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Were we official now?

It definitely felt like it.

So, should I just ask him to the dance?

Or was all of this—the fake-dating-turned-real-dating—a waste of time, since the Baileys would be leaving soon? Yes, I could see James in the city, but he would still be a senior in high school. Was it really a good idea to start a relationship with someone who was at a different season of their life than me?

And what about Operation Ho Ho Humbug? Were we just dropping it completely? It’s not like I should be angry with him if he thought we should, because lately the whole plan felt like we were rolling a snowball up a hill of hot asphalt.

The bell rang for the end of the afternoon exams, jarring me out of my downward spiral, but while everyone around me was cheering and cleaning out their lockers before hurrying out of the doors for the official start of our two-week winter break, I felt glued to the old carpet as Christmas music now blared over the PA system.

Ugh.

Dilemmas like mine were anything but “holly jolly.”

Later that night, my entire family plus Sam’s gathered at Nona’s for my going-away party. Sadly, Jo and her dads couldn’t make it. They already had tickets for dinner and a showing of The Nutcracker in DC.

The sweet and savory smell of Nona’s famous braciole filled her home, making my mouth water the moment Leo, Mom, and I had walked in the door. Sam stood in the kitchen under some red, white, and green balloons with Marco and Nico, all of whom picked at the leftover pine nuts and chunks of pecorino romano that didn’t make it into the filling. Leo had immediately run up to Nona for the end piece of the Italian bread she was slicing before she’d warm it in foil in the oven. He knew if he didn’t grab it now, one of his cousins would claim it.

“The guest of honor has finally arrived!” Nona shouted, and everyone clapped and cheered.

Mrs. Holt and Gram then went back to chopping fresh herbs from the Holt greenhouse that would garnish the braciole before serving. Nona’s small radio, which sat perched on the windowsill above the sink, played music that faded in and out with kitchen conversations and the occasional laughter that drifted in from my aunts and uncles in the living room. I grabbed some olives hidden in the fridge before sinking into one of Nona’s old wooden chairs at the end of her table, pretending I couldn’t feel Sam staring at me from across the room.

Normally, my feet would just steer me straight over to him, and we’d spend the next several minutes or hours talking about anything and everything.

But tonight, I was too tired to pretend things were normal.

The volume in the kitchen suddenly rose, thanks to Marco and Nico arguing about recent baseball trades and how the Yankees “will never be a dynasty again if they keep sitting on their butts,” as I started scrolling through the various Adventure Italy folders in my Google Drive. I wasn’t a history buff like my dad, but I still couldn’t wait to check out some of the museums, hopefully finding time to see Michelangelo’s David in person. Nona and Jo had already looked over a couple of the cooking classes with me, both of them envious about the “old grains” and fresh olive oil I’d get to use. I still had a hard time believing that one of my schools would be just a few minutes’ walk away from the Colosseum, a place Dad and I had pinned pictures of on my wall when I was a little girl.

The oven timer dinged, and Nona nudged my cousins out of the way as she pulled out the two baking sheets. The braciole bubbled under spoonfuls of homemade sauce. Gram handed her some kitchen shears to cut away the twine, and once she did, everyone in the kitchen applauded. Then Marco and Nico yelled for everyone to grab a plate and get in line.

Again, Nona fussed at them to step back, but this time, it was to let me go first as her “guest of honor.” Mrs. Holt and Gram sprinkled the fresh herbs and grated cheese over the top of the dish and Mom pulled out the warmed Italian bread. Then Nona cleared her throat and clanked a butter knife against her glass of Chianti.

“I’d like us all to raise our glasses in a toast,” she said as my aunts and uncles and Bianca entered the kitchen. “To Gianna, my smart, beautiful granddaughter, who is going on a great adventure in a couple of weeks to a land that brought my family much joy.” Nona paused and looked at me, misty-eyed. “I know her Papa and father would be so proud of her.”

My throat turned sore as I blinked back tears and stood, walking closer to the island.

“To Gianna,” Mom said next to me, raising her water glass.

“Gianna! Cin cin!” Everyone cheered as I lifted my glass and clinked it against each of theirs. Sam’s was the last glass mine touched, and he didn’t break eye contact as he brought his to his lips to drink afterward either.

It was the first time I was thankful for Marco stepping in between us to get to his seat.

An hour later, filled to the brim with great food and great conversation, the “kids” went into the living room where Nona had laid out sleeping bags, pillows, and throw blankets between the Christmas tree and fireplace. While we got settled on the floor, Bianca had us all squish together for a selfie as Nona—who still didn’t believe in the convenience of streaming—opened her DVD player and put in a disc, winking at me before the menu appeared on the screen.

“Serendipity?” Nico asked. “But we always used to watch Miracle on 34th Street.”

“Nothing wrong with a little change,” she said before tossing him the remote. “Right, Gianna?”

I made a face and shook my head. Sure, Nona.

“This sleeping bag taken?” Sam asked, standing next to where I sat with a candy cane dangling out of his mouth.

My breath caught as a fluttery feeling started in my stomach before I could tell it to stop. “All yours,” I said as casually as possible as I grabbed the nearest pillow and crushed it against me.

Breathe, Gianna.

Sam has sat by you for movies like a million times.