“I guess what I need to know from you and Hunter,” Mac addresses both of us, patting the air like he’s trying to keep us calm, “is if you’d like to go through with the wedding at Holy Trinity. Now, I understand that we have a few kinks to iron out with these new revelations. How would you feel about changing the venue? Perhaps somewhere in Italy. We could track down Antonio Trombello’s family line, find a lovely church in the local town or village. Make it an international affair?”
I shake my head, anger turning into outrage. I’ve gotten so lost in the story of my grandmother and grandfather, whoever he may be, I’ve become distracted from the real reason I’m in their room. And why Hunter is here at all.
“No, no. I don’t want to even think about that.” I wave violently, my volume turned up to an eight or a nine. “Mom, I’m sorry about your dad. I’m sorry Nonna kept things from you, well, from all of us. I’m still trying to imagine a scenario where she’d do something like this. And Mac—I’m glad you’re there for my mom or whatever you’re doing for her. But I cannot focus on your stupid documentary right now. I have a life. And now, because of my soap-opera-worthy family, it’s in shambles. So if you’ll excuse me and Hunter, I think we need a minute.”
“Of course. I wasn’t trying to pressure you into an answer immediately. I wanted to put it out there for consideration,” Mac says. Then, taking my mother by the elbow, he tenderly helps her up from her seat. “Come, dear. Let’s leave the children to chat, shall we?”
“Absolutely,” she says, kissing my cheek one more time. “You’ll always be my baby no matter what the test says,” she says, as though I’m the one waiting on DNA results for my parentage.
“I know, Mom,” I say, humoring her out of compassion. I give them a moment to clear the room before scooching over to the edge of my seat so I’m close enough to Hunter to touch his knee. I spread my hand out on his leg and squeeze, my grandmother’s engagement ring catching the light. He doesn’t withdraw from my touch, but he doesn’t return it either.
“Hey,” I say as my opener. He’s staring at my hand on his thigh, or maybe the engagement ring he gave me three months ago with my mother’s help.
“Hey,” he responds finally.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I say, whispering, knowing Mac and my mom can likely hear through the wall.
“Yeah?” he asks, touching the diamond with his pointer finger.
“Why wouldn’t I be? I told you—it’s all gossip. I’m here because of you. I’ve been dying to see you. I was planning our wedding. You can ask Father Patrick. There’s nothing between us. I promise. Nothing.”
He nods, and I hush the nagging guilt I feel from saying “nothing” so emphatically. But I don’t think I can find a way to explain that despite starting to have feelings for Patrick, I didn’t indulge those feelings. Hunter would never believe me.
“So, you still want to get married?” he asks, a sweet, soft vulnerability in the way he looks up at me.
“Of course I want to marry you, babe. I love you. But not here.” I gamble and try a laugh, hoping Hunter doesn’t think I’m taking things too lightly. But he joins me, chuckling.
“No, not here. I’ve only been in this town one hour, and I’m ready to get the hell outta here. So, Italy?”
“With Mac? No damn way. I’m so done with this thing. They have enough material without us now. I just want to focus on us,” I say, taking his hand and pulling him in for a soft kiss. I’ve missed him, missed those lips, missed his smell and his easy smile. I breathe him in, and my nerves start to calm.
He pulls away and touches my cheek and my damp lips and then grasps my chin between his finger and thumb, cocking his head. I expect something sweet, healing, or an apology for not believing me.
Instead, he asks, “Are you sure? After all the work you’ve done on the documentary. I mean—it’s Italy.”
His comment feels like a shift from a major key to a minor key, making my chest tighten.
I lean back so I can see his expression more clearly.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“You’re asking a question about asking a question?” he jokes. I usually like his humor, but right now it hits me wrong, like he’s trying too hard to be charming or he’s trying to distract me from something. I continue without laughing.
“Why are you here early?” It struck me as odd when I first walked into the hotel room, but I was so wrapped up in the moment, I nearly forgot to ask.
“I got done with work early. Thought I’d surprise you but heard the news on the way and didn’t know what to do, so I came up here to talk to your mom.”
I nod at the very reasonable explanation. I want to believe it. I want to ignore the alarm bells ringing louder than ever before. They rang back when he had my mom sneak him my grandmother’s ring for his proposal. They rang when he talked to my mom about the documentary before he’d discussed it with me. They rang when he pushed me to have our wedding in Edinburgh, and they rang when he didn’t mind the idea of being followed around by cameras or the idea of my family’s dirty laundry hung out for the whole world to see. They rang again when he didn’t answer my calls and again when he didn’t comfort me when he opened that hotel room door.
“Why are you so dedicated to this film, Hunter?”
“I . . . I don’t know. It makes me feel like part of the family, I guess.” He shrugs and then, standing up, releases my hand. “We can talk wedding stuff later. I’m starving. Let’s grab dinner and then make up for lost time?” he offers, trying to change the subject. When he retrieves his suit jacket from where it’s draped over the desk, something heavy hits the floor.
“What was that?” I ask, on my feet and by his side in a flash.
“I . . . I don’t know,” he says, kicking something under the desk to my right. I fall to my knees and reach under the lower edge of the frame and pull out a compact camera. I’ve seen it on pretty much every interview we’ve shot so far. It’s Mac’s camera—and it’s recording.
“What the hell is this?” I ask, holding up the device. I’d turn it off, but I don’t know how.
“I have no idea. I was just putting on my jacket.” He holds up his hands like he’s showing me he’s not a criminal. I don’t believe him. “Mom! Mac! Come out here,” I shout as loud as I can, holding the camera while scanning the rest of the room for equipment.
My mom bursts out from the bedroom like she was listening through the wall, which she likely was. Or through headphones or a screen, because just as she notices I’m holding a camera in her direction, I find another one, this one a bigger model, also running. A mic sticks out from behind the picture above where I was sitting with my mom, and I spot another one clipped to the lamp shade. How’d I miss any of this?
“You were filming me?” I ask my mom and Hunter at the same time. A dozen other moments I’d assumed were private flash through my mind. Were those recorded too? I don’t address Mac because the idea of him invading my privacy isn’t shocking, but the other two—I thought they loved me.