RomanoxSick!Reader Give Your Heart a Break (3)

A Sunday you went home alone
There were tears in your eyes
I called your cell phone, my love
But you did not reply

CONTENT ADVISORY: Contains depression and suicidal ideations in later parts

Sunday dinner with (Reader)’s family seemed to fare better than Romano expected. In spite of his rage at (Momname), Romano had restrained himself well enough to prevent a screaming match from happening over dinner. (Momname) made a point of preparing spaghetti with marinara sauce and meatballs, having been warned about Romano’s finicky tastes. Before anybody could sit down to eat, Romano helped (Dadname) adjust the dining table so everyone was sitting closer together. Romano wanted to be certain (Reader) could hear the conversation, hating how dejected she felt when she could not hear him and her dad. Two candles were lit in the middle of the table and the chandelier overhead was dimmed to create a dreamy glow. (Reader) wished her family would disappear so she could gaze at Romano over dinner while holding his hand.

Just as everyone was about to eat, Romano waved his hand and said, “Wait a minute, aren’t we going to say grace or something?”

(Reader)’s budding fantasies came to an abrupt halt the moment Romano mentioned “grace.”

Crap, I forgot to tell him my mother’s an atheist. Right before my brother left for college, he convinced her that religion was bad and now she makes fun of it every chance she gets. It’s partially my fault for not considering that Romano’s likely Catholic too. I mean, Vatican City and Feli’s worries about being gay not being acceptable in the Catholic Church. God fucking dammit!

“I guess, if you want to,” (Dadname) said. He at least had enough Protestantism left to respect the faiths of others.

Romano suddenly looked nervous, as if someone stripped him of all his clothes without warning. Both of (Reader)’s parents had their eyes on him. (Dadname) curious to hear what Romano would say. (Momname) watching with covert cynicism. Having been to a few church events with Feliciano, (Reader) knew Catholic traditions typically involved extend hands to say a prayer. Watching Romano’s eyes widen in horror was a huge warning that he would become upset if he touched her parents’ hands. Thinking fast, (Reader) pressed her palms together and bowed her head over her dinner plate. Both of her parents followed suit and Romano breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

Caro Dio, grazie per questa bella donna che sembra sempre sapere come salvarmi quando sono nei guai. (Dear God, thank you for this beautiful woman who always seems to know how to save me when I'm in trouble).

“Dear Lord, thank you for this food. Bless the hands that prepared it. Bless it to our use and us to your service. And make us ever mindful of the needs of others. Through Christ our Lord we pray. Amen.

“Amen,” replied (Reader) and (Dadname).

(Momname) simply nodded before asking, “(Reader) can you pass me the salad?”

(Dadname) regaled the table with stories of his days in the agriculture division as he travelled from state to state developing pesticides for farmers. Romano remained mostly quiet until he saw (Dadname) cringe at the mention of potatoes. (Reader) chuckled, knowing a mutual hatred was something over which they could bond.

“It was the worst having to go on business trips to Idaho,” (Dadname) said, “They put potatoes in everything.”

“Che palle,” (What balls) Romano exclaimed, giving himself the privilege of Italian profanity. “You’re not serious!”

“Mashed potatoes, baked potatoes, potato coffee cakes, potato coffee—”

“What bastard thinks of this shit?”

Not even sneaking a few words in Italian were enough to contain Romano’s profane mouth. With a small blush and a pause, Romano cleared his throat.

“Romano, it’s okay,” (Reader) said, “Don’t be embarrassed. Mom says “fuck” at the dinner table all the time.”

“Not all the time,” (Momname exclaimed), “I’m not the foulmouthed bad mother you think I am!”

(Reader) and (Momname) started to get into a small argument over who was more profane and when profanity was appropriate to use. (Dadname) cracked a small smile and shook his head. Romano was completely befuddled, unable to believe he wasn’t the one arguing with a parent for once. Simultaneously, Romano watched in fascination as (Reader) and (Momname) flailed their hands throughout the conversation. It never dawned on him until that dinner how much (Reader) talked with her hands because he had the exact same habit. To see it in motion with two other people was as curious as it was intimidating.

Unable to hold himself back, Romano asked, “Are you two at least somewhat Italian?”

“Greek,” (Momname) said, “My father came here in 1953 as a Truman Scholar.”

I had a feeling she was at least somewhat from the Mediterranean region. Maybe she’s even a bit Sicilian and doesn’t know it. The Greeks had a settlement in Sicily.

“We’re mainlanders,” (Momname) continued, “None of that spitting shit you see in My Big Fat Greek Wedding. That’s all peasant traditions from the islands. We mainlanders are too sophisticated for that.”

“There is one part of that movie that’s true though,” (Dadname) interjected.

“What?” Romano replied.

“There are only two types of people in the world.”

“The Greeks,” (Reader) said, unable to resist teasing Romano, “And everyone else who wishes they Greek.”

“Please,” Romano said, rolling his eyes, “There are only Italians and everybody else who wishes they could be as cool as Italians.”

(Dadname) was silently in stitches as he watched (Reader), Romano, and (Momname) all facetiously debated about which nation in the Mediterranean was “the best.” Somehow, that conversation turned to The Odyssey, and discussing its multiple themes and symbols. Between the Greek part of their heritage and graduating from the same schoolz, (Reader) and (Momname) always became animated upon hearing any mention of Odysseus. Both Romano and (Dadname) found themselves lost and confused amidst the discussion, but did their best to follow along. Occasionally, Romano elicited laughter from (Reader) by making profane wisecracks in compensation for feeling incredibly stupid. He only stopped when hearing (Reader) recite the opening lines from Calypso’s lament.

“Oh you vile Gods in jealousy supernal!” (Reader) cried, her voice thundering as she wildly gesticulated. “You hate it when we choose to lie with men—immortal flesh by some dear mortal side!”

Romano smiled as he recalled something she said on their first date.

“I would have been a professional actress if I hadn’t gotten Ménière’s. Film directors are very unforgiving and have no problem replacing you if you’re sick too much.”

Whatever director said that (Reader) is a stupid fucking idiot. I could sit and watch you all day.

“All right, (Reader), settle down,” (Momname) snapped, “This is the dinner table, not the theater.”

Once again, Romano saw the light dim in (Reader)’s eyes and felt the rage return to his cheeks. To keep himself from smacking (Reader)’s mother, he blurted out, “So, anybody here want dessert or coffee? I can clear the plates and get it for you.”

“That would be great, Romano,” (Reader) blurted out, “Mom, what kind of dessert did you get for tonight.”

“Tiramisu.”

Big mistake, Mom. Tiramisu is from North Italy. I tried to tell you to get Babà Napoletano from the Italian Market in the city or let me go with Feli to bring it back here…but no, you had to insist, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll pick up something nice for Romano before he comes over.” I’d hardly call it nice to bring South Italy a North Italy dessert, especially with how much shit Romano’s gotten for “not being as good as his brother.”

(Reader) sighed and Romano tore off his jacket to fight his urge to scream. Trying to keep composure, he marched into the kitchen, both of his hands twitching by his sides.

“Excuse me a second,” (Reader) said as she followed Romano and slammed the kitchen door shut.

Romano tried to pull himself a chair, but it slipped from his grasp as his hands continued to flail. (Reader) caught it and helped Romano sit down, watching him wince with each movement of his hands. Pulling up a chair of her own, she positioned herself across from Romano and rested a hand across the back of his neck.

“Talk to me,” (Reader) said, “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Fucking chorea,” Romano hissed, “It acts up when I’m anxious or upset.”

“Ah, like how I have Ménière’s attacks when I’m under stress. Is there anything I can give you to help it stop? Are you in any pain?”

“A little…but all I can do is wait.”

“Will you be okay to drive later?”

“I don’t want to think about that!” Romano snapped, “I just want to have the fucking dessert, okay?”

(Reader) nodded and kissed Romano’s forehead.

“Let me know anything you need me to do,” she said with another kiss to his cheek, “I’m here with you.”

Romano smiled with a sniffle as (Reader) took out the dinner dishes and returned with dessert plates. Once Romano’s hands subsided, he gingerly brewed coffee for (Momname) and (Dadname), alongside some espresso for (Reader) and himself. The extra caffeine would hold off the chorea long enough to ensure he got home safely and didn’t have another attack in front of (Reader)’s parents. Awkwardly, (Reader) smiled and did her best to keep the conversation lively and flowing. Out of politeness, (Dadname) responded well to superficial topics like weather in Cape May and the Jersey Shore in the late fall. Much as he hated his job of watching Italian American Jersey Shore socialites, they were certainly welcome distractions after a chorea spell and suppressed rage. Any time he saw (Momname) take a jab at (Reader), talk down to her, or rudely correct even the tiniest little movement, he wanted to flip the table. Keeping himself together to get through dessert was a small miracle.

By 10:00, Romano was exhausted and ready to drive back home. Had his chorea not caused problems earlier, (Reader) would have asked him to stay longer and “watch TV” in the basement. Having dealt with temporary medication, however, (Reader) knew time was of the essence. Akin to Valium and Ativan temporarily holding off Ménière’s, the extra caffeine on top of Romano’s Concerta would only give him enough time to get home safely. Chorea spells were far shorter than the 2-24 hours ones caused by Ménière’s, but both proved equally dangerous when driving a car. (Reader) knew her mother would never let Romano stay overnight, and calling Feliciano to drive him home would only make the situation worse. With a heavy heart, (Reader) walked Romano to his car, clutching his arm the entire time.

“How did I do?” Romano asked.

“With my parents?” (Reader) replied, “Why does it matter?”

“What’s wrong with wanting someone’s family to like you?”

“Nothing, but it’s not worth getting upset if they don’t like you either.”

“Why not?”

“Because I like you, and I’m the one wants to do this every chance I get.”

Before Romano could say anything, (Reader) wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into a tender kiss, their lips delicately touching like petals on the roses in her room. Both of them were tickled by the other’s hot breath and enticed by the mutual taste of coffee. Any other time, their tenderness would have been paired with vim and Romano would have been on top of (Reader) in the back seat. Few things extinguish fiery romance like anxiety though, and Romano found his Italian passion replaced by “polite” society pallor. More than anything, he just wanted (Reader) to hold and comfort him, saying that her parents actually liked him so he could finally ask her to go steady. Since Labor Day, Romano was longing for (Reader) to become his girlfriend, but his inner “good Italian boy” demanded parental approval for such to occur.

“No matter what anyone says, Romano,” (Reader) continued, “Parental approval is not everything when it comes to relationships. The people they like could be wrong for you, and the people you like could be people they hate. If it were up to them, I’d be dating some stick-up-his-ass country club fuckwad who would want me to hide my sickness in shame and become “a lady” to fit in with polite society.”

Romano scoffed and said, “But then they’d be missing out on some of your best parts.”

“Exactly, and it’s more important to be with someone who lets your best parts show. No matter how my parents feel, I feel like my best parts come out with you.”

(Reader) giggled as Romano kissed her across the forehead as he rocked her in his arms.

Cosa ho fatto per meritare qualcuno come te? Nessuno mi ha mai trattato così bene prima d'ora. (What did I do to deserve someone like you? No one has ever treated me this well before.)

“I think I need to stop,” Romano said, “Or I won’t be able to resist taking you home with me.”

“You know I’d love to come home with you, but I can’t as long as my folks aren’t at the beach house.”

“I know, I know…but at least it won’t be too long until they go back.”

(Reader) nodded, and with one more kiss, Romano crawled into the car and said, “Buona notte, tesoro.”

“Buona notte, caro mio.”

Skipping up the path to the front door, (Reader) sighed as she heard the sound of Romano pulling out of the driveway. Caught up in the late September breeze and the thrumming of her own heart, she accidentally left the front door slightly ajar. Any dizziness (Reader) felt while walking through the house was entirely connected to the joy of amore. While Ménière’s felt like an unpleasant spinning ride on a boat in a thunderstorm, lovesickness was akin to riding in a spinning chair while flailing your arms and shouting “WHEEEEEEEEEEE!” Certainly that’s what (Reader) wanted to do, but instead, she found herself humming “Spinnin’ Around”—the song that rang through her head when her bare skin first met Romano’s.

(Momname), of course, could always be counted upon to ruin the moment.

Feeling generous from the joy given by Romano, (Reader) helped her mother wash the dishes and put the pots and pains back into various cabinets. Had she known what unpleasantry would fly from her mother’s mouth, (Reader) would have saved her joy for more deserving people, like Feliciano or her best chronic illness friend, Mabel. Nevertheless, (Reader)’s impulse control problems made it impossible for her to restrain her feelings for more than a few seconds. Regardless of what response she would receive, keeping her mouth shut around (Momname) was next to impossible.

“Oh my God,” (Reader) half-sang, “Romano’s so amazing and absolutely wonderful and I adore him from head to toe.”

“I’m glad,” (Momname) apathetically replied, “He seems nice enough.”

(Reader) knew a nonchalant answer from her meant concealed distaste.

“You don’t like him, do you?”

“It’s not that I don't like him, sweetie. I just don’t think he’s of your caliber.”

Oh fuck no, not this again. Don't you fucking do this to me, Mom. Don’t you fucking dare…why the fuck do I even call you Mom anyhow?

“Excuse me?”

“Your father and I think it’s so great how well you get along with people of different backgrounds. You have such an open heart from all the pain you’ve endured from your asthma, Ménière’s, and hearing loss. We couldn’t be more proud of you for having such compassion…but don’t you think it’s better spent on someone who can actually appreciate you?”

“What makes you think Romano won’t appreciate me?”

“He couldn’t keep up with us when we were talking about The Odyssey or Shakespeare, or any of the literature you and I have studied. He’s supposed to be this tomato expert, yet he barely said anything when your father was talking about agriculture. You’ll never be able to have intelligent discussion with him because he won’t be able to think the same way you do.”

“Why is it so bad if two people think differently, Mom? You’re more artistically inclined, and Dad’s good with STEM and business. You like going to museums and he likes boats and the beach.”

“That’s different. We may like different things, but your father and I are at least better matched with intelligence. I just don’t think Romano’s going to be a good fit for you that way. You’ll grow bored and frustrated with him because you won’t be able to talk the way you want to, and he’ll be recently and angry with you because he knows he’ll never be as smart as you. Honestly, you’re settling for damaged goods being with someone like Romano.”

“How dare you!” (Reader) growled, “How dare you speak about him that way, and how dare you say I’m damaged.”

“I didn’t say you were damaged sweetheart.”

You would speak about me the exact same way you talk about Romano if I weren’t your DNA. I fucking hate how much of me you try to erase to make me “acceptable” when deep down, you don’t like me, Romano, or any sick people at all. If I could trade you in for another mother, I would because there’s no way you can love me as long as you feel like this. You only love your idea of a healthy me with one of the country club boys, not the reality of me being sick and with a scrappy man that accepts me as I am.

“Maybe not now, but you’ve said it before. You’ve said I settle for bad men because I see myself as damaged goods for being sick, but Romano’s not damaged at all. He’s fine just the way he is!”

“Well what was that in the kitchen, and that weird thing with his hands?”

“He has chorea, Mother, and it acts up sometimes like my Ménière’s does.”

“If he’s dealing with a sickness of his own, what makes you think he’ll be strong enough to take care of you? What makes you certain you won’t end up taking care of him instead? You shouldn’t be with someone like that when your own illness isn’t under control.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Don’t you remember he took care of me when I got sick at Feli’s party, or how he carried me to the gelato shop when I was struggling to breathe?”

He’s taken better care of me in a few months than you have in twenty-three years. I don’t give a fuck what you say about money in private school education, college, clothes, and letting me live at home, it means shit if I can’t function properly. Your money and efforts are useless if my illnesses aren’t being treated, and you won’t treat them because you won’t acknowledge how bad they’ve become!

“That’s not enough. He has to be able to do it multiple times before you know. For all you know now, he could be doing this just to impress you and then change later, especially since he’s Italian. They are known for being Mama’s boys who think women are just their personal servants.”

“Okay, Mom, earlier at the table, the jabs and jokes were kept light. This is just you being a fucking asshole.”

“Don’t you speak to me that way, young lady. You owe me some respect.”

“I’ll speak to you any fucking way I please, and what respect do I owe someone who is classist, ableist, and straight up disrespectful?”

“You know what? I don’t have to put up with this. I don’t have to put up with your whiny, bratty, ungrateful attitude. Your name-calling. Your temper tantrums. I’m not going to engage with you until you learn to treat me with better respect, young lady.”

(Reader) slammed the door and marched into the living room, hoping to drown her rage in another piece of tiramisu. It was then that she noticed Romano’s jacket was still slung over the back of his chair. Any craving (Reader) had for dessert was instantly replaced with desire to snuggle in Romano’s jacket, breathing in his familiar scent of cologne, earth, sweat, and tomato plants. Wrapping it around her shoulders, (Reader) felt herself relax and her body fill with warmth. The only settling (Reader) did that night was enveloping herself in Romano’s jacket, longing for him to drive back and whisk her to the guest room in Feliciano’s apartment. Of course she would text him about leaving it at her house, but for the time being, (Reader) though Romano wouldn’t mind too much if she slept in his jacket for one night. Changing into pajama pants and a tank top, (Reader) crawled under her covers and checked her phone. Amidst a few Facebook notifications, Romano left a message about his jacket. (Reader) replied she’d keep it safe and if he’d like to go to a neighborhood event called Dinner Under the Stars.

A single night without a reply was strange, but (Reader) was not initially worried. The chorea may have made texting more difficult than usual. One night without an immediate response and a good night text was not the end of the world. When a few hours of silence turned into three days, that was when she realized something was wrong.

(Reader) did not know that Romano drove back to her house after realizing his jacket was still draped over the dining room chair. Just as he was about to knock on the front door, (Reader) and her mother had started fighting. Though neither woman was screaming, they were certainly loud enough for Romano to hear. Any validation he could have found through (Reader) passionately defending him was erased by (Momname)'s brutal replies. Denial and shock kept him glued into place until (Momname) stung him with the same line he had heard since Feliciano was born.

"Honestly, you’re settling for damaged goods being with someone like Romano."

Functioning on autopilot, Romano bolted back into the car, silently crying as he dashed out of (Reader)'s driveway. Romano only made it two miles from her house before he pulled over to be sick in a gutter, wishing (Reader) was there to hold him the way he held her on the day they first met.