Roman

Julianna and I sat in the car parked on the side of the road in a leafy part of Verona, a familiar cottage with a faded blue door to my right.

We'd just stopped at Nora's apartment and surprised the hell out of her. She screamed so loud that I was sure the entire population of Verona knew we were still alive. Hell, my ears were still ringing from her ruckus.

Jules and I agreed we would let Nonna know as well. It wasn't fair to her if we didn't. I could see the soft, cuddly frame of the woman who'd stepped in as a mother figure to me. The same woman whose grandson I'd sent to his grave. I couldn't make myself get out of that car.

"We should go," I said. "It's getting late." I reached to turn the car key but Julianna's hand slid over mine.

"Roman," she said. "It would only be ‘too late' if you drove away without telling her you're alive. Don't leave her in pain because she thinks you are dead."

I know. I was being a coward. I was more nervous now facing up to Nonna after what happened to Mercutio than facing my father. Be brave. I forced myself out of the car. Jules followed me.

Every trudge up her front path felt like I was sinking in concrete, my feet getting heavier and heavier as I approached the blue door.

"Don't you usually go in the back way?" Jules asked.

The back door was for family. I had destroyed hers. "Usually," I mumbled. I lifted my hand and knocked.

"It's open," I heard Nonna calling through the door. Trust Nonna to still keep her doors unlocked, no matter how much I told her to lock them. She was too trusting.

I opened the front door and stepped into her living room. The smell of cinnamon and vanilla warmed the place, making my stomach twinge. Nonna baked when she was happy. She baked when she was sad. Jules stood close to my side, her presence giving me strength.

"I'll be there in just a—" Nonna cut off as soon as she stepped from the kitchen, her eyes locked on me. She froze, her cheeks paling.

"Surprise, Nonna," I said. "I'm?—"

"You're alive," she said, her voice warbling as if she was unsure of whether to be shocked, angry, sad, or to shriek with excitement. She stared at me as if I were a stranger. Perhaps to her, I was.

I gave her an uneasy smile to test the waters. "I'm alive."

She slowly wiped her hands, dusty with flour, on her apron. "Well," she said, a slightly defensive tone to her voice, "I've already packed up all your things that you left here and given them away. Clothes and shoes and video games. Although I suppose you don't fit into those clothes anymore." She placed her hands on her hips.

She'd kept my things for eight years? I didn't go into Mercutio's old room the last time I was here. I bet it was still the same, twin beds covered in comforters decorated with Marvel comic superheroes, large boxes in the corner stuffed with our toys and games.

Jules slipped her hand into mine and squeezed. Go on.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"You should be. You should have told me." She glared at me. "I don't have any dinner ready for you."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Tears filled her eyes. She ran over to grab me, pulling me into her fleshy warm arms. Jules stepped back so Nonna and I could have a moment. She broke into an undignified sob on my shoulder. "Oh, Roman. I'm so happy you're alive."

I leaned a chin on her graying hair that always smelled like her lavender shampoo, feeling like I was finally home again. "I'm so sorry I let you think I was dead," I whispered. "I'm sorry for…everything."

Nonna pulled back, wiping her eyes with the edge of her apron, and composed herself with dignified sniffle. "Why didn't you come to me earlier?"

"I thought you might not want to speak to me after…Mercutio." My voice broke on his name.

Nonna's eyes teared up at his name. "My poor Mercutio. Why are you blaming yourself for him?"

"He died saving my life."

Nonna sniffed. She shook her head, but there was an edge of wistfulness on her lips. "That boy would have followed you to the edges of the Earth. He was loyal to a fault. That's not your doing, Roman."

"It was my fault," I squeezed out. "I'm so sorry."

"Did you pull the trigger?" she asked, her voice eerily calm.

"Well, no, but?—"

"Then you didn't kill him. You hear me?" she asked, her tone firm and commanding. She grabbed my arm and repeated, "You. Didn't. Kill him."

I stared into Nonna's face, stern and yet warm. I saw sorrow still fresh in the creases of her face. But not a thread of blame. I pulled her into another hug, taking in her comforting "Nonna smell" of baked goods and the hint of lemon cleaner, and let her begin to mend another broken piece of my soul.