Page 24 of Italian Weddings

O N THE ONE HAND, he knew that going to New York to check on Raf was the right thing to do, he couldn’t help but feel a kernel of guilt. Because Francesco knew he wasn’t just going to New York to see Raf. He was running away from temptation.

A week after returning from Italy, the need to reach out to Willow, to hold her, make love to her, to kiss her, to talk to her, was driving him almost wild.

He’d spent the week virtually chained to his desk, hoping that the more he focused on business, the less he’d be able to focus on her. It hadn’t worked.

On the Thursday morning after they returned, he’d crumbled. Hating himself for his weak self-esteem, he’d sent her a text: How’s your week?

She hadn’t written back until that night, but it had been a selfie of Willow holding a glass of wine, one brow raised in an expression that could have meant a million things.

He’d practically burned holes in his phone, staring at the photo so long, trying to pick out details, to work out where she was.

How she was. Because if she was missing him like he was her, then what was the harm in catching up again?

Except, he knew what the harm was, and he wouldn’t risk it. He wouldn’t hurt Willow. He wouldn’t become his father, and leave a trail of emotional collateral in his wake.

So he’d left, early the next morning, flying out to New York, and Raf, and away from the constant temptation of Willow—and with no concrete plans on when to return.

Willow’s finger hovered over his name for what felt like the millionth time that day.

She was torn. She knew she could just send Francesco a text, but at the same time, she wanted to hear his voice.

It had been two weeks since they’d seen each other, and she was missing him more than she could ever explain.

She woke up reaching for him. She closed her eyes thinking of him.

She ached for him. It was intolerable and totally unreasonable.

Cursing her stupid weakness, she pressed down on his name and scrunched up her face as the call started to ring through, half-hoping he wouldn’t answer.

It rang for so long, her heart dropped to her toes as she realized he probably wasn’t going to answer.

She was about to disconnect the call when his voice came through.

“Hey.” It was loud in the background—like he was in a restaurant or bar, and her heart sank, because it was such a clear indication that he was getting on with his life.

And why would she be surprised by that? It had been their plan all along, after all.

“Hey,” she said, her voice soft. She sat down on the edge of her sofa, knees pressed together, one hand fidgeting in her lap. “Is this a bad time?”

“Just give me a second,” he said. The noise in the background got louder, and then a door slam sounded, and it was a little quieter, presumably indicating he’d gone outside. “Okay, I’m good.”

She bit into her lower lip, her pulse racing. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

“It’s fine. No problems. What’s up?”

To the point. Friendly, but also, weirdly professional. Her fidgeting hand fidgeted harder.

“You still there?”

She grimaced then. This wasn’t going how she’d intended. “We need to break up,” she blurted out, then forced an awkward sounding laugh. “Officially, I mean.”

A pause, followed by, “Yeah, right. Of course.”

“I mean, unless you’ve already told your family?”

“No.”

“Okay, so, I haven’t either, but Meredith just messaged and made it abundantly clear she expects to see you again soon.”

“Right.”

“So, letting them know sooner rather than later would be good.”

He grunted. What did that mean?

“Did you…want to think about what we should say? I mean, I think it’s fine if we keep it super casual, just let everyone know that we decided we’re better as friends, and leave it at that.”

The noise got louder again, and she could just picture someone opening the door to the bar and coming out onto the footpath.

Looking for Francesco? Her heart crumpled.

If he was out at a bar, it wasn’t a huge leap to imagine him meeting up with some other woman, taking her home, making love to her all night long. Jealousy seared her insides.

“Sure.”

Her heart dropped even lower. No, it absolutely plummeted, and crashed hard.

She closed her eyes and bit into her lip, this time, to stop herself from crying.

Willow hadn’t realized until that moment, how much she’d been hoping he might fight the breakup.

Come up with a reason for them to spend a little more time with each other.

Instead, she’d received casual acceptance.

Maybe he’d even been waiting for her to make this call, to get the ball rolling on the official end of their ruse. Mortification curled her toes.

“Sure?” she said, cursing herself for sounding peeved.

“That sounds credible.”

“Yeah.”

“Let me know when you’ve told Meredith and Baxter, and I’ll let my family know.”

Her insides clenched hard. “It’s too late to do it now. I’ll call dad tomorrow.”

“Great. Was that everything?”

She blinked quickly but it did nothing to flush the unexpected moistness from her eyes.

“Seriously?” she whispered, but maybe it was too soft for him to hear, because he didn’t say anything in response.

“Yeah, that’s everything,” she said, hating herself for being devasted.

No, for being heart broken. Because no matter how hard she’d tried to fight this, she’d failed: she’d given Francesco her heart on a silver platter, and he’d become just another person who couldn’t give her what she wanted and needed.

Just another person who’d never love her.

But you never told him how you feel, her brain reminded Willow—always desperate to have the last word.

She ignored it. She hadn’t told Francesco because she hadn’t wanted to burden him, but at the same time, if she’d gotten even the smallest hint that he might feel the same way about her, she might have said something.

You are special.

Her heart trembled.

So special he was willing to walk away from this, like nothing had changed between them from that afternoon in his apartment, to now.

“Shoot me a message when it’s done, Willow.”

“Okay.”

“Great. Talk later.”

He hung up and she dropped her head forward, finally giving into the tears that had pooled in her eyes, and letting them run freely down her face. With that, it was over.

Have you spoken to your dad yet?

His text caught her unawares. Still in bed, after an awful night’s non-sleep, and a heart-ache that wouldn’t quit, Willow looked at his message for a long time, before tapping out a message, “I haven’t had a chance.”

She didn’t particularly relish the conversation. She could only imagine how disappointed her father and stepmother would be, but it was more than that. It would be the official end to this, and as much as she knew it was ‘fake’, it had meant more to Willow than that.

Her phone began to ring, and her heart leaped into her throat to see Francesco’s name, in a large font, beaming across at her. If she hadn’t just been texting him, she’d have avoided answering, but it would be childish to ignore him.

“Hey,” his voice was so familiar to her, that lying in bed as she was, it was impossible not to feel a rush of need, love, yearning and desire, all wrapped up in one big, uncomfortable emotion. “Thanks for answering.”

As if he understood how conflicted she’d been.

“Of course, but I’m actually on my way into a meeting,” she lied. “So, I don’t have long. How can I help you?”

If he’d been business-like with her the night before, why shouldn’t she return volley?

Of course, Francesco being Francesco, he seemed totally unbothered by that. “Rocco and Maddie are coming to London next week. There’s some Helebore exhibition she wants to go to.”

“Helebore? As in, the flower?”

“Apparently. They asked if we wanted to grab dinner with them.”

“Oh.” Her heart fluttered.

“I thought it would be better to break up after that.”

Her mind raced. “Why?”

“For one thing, it saves me from having to act like a heartbroken, recently-dumped ex-boyfriend,” he said, his tone laced with mirth, as though he was amused by this. Amused! Indignation fired through her. How could he be so casual, after everything they’d shared?

You deserve better.

She’d thought he was what she deserved. That he was the sum total of everything she wanted and needed, but at the end of the day, what Willow cared about and craved most of all was true love. She’d never get that from Francesco.

“I wouldn’t ask, normally, but with everyone already worried about Raf, it would be good to not add to their burden.”

She closed her eyes, wondering if he knew how much that was pressing on one of her buttons.

Because she owed him this, after everything he’d done to help her out of a jam.

Even though seeing him again felt like the sum total of everything she wanted, and, at the same time, a total torture she wished she could avoid.

“Dinner’s too much,” she muttered, shaking her head, then realizing she was admitting more than she wanted. “I’ve got a big week. I’d prefer to keep it quick and easy. How about a drink somewhere after work, then you three can go to dinner?”

A long pause greeted that, before he agreed. “I’ll text you details. Any nights that don’t work for you?”

She closed her eyes on a wave of tension. “No.”

“Great. Leave it with me. I guess I’ll see you soon.”

His ambivalence was the final nail in the coffin of her hopes.

He’d only flown back to London a day before Rocco had called and suggested dinner, and a part of Francesco had wanted to lie and say he was still in New York with Raf.

But the way their family grapevine worked, the truth would come out anyway, and he’d be left having to explain why he’d wanted to avoid going on a dinner date with his loved up brother and sister-in-law, and his apparent girlfriend.

It was easier to just capitulate.