“And this is hard?” I asked seriously. Rolling cheese didn’t seem like it was anything complicated.

“Oh yes. It’s more, come si dice, mental than physical skill. Very. My father participated for years, so did his father and his father before. It’s generational. This is my first year.”

“It is?” That explained why he was nervous, and it added another level of importance to me being here for him.

I wrapped my hand around his and whispered, “So you’ll be using that big brain of yours today. We’ll use the muscles later.”

* * *

HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE MILLED ABOUT, sporting their favorite colors. All rooting for their districts—like The Hunger Games except without the murder. Six teams, or districts, would compete in the trials and the winner got bragging rights.

It wasn’t just the game, though; it was an event for the whole weekend. I could understand now why his entire extended family gathered for this. It was a large-scale family reunion for the entire town that drew in hundreds of tourists as well. The restaurants that surrounded the main square had seating outside for people to watch the festivities during lunch and to reconnect with friends they hadn’t seen since the year before.

Many stores pulled out their wares to sell on the street to the onlookers; almost all had specialized flags, shirts, and buttons for the teams. I picked up a green-and-white scarf to tie around my neck like the other women cheering on Marcello’s district.

He was having a meeting with his crew when he saw me, sitting on the outskirts with his family. With a look of pure pride, he marched over and scooped me up in his arms, planting a searing kiss on me and earning a chorus of shouts from the onlookers.

“What was that for?” I fanned myself with the program a woman was handing out.

“Luck, tesoro.” With a wink, he took off and joined his teammates. I’d remember to buy up a few more team-centric items to bring back home.

As far as the game itself, Marcello took it very seriously. I didn’t realize just how competitive he was. He was right, it wasn’t just rolling a wheel, it was about accuracy and patience and strategy to try to get the wheel as close to the spindle as you could. Writing it off as a joke because it was cheese was bad form on my part. I cheered as loudly as anyone else when my man ran by, rolling a giant wheel of cheese with the biggest grin I’d ever seen plastered across his face.

I was waiting for the second round to start when his sister came over carrying gelato.

“Are you enjoying Roma?” Allegra asked.

“I am. This has been the best”—trip, reconnection, vacation?—“the best.”

She glanced around the crowd before turning, asking barely loud enough for me to hear, “Are you staying?”

Allegra continued to eat her gelato as if this simple conversation hadn’t turned serious. I was so focused on being afraid of his mother that I didn’t consider the older, protective sister.

“You mean in Rome?” Or with your brother?

“Rome is not his home. He lives in Rome. He works in Rome. But his home? His home is here.”

I waved to his mother, who was watching us curiously. “I know that.”

Then with four simple words, she knocked the wind right out of me. “I know about you.”

“What?” My eyes found him in the crowd, kneeling beside his father and chatting. I couldn’t turn to face her, afraid of what I would see. Or what I would show her.

“When he came home from Barcelona, he told me about this American girl. A girl that he could not stop thinking about. He could not wait to hear from again.”

Oh boy.

She continued. “He did not tell me at first. I had to get him to talk. He wait a long time for you, Avery. You don’t do this to him again.”

I turned to her. “I have no intention to.”

Even though her words could be construed as threatening, they didn’t feel that way. She was a woman concerned for her family and I couldn’t blame her for that. With a nod, she took off into the crowd, her hand resting on her pregnant belly.

While the other teams competed, Marcello stayed with his group, giving me time to wander around the square. I wasn’t avoiding his family, but I needed time to process.

Just stepping a block away from the festival quieted the streets. Seeing the architecture here, it was no wonder that Marcello fell in love with it at a young age. Plaques described the tiny village as the “City of the Renaissance,” having had many famous architects visit and leave their stamps on the buildings.

Perched high atop the travertine stone buildings, flags flapped in the breeze. Following the bell, I found myself in front of the cathedral with the tolling bell tower that overlooked the square below.

Sitting out front, I tried to imagine a young Marcello coming back here after Spain. Was he really as brokenhearted as Allegra said? Why did he keep it to himself when we went for coffee that first day?

The silence didn’t answer any of my questions, but Marcello would. If we were going to give this everything we could, we had to make sure that the past was forgiven first.

I made it back to the match just in time to see his team play their last round. The crowd had thinned over the course of the afternoon, unlike my thoughts, which multiplied the longer I stood on the sidewalk watching him.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, draping his arm across my shoulders. We hung back from the rest of his family after the match and were strolling through the center of town, enjoying the last of the celebration.

When we got back to the car, he had pulled off the scarf, tucking it into his pocket. “There is a party at sunset if you want to come back,” he offered, opening the car door.