steps.

I held him longer than usual.

He noticed but only kissed my hair.

“You look well.”

“I feel well.”

“Are you eating enough?”

“Happy Christmas to you, too.”

His laugh loosened something in my chest.

Inside, the hallway smelled of pine and warm pastry.

My aunt called from the sitting room. A cousin came to steal my scarf. Somewhere, someone was arguing about whether the tree leaned to the left.

Then Luca stepped out of the dining room.

I knew he would be there.

Knowing had done very little to prepare me.

He wore a dark sweater with the sleeves pushed back. There was more tiredness around his eyes than I remembered, though perhaps I was only looking too closely.

He stopped a few feet away.

“Elena.”

“Hello, Luca.”

His gaze moved over my face, then settled there.

“You had a good journey?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Papa handed him my suitcase.

“Put that upstairs, will you? I want to show her something before she escapes.”

Luca took the handle.

For one instant, our hands were close enough to touch.

I stepped toward my father.

Behind me, the suitcase wheels sounded softly against the floor.

Papa had repaired the small wooden music box my mother used to place beside the tree.

It had been broken for years.

“You found someone?”

“A man in Verona. Took him three months.”

He lifted the lid.

The tune emerged unevenly at first, then steadied.

I laughed.

Papa looked ridiculously pleased.

Across the hallway, Luca paused at the foot of the stairs.

I saw him watching us.

For once, I didn’t stop smiling because he was there.

At dinner, my place card sat beside his.

I stood behind the chair long enough for Papa to notice.

“Something wrong?”

“No.”

Luca reached for the chair.

I pulled it out before he could.

“Thank you. I’ve got it.”

He lowered his hand.

Around us, everyone settled into the noisy business of Christmas Eve. Bread passed across the table. My aunt demanded news of Florence. Papa began telling a story badly enough that three people interrupted to correct him.

I answered questions.

I ate.

Beside me, Luca remained careful and quiet.

Then someone reached for the wine, and his hand moved toward my glass.

“Water, please,” I said.

He stopped immediately.

“Of course.”

Such a small exchange.

No one else noticed.

I looked down at my plate while he filled my water glass, and understood that the difficult part of Christmas would be this: remembering how easily we had once noticed what the other wanted.

And deciding, over and over, how much of that I could bear.