Chapter Two (Matteo)

Lunch rush at the diner is normally my favorite spectator sport. There’s chaos, yelling, sizzling grease, people crying over ranch dressing. Feels like home but today I’m here for one reason. Okay, one woman.

Fine. One very stressed, very pretty woman with a name tag that says LIBBY and an expression that alternates between sunshine and I might commit a crime.

I stroll in, hands in my pockets, feeling good. I’m excited like a school boy having a play date with his crush and then I see her. My heart pauses.

Not in a romantic way, let’s not get dramatic, but in the oh holy shit she looks like she’s been hit by three natural disasters way.

Her uniform is rumpled. Her hair is barely in a bun, and her shoe is duct-taped. Actually duct-taped.

I bite the inside of my cheek because my first reaction is laughter, but the second is this uncomfortable twist in my chest I don’t want to analyze.

She steps up to the counter to ring me up, and she looks dead behind the eyes.

“Rough day?” I ask lightly.

She stares at me. Stares. Then sighs.

“You could say that.”

Translation: I am seconds from crying but you’re hot and annoying and I refuse to let you see me break.

My order goes in. She disappears into the back. A minute later she comes back out, grabs her phone from her apron, and I watch the blood drain from her face. Her lips tremble.

“My sister…” she whispers.

She turns away, but the diner acoustics are terrible and I hear just enough:

“…principal said she got into a fight…”

“…she won’t talk to anyone…”

“…another nightmare last night…”

“…I don’t know what to do…”

It hits me in the gut so hard I have to blink. That chaotic, tiny demolition gremlin who called me hot and proclaimed Libby was her mom now.

The kid who announced her father murdered their real mom like she was reading from a weather report. I suddenly feel protective. God help me.

Libby hangs up, breathing too fast, pacing, hands shaking as she grabs her purse and hurries to the back to tell her boss. When she returns, she’s clocking out, eyes shiny like she’s barely holding it together.

“Hey,” I say carefully. “Everything okay?”

She ignores me. Which is fair but also rude. My food is bagged. I follow her outside because subtlety has never been a Moretti trait.

She’s speed-walking toward a car that’s so old I’m amazed it still has a shape. She throws herself inside, turns the key and it doesn’t start. Instead it goes:

Click.

Click click click.

The car wheezes like it’s dying dramatically.

Libby puts her forehead on the steering wheel. My chest squeezes again. I lean against my glossy, stupidly expensive car, the one I’m sure she’s already judged me for, and say, “Sounds like your battery.”

She jumps, then glares at me like I personally murdered her engine.

“Please,” she mutters, voice cracking, “I’m really not in the mood, okay?”

I lift both hands. “Hey. I’m not teasing you.”

She doesn’t look convinced.

I take a step closer. “Let me give you a ride.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

She rubs her face. “Because I don’t need you laughing at me behind my back with your rich friends.”

That one actually stings.

“Libby,” I say, softer than intended, “I’m not laughing.”

She bites her lip, torn between pride and desperation.

I open the passenger door of my car. “Come on. I’ll take you to the school. We can jump your car afterward.”

She hesitates so long I swear entire geological eras pass.

Finally:

“Fine.”

She slides into the seat like she expects it to electrocute her. I shut the door. Walk around. Get in. She immediately grabs the seatbelt like the car might eject her.

“You okay?” I ask.

“No,” she snaps. “My sister is traumatized. My car is dead. My boss is going to kill me. And yet you look,” she gestures at me wildly, “like you stepped out of a catalog for expensive men who smell good.”

I choke on air.

“I’m… sorry?”

She huffs and looks out the window. We pull out of the parking lot. She’s quiet for a minute, staring out the window with this hollow worry that makes me want to crash the car into something minor just so she’ll yell at me instead of internalizing everything. I clear my throat.

“You love her a lot. Your sister.”

She stiffens.

“Yes,” she whispers. “She’s all I have.”

Something deep inside my ribcage shifts something I don’t want shifting. When it comes to blood relations I too only have my sister. Albeit I’m not raising her. My mother died when we were younger and then my father was killed by Luca in order to free Sofia from the physically and emotionally dangerous life he was trying to force her into.

“Matteo?” she says softly.

“Yeah?”

“Please… don’t feel obligated to be nice to me. I'm not your problem to fix.”

My jaw tightens. I look at her, really look, and all her exhaustion and strength and stubbornness punch me right in the chest.

“I’m going to be nice anyway,” I say simply.

She blinks fast, swallowing hard. I turn back to the road. For the first time since Mariela walked out a month ago, leaving me with a stupid broken heart I pretend not to have, something sparks back to life. Not love. Not romance. Hope. Chaos-shaped hope.

I think: This woman is going to ruin my life and I already want more.

***

I tell Libby I’ll stay in the car.

I intend to stay in the car and I would have if the principal didn’t spot her the second she stepped onto the sidewalk like a hawk targeting a field mouse.

She waves from the front steps. “Libby! Dear! And who is your handsome friend?”

Libby freezes mid-step.

I freeze too but only because “handsome friend” is objectively correct. Before Libby can speak, my mouth betrays me.

“We’re in love and dating.”

Libby slowly turns her head toward me with the expression of a woman who is about to stab me with her own car keys. I smile. Supportively.

The principal looks thrilled. “Oh my! You should’ve brought him sooner!”

Libby mutters through clenched teeth, “He wasn’t brought. He escaped.”

I offer her my most charming, innocent look. “We’re in love,” I remind her.

Libby steps on my foot. Hard. We are ushered inside before she can murder me.

***

Emma gets called down on the intercom. The moment she steps inside and sees me, she gasps like she’s spotted a celebrity.

“Oh! It’s the guy!”

Libby covers her face. “His name is Matteo.”

Emma nods seriously. “It’s Theguy Matteo.”

Close enough.

She sits beside Libby, staring at me with wide, curious eyes. I give her a little nod. She giggles like that alone has made her day. The principal sits across from us, folding her hands.

“Now, Mr. Matteo—since you’re dating Emma’s mother or uh, sister—“ Libby makes a noise like she’s choking on a scream. “—I just need to ask a few questions to ensure you’re a safe, vetted adult to be around her.”

I nod calmly. Internally? I am on fire but I can handle this. I am a capable man. I am competent. I am solid under pressure.

“First question,” the principal says kindly. “Do you have experience with children?”

“Oh yes,” I say confidently.

Then ruin it.

“I mean, well, do babies count? My sister had a baby recently.”

Libby coughs. Violently.

The principal blinks twice. “I… see. And have you ever completed a background check?”

“Yes.”

“Great! With which agency?”

My mind panics. Picks the wrong one.

“…Interpol.”

Libby’s hand STABS into my thigh. “Stop. Talking.”

Emma is practically vibrating with joy.

The principal decides not to unpack the Interpol comment. Brave of her.

“Do you practice healthy conflict resolution strategies around children?”

“I rarely punch people in front of kids. Is that what you mean?”

Libby groans. “MATTEO.”

Emma beams. “I like him.”

The principal rubs her temples. “Okay… and do you model stable romantic relationships?”

“We’re in love,” I say again, because apparently I have become possessed.

The principal smiles warmly. “That’s beautiful. How long have you two been together?”

Libby opens her mouth, likely to say zero days, but I answer before she can.

“Eight years,” I say confidently.

Libby turns to me with the slow horror of someone realizing she’s trapped in a sitcom.

“Eight years?” she repeats.

“Feels like it,” I say.

She glares so hard I fear spontaneous combustion.

The principal claps her hands. “Well! I must say, it’s wonderful to see Emma surrounded by such committed adults. Truly.”

Libby makes a faint whimpering noise.

The principal stands. “Well, since today’s meeting has been so positive, I think we’ll skip formal consequences for Emma. Let’s consider this a reflective opportunity instead.”

Libby jerks upright. “Wait, no consequence?”

“No consequence. You’re doing beautifully as a family.”

Family. Libby short-circuits.

Emma fist-pumps. “YES!”

***

The moment we step outside, Libby rounds on me.

“What was that?!”

I shrug. “A successful meeting.”

“You told her we were dating.”

“Yes.”

“You told her we were in love.”

“Also yes.”

“You told her we’ve been together eight years!”

“In my heart, time moves differently.”

“MATTEO.”

Emma steps between us, very serious.

“SisterMom,” she announces, “you need to marry him before someone else snatches him up.”

Libby turns the color of a raspberry. I bite back a smile at Emma calling her SisterMom.

“I mean,” Emma continues, hands on hips, “he’s handsome and he’s fun and he says I don’t have to be in trouble for punching Madison.”

“That is NOT—Emma, NO—” Libby sputters, collapsing into flustered chaos.

I smirk down at her. Slow. Deliberate. Enjoying every second.

“It’s what your Emma wants,” I say.

Emma nods vigorously.

Libby groans into her hands. “I cannot believe today happened.”

I open the car door for them.

“Believe it,” I say softly.

Because I’m not lying not about wanting to be there. Not about being part of their life. Not about being hers. Libby refuses to look at me as she climbs in but her ears are pink.