Page 91 of Italy Can Bite Me

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Afterhoursofwanderingand chatting, we’re now at Ponte Pietra—a bridge so historic you’d half expect it to still demand a toll in Roman coins. We overlook the Adige River, and the water churns in a rhythm so perfect it’s like it knows we’re getting the ultimate romantic movie backdrop.

Katie leans her elbows on the stone railing, her wide, curious eyes taking in everything, as if she’s trying to memorize it all. “I could get used to this.”

She’s breathtaking.

I thread my fingers through hers. “I love the feeling of your hand in mine.”

She squeezes back. The simple gesture floods my body with warmth.

“So this is the famous Ponte Pietra,” I say, focusing on something other than kissing her senseless. “Built by the Romans in 100 BC, which makes it Verona’s oldest bridge. The Romans built it, of course, but it’s been destroyed and rebuilt a few times since then. Kind of like Chester’s new knee.”

“That thing is indestructible! Did you see him doing squats on the beach?”

“Sì, sì, it’s burned into my brain—one day, my boys will be taking a permanent vacation down south.”

Her laughter fades as her gaze drifts to the river below. She’s quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful, almost hesitant. “Matteo,” she says as her fingers brush against mine, “you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but… what happened to your parents?”

My body stiffens, the weight of her question sinking into my chest like a stone.

Her face falls. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that. Never mind. Forget I—”

“No.” The word surprises me as much as her. “No, it’s okay.”

And it is. Somehow. With Katie, it feels… safe. Like maybe I can say the words without them breaking me all over again. There’s a tone to her voice—genuine and gentle—that compels me to share this part of myself.

“They died in a car accident,” I say. “I was ten.”

Her hand tightens its hold on mine, her grip solid and grounding. “Matteo… I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine not having parents growing up.”

I nod, my gaze now fixed on the river’s rushing water, catching the way the sunlight dances on the surface. “It’s not something you really ever get over. You just… learn to carry it.”

I brace myself for the look—the pity, the awkward head tilt, the well-meaning but hollow platitudes. But Katie doesn’t give me any of that. Instead, she lifts her head, her voice gentle but curious.

“Will you tell me about them? What were they like?”

I didn’t expect this. Most people ask about the accident—the aftermath—the pain. But Katie? She wants to know aboutthem.

I breathe deep, the memories rushing back in vivid detail. “They were both history buffs,” I say, a small smile tugging at my lips. “They met working as tour guides in Rome. My dad was obsessed with architecture, and my mom loved ancient mythology. They used to argue over which was more important—the buildings or the stories behind them.”

“So that’s where you get it from. The passion, the storytelling?”

“Yeah,” I say, the ache in my chest easing a little.

“Is that why you became a tour guide?”

“It’s my way of staying connected to them,” I say, feeling a pang of sadness.

“Were they as fun as you?”

I chuckle. “My mom was. She had this laugh—loud and contagious. You couldn’t hear it without smiling. She always smelled like lemons. Huh… I don’t know why, but I forgot about that.”

Katie smiles and asks, “And your dad?”

“Stern at times but also tenderhearted. My mom always said he was the most handsome, charming man she’d ever met. They were… affectionate. Always holding hands, sneaking kisses when they thought I wasn’t looking. As a kid, it drove me crazy. But now… I think I understand.”

Katie laughs softly. “That’s every kid with their parents. My mom and dad weren’t too mushy, but Aunt Deb makes up for it. She’s a walking PDA.”

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