I'll Look for You Everywhere

by Cameron Capello

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; New Adult Romance

Synopsis

In this angsty debut from BookTok's @ChamberofSecretBooks, a wedding forces one university student to return to her small town where she must finally face the long-buried secrets and heated tension between her and her brother's best friend.

Once close to her big family, Magdalen Savoy is now paralyzed with anxiety every time she’s tempted to leave her safe haven at the University of Oxford and return to her Italian village. But when Magdalen receives an invitation to her sister’s wedding, she has no choice but to pack her bag for what is sure to be a long summer with the man she still can’t forget.

After seven years, Theo finds himself back in Chivasso, where nothing changes. But upon seeing his best friend’s little sister, it's obvious that the sweet Maggie from his childhood is long gone. He can barely recognize the young woman with walls built around her heart and scars she tries to keep hidden. He knows he should stay away, yet he can’t ignore the electricity he feels at her slightest touch.

Their close proximity as neighbors definitely doesn’t help during weeks of wedding preparations. Searching for each other in every room and dancing a little too close soon makes it hard to convince everyone else—and themselves—that there’s nothing between them. But long-buried secrets threaten to tear their families apart—and could possibly separate them forever . . .

Release date: January 21, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

I watch the wine in her glass tremble with each laugh, the liquid edging toward the rim, wanting to escape, no doubt, but inevitably sinking back into the glass. I watch this for fifteen fucking minutes.

My eyes zone out until the clear edge of her wine glass becomes blurred and, abandoning my sense of sight, I see the party through what I can hear. People I don’t know crowd around our tiny flat. Heightened laughter from someone attempting to flirt, the gentle tug of a cork, someone dropping their keys. A cough pulls me out of the trance, and I stretch my ankles until they crack. Watching this girl with her wine reminds me that the fullness of my left hand is not from a similar glass but, instead, a letter. It’s too heavy to be a simple piece of paper, purposely eggshell in color and thick with feigned importance. But it is important, isn’t it? I’ve turned into a bitch at my own party.

I press the cardstock corner hard into my finger, the sharp pain causing me to look down. I watch the skin around it swell with agitation and feel disappointed that I can’t draw blood. The corner simply folds inwards, limp and lame. I want the letter to hurt me; maybe it’ll be an excuse not to read it. To scream at my mother, Your letter hurt me so I couldn’t possibly return a reply. But I realize the wine girl has asked another question that draws my attention away.

“Chivasso,” I repeat, already knowing she will ask me, for the third time, the name of my hometown.

“I’m sorry,” she slurs, “can you repeat that?”

Her face is flushed the same shade of burgundy as her wine, and I can tell she is far past the point of being gracefully drunk. Not entirely irredeemable yet, I’ll give her that. Perhaps a glass of water and a strong caffè can at least subside the inevitable headache tomorrow. She rubs her nose with the back of her hand, staring, waiting. I can tell her mind is projecting kaleidoscopic, spinning images of my face, and based on how her eyes shift from my eyebrows to my mouth, I know there are three of me in front of her. Wait till you try grappa, I want to say, but of course I don’t. Instead, I remain seated, quietly waiting for her to condense the three of me into my singular self.

A sonata by Liszt echoes from a speaker in the kitchen, followed immediately by Billy Joel. I roll my eyes. His voice streams in as the new Oxford graduates mingle and compare, melodically commanding us to slow down because we’re doing fine. But I already feel particularly slow tonight, and I’m unsure whether I’ve ever been fine.

Emily must be behind this. I love my roommate but I can’t forget that she’s also an Oxford student. Only the pretentious would transition Liszt to Billy Joel at a party. My eyes drift back to this girl, and the word stupor comes to mind. I stifle a smile, happy and sad at the same time. She is in a cozy, drunken stupor. She licks her lips, chapped from excess alcohol, and her eyes are half glazed with the inability to remember her name, let alone the name of the town I was born in. But she blinks slowly and patiently waits for me to repeat it. It’s a ritual for Oxford students to get shit-faced at the end of term. A compressed period of overzealous indulgence to counterbalance their years of late-night library runs and thesis writing.

I sigh, “KEY-VA-SO,” deliberately enunciating every consonant, elongating every vowel. I tuck myself further into the leather armchair, drawing my knees up underneath my chin. The letter I’ve been carrying around all afternoon slides to my hips, pressed tightly between my stomach and the front of my thighs, safely protected from any partygoers with slippery fingers. On second thought, maybe it would be better to hand it to one of them. A free summer in Italy for the small price of attending my sister’s wedding. I take another sip of my beer and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand like a lonesome cowboy in an old Western movie. The credits will roll. Life will move on. A sequel will be in the works. When will my movie begin? Looking around the flat I’ve spent the past year in, I find myself disinterested. Not wanting to remember it, wanting more to avoid looking at anything. Surely that’s not normal twenty-year-old girl behavior.

There is an antiquity about Oxford that is beautiful. No one can deny that the rich know how to decorate. The walls are steeped in dark history, held together with powerful columns of academia. Faces of brilliant men are carved into the ceilings. Women buried underneath the floor. Success always looks different for young girls.

The worn-out wood of library floors is a nice reminder of the presence of brilliant minds running to and from bookshelves. And I am here. My footsteps are etched into the very same floors; my empty ink cartridges lie underneath the mahogany benches of the lecture halls. Oxford is dusted in an almost violent intelligence that can sometimes overwhelm you.

But it’s not home. Although it had been for my mother, Vittoria, and my father, Claudio. I take another sip and see that I’m empty.

The sun can never really find its way here between the ornate buildings. And no matter the season or clothes I’m wearing, whether I’m in a hot bath for an hour or running around the campus, I’ve always felt a coldness chasing me. It’s like the memory of a rain-soaked sweater that I can never really get rid of—a permanent, melancholic mildew following me around.

Before I have time to feel blue, the drunken girl tries to get up too quickly from the opposing leather armchair and it makes a terrible squeaking sound and I look up.

“Oh! Kayvazso!” Her eyes try to light up, but her drunkenness only allows a dull head nod. Plopping down on the armrest, I smile as I watch her eyelids succumbing to the weight of the wine, so at peace, so unafraid.

“Kayvazso!” she says again, slapping her hand to her forehead comically, becoming confident and radiant with knowledge. Something about the name’s vowels and structure strikes her as very Italian, and she leaps to conflate all the knowledge she has assembled about Italy into the name of my hometown. This happens at Oxford; even in intoxication, people are always on the hunt to prove.

“I love Italy! I went abroad last semester and it changed my life. Like really, like, the culture there is so… different… so open, you know? Like from here, I mean British people can be so…”—she pauses, trying to find the right word—“depressing.” A giggle bubbles out of her, proud of her boldness. Impressed that she said such a racy and unorthodox thing, she giggles again because she, herself, is British.

“Maybe Italians are too open?” I weakly say, hoping that would be enough for her to take over the conversation. Picking up my empty beer, I start to scratch the moist label off my bottle in the discomfort. Looking at her, how the lines around her mouth are relaxed and faded, how her mascara is smudged but she’s young and fun so she doesn’t care—my blueness creeps up without warning.

My inability to relax my shoulders and join her in a drunken stupor infuriates me. I want to be silly! But I am also drunk and still painfully aware of the condensation that falls on my finger. Aware how the right side of my hair is tucked behind my ear, but the left side hangs in front of my face, mindful of the freckle that sits above my eyebrow, wondering if she has noticed I have a freckle, wondering if anyone has ever noticed that I have that freckle. I glance at the kitchen to see if there’s any more beers left on the counter. Oxford is not home.

My gaze finds its way back to her wine. I take a breath in, closing my eyes, the smell of alcohol making me fifteen and back at the museum in Torino. Anika and me sitting on the marble tile underneath the statue of Isis, a bottle of wine open between us, her MAC lipstick tattooed on the rim. If I really focus, I can hear her dad, Dexter, in the hidden office behind the third-floor gift shop, rustling papers with subtle frustration, frequently reminding us to behave ourselves. That he’s always there and can hear everything.

We used to love staying after hours in the damp darkness of our museum, as it really was ours when the CLOSED sign was hung up each night. Faces of unknown statues looked down on us, shaking their heads, whispering, No, no, no, it’ll always be ours. The backs of my thighs shifting against the cool floor, wanting to find relief from the heat of the museum, in an unbearable Italian summer.

“The statues hate the cold,” my papa used to say. “It makes them remember their death.”

Personally, I just think Italians are too cheap to buy an aircon. I stifled a groan of discomfort, wishing to feel that coldness if just for a moment. The warm effect of the wine mingled with the unforgiving heat, the back of my neck dampening to my hair. I looked up into the eyes of Isis and thought being conscious of your mortality seemed far worse than briefly remembering your death. Anika shrugged her shoes off and placed her bare feet on the base of the statue, looking up at Isis.

“She wants to fuck me,” she sighed and grazed her big toe against the carved foot of Isis with intimate slowness. “I just know it.”

We laugh. Anika describes her latest sexual encounter. I listen and know her father is also listening and feel weird but don’t say anything.

Lost in the memory of my youth, I feel the letter slip from my hand. I jerk off the chair, scrambling to pick it up off the floor. It is not the first one she has sent. Three identical envelopes sit unopened with only dust to respond, nestled between my winter knits.

My sister’s wedding.

Arguably something I should want to attend. But something about this party makes my fingers twitch. The hazy memories of crawling barefoot in the museum with Anika come back. My skin feels tight as I realize what is happening—I’m considering going back.

No! my subconscious screams. Oxford is your safe haven. Remember why you left. Who you left. Think of how long you felt sad. I sigh. Maybe I just don’t like parties. I tend to be my most melodramatic in social settings, so it’s difficult to tell when I mean what I think.

Scooting up further on the chair, I look around the flat again. The scratched hardwood floors, the chipped corner of our kitchen countertop from when Emily cracked a beer bottle over the ceramic. The memory makes my eyes involuntarily search for her. Wild curls sway around her as she argues about simple nothings with the man she is in love with. A professor, tricky. But he’s very charming and seems to listen when she speaks. Usually, this would make me smile. But I look at all of these things from outside of myself. Seeing them but feeling nothing.

My ribs burn. The drunk girl is still rubbing her nose until it’s flushed with red irritation. She is nameless, happy, and free. Give me some of that! my mind screams. I want to reach out, grab her carelessness, swallow it, and tread in her stupor. But I can’t.

I think of the walls of Chivasso, permanent and profound with age. Running away has done nothing but drag my blueness to another country. My sister shouldn’t pay the price for something I should have worked out years ago. The air becomes heavy with sadness, and I feel burdensome. My fingers dig into the letter.

Why am I always left behind? So afraid of everything and so tired of being afraid.

A deep exhale escapes me, feeling like my skin itself is deflating from the loss of breath. I have no dress. No shawl for my potentially exposed shoulders.

I feel my heart constrict so tightly I think I’m dying. I wait a moment, trying to feel the action of breath. Waiting for a pulse through the skin of my wrist. My ears fill with white noise as I look down at the letter.

But then I feel it; the rush of blood settles in my fingertips, letting me know I’m not dying, just being a pussy.

My nails slide through the hardened wax seal, fingers gripping the invitation, feeling the raised lettering of my sister’s name, feeling selfish for not wanting to go in the first place.

So I shove my melodrama back into the envelope and seal it shut.

I have a wedding to attend.

It’s a week later and Emily is still furious. My roommate fucking the professor, angry with me! We have already purchased tickets to backpack across Peru, and she cannot fathom why on earth I would want to go back home. She says “home” with disgust, bitter and resentful of a word that has the potential to mean so much. But not to her.

Emily had her annual falling-out with her mother five months ago, and this trip guaranteed another three months during which she didn’t have to see her again.

“Ask Professor Cal,” I giggle.

“Stop calling him that.”

“What? He should be proud of his education. Are you not making him feel proud, Emily?”

“I’m making him feel things, all right.” She winks.

“Gross. It’s too early to be this gross!”

She falls to her knees in front of the leather chair, still sticky from last week’s spilt alcohol, and grabs my face in her hands. “Ugh, men. They disgust me!” Her black hair spills around her face in wild curls, casting shadows across our walls.

“You and home.” Her eyes search mine and she sighs. “I don’t get it with you.”

My cheek warms in her palm as I lean into her touch. “You and me both, sister.” I shrug. “I’m complex.”

“You’re secretive.”

“I’m not! Remember when I told you about the spot on my ass?”

“The only reason you told me was because I had to pop it.”

“Gross again, Emily! Too early for gross.”

Emily pinches my cheek and pouts, standing. “No way I can convince you, Maggie? Peruvian boys, Peruvian wine, Machu Picchu? Enlightenment?”

“I haven’t even met an English boy yet and you’re already handing me over to the Peruvians?” I laugh, relieved that she has forgiven me. It is always so easy with Emily.

“What you mean to say is that you’ve never had any boy, Maggie dearest. Which, I will never bloody understand. You just have to get it over with, like the flu shot.” She pads over to the kitchen, searching for a bottle of wine to open, despite the noon chime minutes away from ringing. “You’re so fucking beautiful, and smart and you know, and I bet you’d fuck like a—”

I inwardly cringe. “Ah, sta’ zitto! Shut up!” I bury my face in my hands, absolutely hating the rush of compliments, or any compliment, ever. I blame it on my mother.

Emily looks at me and laughs. “You can’t hide forever.” She smiles, hopping onto the kitchen counter to try to reach her secret bottle of wine. I follow her, hovering underneath the archway.

“Someone deserves to see how brilliant you are.” She grunts, moving to stand up on the countertop. Turning around to look at me, Emily’s stopped smiling. It’s like I can read her mind as she frowns, wondering, always wondering why I am the way I am.

My cheeks flush with embarrassment at her kindness; I fear I’ll always hate being so seen.

“Why don’t you and Cal come to visit me in Chivasso after your Peruvian hiatus? I’d be more than happy to show you around?” I pick at the chipped paint of the kitchen wall. I think we both know this will never happen but it seems important to ask.

Rolling her eyes at my skillful deviation in conversation, Emily pauses to think about my proposal.

“Fuck it. All right. I’ll ask Cal. I’ll have to break the bad news to dear old Mum.” She carefully walks across the counter to get a glass and laughs bitterly. “She’ll be so upset!”

Watching her stretch helplessly for the top shelf, my fingers twitch with the need to show her how much she means to me. In a rare and very unlike Magdalen Savoy manner, I lean off the archway and walk across the kitchen floor. The one stained with red wine and spilled nail polish. A floor that has absorbed the unstoppable laughter after Saturday nights out and the tears over term papers. I run to hug her but she’s still standing on the counter, so I settle my arms around her calves.

“What would I do without you, Emily?” I am desperate and fervent, hoping my statement will be enough to show her how grateful I am. That without her, part of me would not exist. These are big confessions to make before noon. So I settle with the silent heaviness of our hug, pressing my love for her between the space of our bodies.

Emily pauses a moment before bending down to try to hug me back. She tenderly squeezes my shoulders and then pats me gently on the head and sighs. “I don’t know, but chances are you still wouldn’t have gotten laid.”

She pinches my sides, and I squeal. “You bitch!” I say and laugh. “You know I’m just waiting!”

She tilts her head back in laughter and attempts the ugliest Italian accent I’ve ever heard. “You, my dear friend, are waiting for da Vinci to roll out of his grave and rip your clothes off! You dirty, nast—”

“Do not even think about finishing that!”

She hops off the counter and begins chasing me around the flat, both of us squealing and laughing like little school-girls. I could never have survived Oxford if it were not for Emily, who I am certain God sent down to guide me.

I met her on my fifth day. I was looking for the closest bathroom to escape my isolation at a party thrown by someone I had never met. I’d forced myself to go after my mother had called and asked if I was going out in my first week, her voice ready to console, anticipating I’d say no.

“Yes, I am. I’m on my way actually,” I had said while in bed, my pillowcase damp with tears.

“Oh, great then. I won’t keep you.” She hung up.

I accidentally ran into Emily with her underwear around her ankles, having loud and grotesque sex with a man much her senior in the bathroom. Clearly, she has a type. I was so stunned that I froze with sheer panic and just stared at their naked and twisted bodies in front of me, hypnotized but incredibly horrified. A victim of Medusa’s glare.

“Do you want to take over from here?” Emily said, looking up at me. Her hair was plastered to her sweating face and she was breathing loudly out of her mouth, but her eyes were light with humor. This was funny for her? It was as if she had expected me to be there, never sorry or embarrassed for being caught.

“I warn you, his dick hurts like hell,” she smirked and nudged the man behind her. He let out an uncomfortable grunt, which I assume was meant to sound like a laugh. I let out the breath I was holding and squeezed my eyes shut.

“No, no, you look like you are more than capable of finishing that off!” I couldn’t help the laughter that was escaping me. “Maybe try the lock next time?”

I quickly shut the door behind me and clamped my hand over my mouth. She was not, for one moment, ashamed. Looking back, I still feel self-conscious. And I wasn’t even the naked one!

But Emily is right. I am afraid of a feeling I have no name for yet. I can’t even look at a man without acid rising up my throat. A brief flash of pain in my ribs. I close my eyes and let it pass. The thought makes me nauseous because deep down, I know, despite Emily’s kind words of affirmation, no one will ever want to be so close to me. My issue is not entirely physical. Maybe I’m not considered ugly, sure. But I don’t consider myself necessary. I am tall, possibly too tall, and was called flat-chested by Lorenzo in seventh grade, but I assume he actually liked me. My hair is long and brown but sometimes looks red in the sun. I don’t mind my hair. And I’ve gotten thinner over this last year, I know Anika will say something about it. Several men and women have tried to seduce me through the dim and warm setting of Oxford’s bars. And if it happens only after dark, does that count?

It seems my body is just feminine enough to allow people to find me attractive after midnight.

The truth? I feel unwanted.

How do you say that to someone without sounding self-deprecating, without it looking like you want their pity? I remember sitting by the window as a teen, watching Anika kiss some boy from town under the veranda and thinking that if anyone ever came near my face like that, I would scream.

And this is what Emily will never fully be able to understand, this thing that exists inside me, reminding me every day that I am always just a step behind everyone else.

So Emily came out of that bathroom, flushed and radiant (“I wasn’t kidding, it was huge,” she complained), took my hand (“Don’t worry, I washed them”) and asked, “Do you want to be my roommate? Mine’s a fucking cunt.”

Stunned, I didn’t answer.

“I mean you’ve already seen me naked, so that won’t be an issue for us.” She stared at me, waiting, perhaps knowing I would say yes.

“Yeah, I guess.” I blushed, pleased that she would find my brief company enjoyable enough to room with for an entire year. “As long as he doesn’t join us.”

She stopped walking and stared at me, and I felt my throat close up with embarrassment, a stupid joke too soon made. I didn’t even know her last name.

As I was about to apologize, she threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, we will never see him again.” Her body shivered at the thought of the mystery man. She locked her arm around mine, and without prompt, began talking about dreams, horoscopes and Russian literature. From that one moment, I felt I had worth at Oxford. Even if I failed my classes or never received another party invitation again. I had her. Emily, Emilia I’d call her in the Tuscan sun, my guardian angel.

Jesus fucking Christ, Theo. Just walk.

She stands there in a red top that shouts ROME pacing the airport baggage claim in search of me. For a moment, I feel like hiding, knowing that seeing her for the first time in all these years will change my course. Unsure, however, if this path is the dangerous, violent and regrettable choice or the one I should have taken seven years ago. I cough, loud enough for her to hear, and she responds without fail, her head jerking at the sound. She jumps up and down in frenzied excitement, clapping her hands and shrieking.

“Theo! We’ve been waiting forever! Come here, right now!” Anika leaps toward me, her arms outstretched, preparing for a hug.

I notice she is alone. The “we” she refers to is out of habit. I prefer her to them and expected my Houdini act would not be forgotten with the purchase of a fucking plane ticket. But I let myself feel it for one second; after seven years, just her left. Shit. This is going to be a long fucking summer.

“I missed you, too,” I say, her force causing me to lose my breath. She smells of fresh sunscreen and fig perfume; my eyes close at the nostalgia that brushes over my skin, curls the roots of my hair, and I breathe in deeply. She smells of home. Chivasso has been home since I was seven and my father took us out for ice cream and told us we’d be leaving Edinburgh. I remember the sound of Mamma’s clapping. Her ice cream spoon clattering against the table. She was so excited to return home. To reunite with Vittoria.

“I can’t believe you’re real!” Anika squeezes her arms around my waist, gripping so tight it begins to sting.

“I’d forgotten how big you are!”

“Right,” I mumble in her hair, enjoying but never revealing how much I love her missing me. I feel like a brother again, giddy and eager to impress.

“Haven’t grown since I was seventeen. I think maybe you’re just getting smaller?” I say to the top of her head. Anika is a foot shorter than me, making it easy to want to protect her. Although I would never fucking think about saying that to her.

“Shut up. Maybe if you came home every once in a while, I could have prepared for this gargantuan height!” Her tone is light, but within her words lies my abandonment. She has not forgiven me yet, either. Didn’t think I’d get off that easy, anyway.

She lets go of my waist to look up at my face. Taking her hand, she squeezes my chin with two fingers, forcing my head to look side to side, examining and probing me like a lab rat.

“Since when did you become such a stud?”

I take her hand in mine and kiss her palm. “I came out of the womb a stud, Anika. Don’t forget it,” I say with a wink.

She snorts and slaps me on the shoulder. “Disgusting!” she screams, and then tries to pry the luggage out of my hand.

“The girls in Chivasso will have a field day with you, Theo. You better be careful, it’s still a small town and if you fuck someone, I’ll know in three to five hours after completion.”

“Jesus, Anika. It’s 8 a.m. Can we not make this the first topic of conversation?” I jerk my hand away so she misses the handle of my bag. “I can carry my own bag,” I gruff, annoyed that she tried to take it in the first place.

I grab the handle with determination, feeling the need to prove that I have become a grown adult in the seven years she hasn’t seen me. She rolls her eyes but drops her hand, letting me take the luggage handle.

“No way I’m starting shit with any girls,” I clarify, wanting it understood that I really have fucking learned.

“I give you three days.”

“Oh, come on. You haven’t seen me in seven bloody years. I’m not a Neanderthal,” I swallow, hoping if I say the words out loud, they’ll be true.

“Fine. Let’s make it four.”

“Fuck you, Anika.”

“And it’s like you never left!” She prances ahead of me, spinning in circles, barging into airport employees and people waiting for their luggage who stare with disapproval. Her hair is much longer than I remember. Dark and black like our mother’s, and it swings heavily as she trots away.

Within minutes, the tension from the plane ride dissolves. Seven years away. Four in New York. Three in Connecticut. It was easier not to feel guilty when I couldn’t see her face. But now? I release a breath.

This was the right choice.

I feel stupid for considering this the risky path. Stupid for not calling more often. How can life in Chivasso be regrettable if Anika is in it? My baby sister. My hand squeezes around the luggage handle. Guilt and regret sink into me, making my limbs feel sluggish.

An image flashes in my mind of a memory, hazy colors and hushed whispers and the sound of tearing fabric. I squeeze my eyes shut. What I really want is to show her that I am not him, that in adulthood, I will not become him.

She looks back at me, her smile big and proud. I’m not good enough to deserve this. But I look at her, realize my face mirrors hers, and immediately look ahead, suppressing my smile.

“Fuck off,” I laugh.

When I’ve caught up to her, her hands are on her hips with disapproval. “Your accent has disappeared.” She tilts her head and laughs silently, eyes light with amusement.

I pause our walk. “Tell that to everyone at university who can’t understand anything I fucking say.”

“All right, va bene, still a Scotsman.” Anika throws her hands up in protest. Scottish, Italian, thrust into Ivy League America.

We pass through the sliding doors of Malpensa Airport, and the windless Italian heat overwhelms me. Looking around, feeling the gold and seductive air, a wave of sadness hits me. Home.

“I’m just saying, I’m noticing a little American in that Scottish, Theo! And your hair! Che cazzo! It’s almost as long as mine! Is this why you’re back? Yale couldn’t get you a job with that hair?” Her arms are waving everywhere, and her cheeks are red with excitement.

“I’ve been in New York, Anika. Long hair is very in,” I say, but unconsciously tuck my hair behind my ear, which I hadn’t realized fell at my chin until just now.

“Oh, how could I forget! From that one five-minute phone call you made telling us that you were moving to New York fucking City.” Us, again. She’s always done this. Attached her feelings to theirs.

“Tornerò su quell’aereo se non smetti di parlare, Anika!” I’m going to go back to that airport if you don’t stop talking! I bite, getting my Italian over with. The words feel rusty in my mouth. I wait for her to poke fun. My vowels are too long; my infliction is a beat off.

On cue, she rolls her eyes. “I will honest to god murder you if you so much as take a step toward that airport, Theo! There’s no going back now.”

“Fine,” I say with a smile. Seeing my sister, it becomes excruciatingly clear that I can’t turn my back on her now. It was never her I wanted to leave. She knows that, of course. But I try not to think of that now.

I follow her into the parking garage; the shade gives momentary relief from the unforgiving heat.

“Also, Theo, maybe it’s best if you stick to English,” she laughs. “I mean, Jesus, that was like nails on a chalkboard.” Her face scrunches up in disgust. “Got to work on that, Theo! We speak Italiana with an English accent! English!” She imitates the elegant accent, winking at me. Anika was only three when we moved to Chivasso, so the only detectable Scottish thing about her is how thrawn she gets in the morning.

“Come, questo!” Like this!

“You realize, in the two minutes since I have landed, that you have insulted my hair, education, and accent?” I raise my eyebrow at her, teasing my loud-mouthed and forever opinionated sister.

She looks at me, and I expect a witty comeback, but she just stares, and her eyes, without warning, fill with sincere but unplaceable emotion. She is silent for a moment.

“Why now, Theo?” she whispers. “Why didn’t you ever come back home?”

I swallow, and my tongue is heavy