Page 4 of The Hometown Heartbreaker

Gio was the life of the party, loud, talkative, flirty, loved attention, and would do anything for a dare. Dawson was the strong, silent type, self-contained, not easily swayed. Once you got to know him, he was funny and outgoing, but he hated the spotlight being on him and only spoke when he had something important to say.

What they had in common was sports. They were both extremely athletic and competitive. They had a friendly rivalry that drove them each to be better and brought out the best in each other.

Gio grinned, his smile just as wolfish and lopsided as it had been in high school. “Funny, my Nonna used to say the same thing.”

“How is Nonna?” I stood, and Gio wrapped me in a hug. It was strange, seeing Gio after twelve years.

Gio and his cousin Genevieve were both basically raised by their grandma, Nonna. Both of their parents had issues and were in and out of their lives. Nonna was their constant.

Nonna had always been a phenomenon to behold—barely five feet tall in her house slippers, but with the gravitational pull of the Death Star tractor beam and the energy of a prizefighter who’d already knocked down every man in her division. She ruled her world with a seamless blend of iron-fisted command and sugar-dusted tenderness, the kind of woman who could whip a room full of wild grandchildren into respectful silence with one sharp “Basta!” and then, a beat later, draw the whole brood into a collective hug so tight you’d swear she was trying to merge your atoms. If I remembered correctly, her accent thickened every year, as if she were deliberately cultivating it for effect, and even though her English was flawless, she preferred to speak in gestures—pointing, pinching, waving, scolding. Her hands had mapped the distance between discipline and affection so many times you could almost see the grooves.

I’ll never forget when my mom went into a coma, about six months before we lost her, it was Nonna who sat with me, holding my wrist like a blood pressure cuff and telling me stories about her childhood in Palermo. She insisted on making me eat, chasing down a vending machine tuna sandwich with espresso she’d managed to conjure from somewhere off-limits. She’d brushed my hair with her own pocket comb and braided it to keep it from getting tangled. She wiped my face with a handkerchief she kept in her pocket and told me, “Strong girls are made, not born.” I’d always left her house with my stomach hurting—sometimes from the food, sometimes from how much I’d laughed, but mostly from wanting so badly to be worthy of her pride. Since I never knew either of my grandmas, I think I just slotted her into that role.

Even when I moved away, Nonna was still the voice in my head reminding me to “walk like a queen,” “hold your spine straight,” “never let a man interrupt your talking.” I’d measured every new boss, boyfriend and mentor against her, with predictable results. The older I got, the more I realized that every lesson she taught me was designed to help me survive in a world that wasn’t built for women who looked or sounded like her, or who came from my background.

Gio’s expression grew even brighter, that lopsided grin promising a good answer.

“Feisty as ever.”

“Hey Doc, I’m ready to blow this popsicle stand,” Buddy interrupted our conversation.

Gio smiled widely and moved to the side of the bed to speak to Buddy. I paid attention, listening for any updates but he was pretty much just asking how he was doing, not going over any new results or information. He’d only been in the room a few minutes when he was paged and had to leave, apologizing to us both for the limited amount of time he’d been able to give us.

Within thirty seconds, another nurse came in to take Buddy’s vitals. He wasn’t thrilled about having to put on the blood pressure cuff, and he wasn’t one to suffer in silence. I don’t think any of the staff would classify him as an easy patient.

Buddy’s defiance faded as soon as the nurse left, but even then, he struggled to keep his eyes open. I felt that awkward dance of wanting to stay—afraid the visit might be the last—and wanting not to exhaust him further. When he looked past me, fixing his gaze somewhere over my shoulder as though he could see straight through to some better time, I knew it was time to let him sleep.

“I’ll come by later,” I told him as I held his hand, squeezing it lightly in what I hoped was reassurance. When he turned his eyes back to me, I drew a quick, sharp breath. I remembered, with humbling clarity, being five years old and holding that same hand in a grocery store parking lot, certain that if I let go for even a second, I’d be lost forever. Now, the hand was smaller, cooler, the knuckles mapped with veins like blue rivers winding their last mile.

“Don’t be a stranger, Sadie Rose,” he said. It wasn’t a plea. It was an order.

“I won’t,” I promised, and before I could stop myself, I kissed the top of his head.

I left the room and, in the hallway, leaned against the cool wall for a second to steady myself. The corridor smelled like vinegar and faint despair. For a moment, I stood and watched nurses wheel elderly patients past, shuffling in pale socks, and thought: This is the finish line we all run toward. Then a voice sounded behind me, “You okay?”

It was Gio.

I shook my head, then nodded. “He’s… I’ve never seen him like that.”

His expression softened. “He’s been struggling for a while.”

The words landed with a thud in my chest. “What happened?”

He hesitated only a fraction of a second, but it was enough. “Paramedics did a welfare check when Carl noticed he hadn’t picked up his mail.”

Carl had been delivering his mail for forty years.

“They found him on the kitchen floor. He couldn’t reach his phone or get help, which is why it was so long before anyone found him. He’d been there for over two days.”

I inhaled, then let it out slowly. “Was he⁠—”

“He’s lucky to be alive,” Gio said, and then, more gently, “but he’s not out of the woods. He’ll be here for at least a week, depending. Then, most likely, he’ll be transferred to a rehab facility. He’s malnourished, dehydrated. They won’t even try a stress test until he’s stabilized.”

“What does that mean, long term?”

He took a second, clearly choosing his words. “You know how stubborn he is. But if he wants to stay here in town, or even in his own house, realistically, I’m not sure if that’s viable to do on his own any longer. He may need home health support. Or…” He trailed off.

I completed the sentence for him. “Or he moves in with family. Which means me.” I laughed, because the alternative was crying and I wasn’t ready for that. “I live in a shoebox in Manhattan, and I can barely keep a succulent alive.” Plus, Buddy would never leave Valentine Bay, it was his home.