Page 5 of Broken Honor

“It’s real,” Bea says simply. “And that’s what happens when girls aren’t careful. You give a man your body, and if he’s the wrong one, all you’re left with is a prayer and a belly full of consequence.”

Her words hit hard, and I fall quiet for a moment, watching the way sunlight dances along the stone path ahead of us.

“I still believe it should mean something,” I say quietly.

Bea looks at me again, her expression softening.

“I think… love should be gentle,” I continue, my voice careful. “It should be quiet and slow. Something that builds—not something that burns and disappears. Not something that leaves a girl abandoned with a child and a name she can’t even say without her heart breaking.”

Bea’s smile returns, but this time it’s softer. Fonder. The way one smiles at a delicate flower blooming in the wrong season.

I know she doesn’t agree with me. But she never says so outright.

Instead, she slips her arm through mine, and we fall into step again, the hem of her dress brushing lightly against my leg.

“You know what I think?” she says after a beat.

“What?”

“I think one day, you’re going to love someone so fiercely, it’ll shake you.”

I smile faintly. “I think if I ever do, it’ll be the kind of love that makes me better.”

Bea leans in, her shoulder pressing gently into mine. “Just don’t let him ruin that softness in you, cara mia. The world needs girls like you, even if it doesn’t deserve them.”

I smile, cheeks warming, but I don’t say anything. I am not quite sure what she means.

As we cross the narrow street, the café comes into view, its little wooden sign swaying in the breeze, the painted letters faded slightly with time. A lace curtain flutters in the open window, and the scent of warm sugar and roasted coffee drifts into the air before we even reach the door.

Bea steps ahead and pushes it open, the bell above the door chiming gently as we walk inside.

The familiar warmth wraps around me at once.

The café smells like honeyed pastries, fresh espresso, and a hint of almond. Shelves of poetry books and old novels line the walls, and a little radio hums a soft Italian tune in the corner.

Behind the counter, Nonna stands with a dishcloth in hand, wiping flour from the pastry display glass. Her silver-streaked curls are pinned into a tidy bun, and her floral apron is tied snugly over her dress. There’s a smudge of sugar dust on her cheek, and she hasn’t noticed it yet.

The moment she sees us, her face lights up.

“There you are, my girls,” she says, setting the cloth aside and opening her arms.

Bea walks straight into the embrace before me, grinning as she kisses Nonna’s cheek. I follow with a quieter hug, wrapping my arms gently around her middle and pressing my face against the soft fabric of her apron.

“You didn’t come to Mass,” I say softly as I pull back.

Nonna chuckles, brushing her hand over my hair. “Ah, tesoro, these old bones needed one more hour of rest. I’ll go this evening, you know I will.”

I nod, because she always does—always in the last pew, with her well-worn missal and her handkerchief tucked in her sleeve.

She was the one who taught me how to fold my hands properly during prayer. The one who taught me to kneel without leaning on the pew and to bow my head when I said “Amen.”

She’s always been my beginning.

I don’t remember my parents. Not really. Nonna says I was just a newborn when the flu swept through Melbourne. Took them both within days of each other.

Bea sets her bag down behind the counter and stretches her arms with a soft groan. “If you tell me we’re making lemon biscotti today, I might cry from happiness.”

“Now why would an old woman make a young child cry?” Nonna teases, already turning back toward the counter.

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