Page 124 of Things We Fake
“This was your father’s favorite spot,” Bianca said softly, pointing toward a stone bench in a corner. “He used to bring a book and sit here for hours. I thought it would be yours, too.”
I sat slowly, touching the warm stone of the bench. “It already is.”
I stared out at the shimmering horizon, the land unfolding before me in quiet majesty. Something deep within me stirred—an ancestral echo I hadn’t known I’d been missing. For so long, my roots had felt unreadable, unreachable. But now, with the Tuscan soil beneath my feet, the sun warming my skin, the scent of grapes in the air—it all felt familiar.
I had never known this kind of peace. Not the fleeting calm of a quiet morning in the city, but something older, deeper. A stillness that settled in my bones and hummed through my blood.
So much suddenly made sense—the way I could lose myself in the pulse of crowds, yet only truly recharge when I escaped into green spaces. The contradiction I’d always been, split between movementand stillness, noise and silence. The city thrilled me and nature healed me. Here, I saw the origin of that duality. I wasn’t torn between two worlds, I was the bridge between them. And I had inherited the best of both.
* * *
Dinner was a small, spontaneous celebration—just the three of us and Luigi, who presided from his window perch like a mafia boss overseeing a treaty. Bianca brought out a carafe of ruby red wine. She poured generously, her gold bracelets clinking with every movement, and served a simple meal of roasted chicken with lemon and rosemary, crispy potatoes, and grilled zucchini fresh from her garden.
Cam took one bite and groaned. “If I’d known this was waiting for me in Tuscany, I would’ve proposed sooner.”
I grinned. “We need to spend more time here.”
Bianca chuckled, pouring more wine. “Food is love here. If you’re not slightly buzzed and halfway to a food coma by the end of dinner, we’ve failed as hosts.”
As the sun dipped behind the rolling hills, the vineyard seemed to glow from within. Cicadas began their nightly serenade, and somewhere nearby, a flute played—a lazy, meandering melody that danced on the wind. Cam reached for my hand beneath the table, our fingers tangling instinctively.
“You’ve found your roots,” he whispered.
I looked at him, my heart tender with joy. “And planted new ones.”
After dessert—some impossibly creamy gelato Bianca insisted was better than sex—she left us to explore on our own. The farmhouse at night was a different kind of magic. Candle sconces flickered along the stone walls, and shadows played gently in the corners of the ancient rooms.
Our bedroom was pure Tuscan romance—a sun-warmed blend of old wood, crisp linen, and charm that smelled faintly of lavender. Sloped beams arched overhead, framing gauzy curtains that billowed in the breeze. The bed was enormous and inviting, draped in a hand-stitched quilt the color of vintage cream.
After dinner, I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth, already half-drowsy from wine and happiness, when Cam’s voice rang out.
“Son of a sparkly—!”
I paused mid-stroke, blinking at my reflection.
“Everything okay?” I called around a mouthful of toothpaste.
“No. No, everything is not okay. Something exploded in my suitcase.”
“Exploded?” I padded out barefoot, toothbrush still in hand—and stopped cold.
Cam stood near the bed, his expression equal parts panic and disbelief. His hair, shirt, jeans, arms—even his eyebrows—were covered in glitter. It shimmered pink and gold, clinging to every inch of him like festive dandruff.
He blinked, making glitter sparkle on his eyelashes.
I dropped my toothbrush. “Is that… is that glitter?”
He held up the culprit remains of a delicate pink box, now torn open and oozing with shiny chaos. The tag still fluttered from the ribbon:
To Sue and Cam. For educational purposes only.
Love,
Jesse, Ange, Lily and Nikki
“They booby-trapped it,” he said darkly. “It was a glitter bomb. There’s… something sticky involved. I think it activated on touch. I’m contaminated.”
“Oh my God, you look like a deranged disco ball.” I sniffed the air. “Mm, it was a rose-scented glitter bomb.”
