Page 157 of Pretender

“Promise?” he asks, dropping down from his barstool and stepping between my legs.

“I promise.”

epilogue

AIDEN

THREE MONTHS LATER

It’s been like Schrödinger’s cat for thirteen years. Not talking to my grandparents meant never opening the proverbial box to find out whether my dad was the good father and wonderful partner to Mum that I thought he was, or the cheating, two-faced liar from the letters.

I’ve been dodging the question, so he could be either of those.

But now I’m here, in the Aurato living room, waiting for my grandparents to arrive, grasping Linnea’s hand. A bit too hard, perhaps. I open my hand to let go, but she holds on tightly, squeezing it twice—the reminder that she’s here with me no matter what we find out. No matter how terrible these people are.

It’s taken me months to work up the courage to come here after the delivery boy’s message from the family. It’s late November, close to Christmas already, and it felt like the right time for it. Also, Linnea said she was dying to go to Florence for her birthday, but I guessed she was trying to help me make a decision. Nudging me, the way she promised.

And it worked. We’re here now.

I’ve always loved those cheesy movies where families find each other and make up around this time of year, so maybe I’m feeling extra mellow. I got the love of my life like in the rom-coms—maybe I can get a family too.

Although I don’t know what to expect. Two grey, stiff people with pursed lips and stern, scrutinising eyes are what I’ve imagined. Perhaps they’ll ask me for money. I’m really not clear on what they want.

The two people who enter the room are not what I pictured. They’re grey-haired as I thought—they’re in their eighties, after all—but their eyes shine with a sort of sincerity, their eyebrows curling upwards. I detect apprehension, not scrutiny. She’s short and cute, like Mum. And he—Edoardo Aurato—is tall and surprisingly straight-backed for a man his age.

He looks like an older version of myself. Of my dad. His blue eyes are striking.

My lungs feel too small. But I stand up and shake their hands.

My grandmother tells me to call her ‘Nonna’ and I swallow hard, nodding.

We get through some slightly awkward chit-chat about the flight here and what Linnea and I do for a living. Surely, they’ve researched me, and this is just them being polite.

We speak Italian. I’ll translate for Linnea afterwards.

I glance back at her, hoping she’s okay through this foreign conversation, and she flashes me a reassuring, close-lipped smile and a discreet nod. A reminder to ask what I need to ask.

“There’s something I need to know about my father,” I start, leaning my elbows onto my knees. I tell them about the letters I’ve read, and as I do, my grandparents exchange glances. Nonna nods.

“I will get them for you,” she says, leaving the room swiftly.

“Get what, sorry?” I ask after her, although she can’t hear me.

“The other side of the story, son,” my grandfather says. “The letters from your father. Take them with you, you don’t need to read them here.”

I hear what he doesn’t say. Because it’ll be too hard. They want me to react in peace.

Nonna returns with a bundle of letters. It’s much thicker than the one I found among my dad’s things.

“Thank you,” I say.

We talk a bit more, but they insist I go back to the hotel and read the letters.

“We kept an eye out for you and your mother. Despite appearances, we always cared,” Edoardo says. “While you read the letters, please remember this. If we ever thought you needed our help, we would have intervened.”

I furrow my brow, trying to understand what he’s saying.

“If you still want to see us tomorrow, we will be here,” Nonna says, pressing her wrinkled lips into a small smile.