20. Gianni

Chapter twenty

Gianni

Sunday, March 9, 2025

W ho in the hell would cheat on this gorgeous fucking gem of a woman?

I’ve known her for practically no time at all, and she’s already been more kind to me than half of my teammates since Alex’s passing. More than that, she’s opened up to me and been vulnerable despite my reluctance to give her the same in return.

She just bares her soul to me as if it isn’t a precious gift, a piece of herself that she could choose to keep locked away for safekeeping.

Her smile manages to burrow itself into my gut and practically warms me from the inside out; it’s a feeling I’m unfamiliar with.

Lark .

It’s the name of a woman who deserves to have songs written about her. Sonnets written and published in her honor as a declaration of love and devotion .

That is not the name of a woman who’s tossed to the side and treated like she’s less than by a waste of space who thinks he could find better.

Unclenching my balled fists, I do my best to calm my racing mind, taking in my surroundings just like Alex had instructed time and time again.

As I near the last wave of emotions, Pickles jumps up on the window ledge, peering out through the blinds. She releases a shrill whine, begging for something.

I make my way to the window, and when I part the blinds, I find the fiery-haired goddess I’ve begun pining after walking with Tiny and who I assume to be Rex.

Shaking my head, I pet Pickles’s soft, golden fur. “Not yet, pretty girl. I don’t want to give Lark the impression that we’re stalking her, okay? I’ll take you out in a bit.”

Pickles ducks her head in understanding and slowly moseys away from the window, looking unbelievably glum as she does.

Taking a seat on the edge of the couch, I scroll through social media and land on a post by a local musician. 1 The post reads, “Do something today that makes you happy, even if you’re afraid of it.”

That sounds eerily similar to something Alex said on a daily basis. "Do something today that brings you joy, even if it scares you,” he would say. A lot of the time, it grated at my nerves because I’m not so sure I’ve ever truly felt joy.

I miss music. I miss playing and singing and writing, but those were all things I did with my best friend. And now? I’m terrified to dredge them up or sully my memories with my shit mood, but something tells me this is what I need. I’ve got to start allowing myself to feel things again and, more than anything, enjoy things.

Heading into my closet, where my instruments have been tucked away for months, I pull out the electric keyboard and stand, setting it up and plugging it into the wall beside the couch.

I take a seat, letting my fingers flit over the keys to re-familiarize myself with them. I take a deep inhale, holding it for four seconds before blowing it out, a technique Alessandro once taught me.

Feeling more steady, I begin to play a song that leaves me speechless each and every time I play it. As “golden hour” by JVKE trickles through the room, my heart stutters and clenches with every stroke of the keys. 2

I feel myself start to relax into it, my posture less rigid now.

Images flit behind my closed lids, my fingers still dancing around, not needing to see what I’m doing. This is second nature and something I’ve deprived myself of for months now, only adding to my pain.

A new song starts to play as the pain I’ve been consumed by begins to ease just the smallest bit. Though a familiar throb still sits dead center in my chest.

Memories of my parents, not Gloria and Angelo, but my biological parents, flit through my mind. My mother’s long, dark curls swept up in a bun, paint splattered on her clothing and streaked across her face as she stood in front of the massive canvas she was painting on my birthday, the year that they died.

My father’s relentless need to smother each of us in crushing hugs before he’d leave the house. A need I now understand.

Neither memory is my own, as I was too young when they died to remember, but Dante did his best to remind Charlie and me of whatever memories he could recall at just five years old. Gloria and Angelo did their best to keep us in contact with our other family and ensured we had piles of photos to fill in the blanks.

The next song tugs at my chest. Alex’s favorite. 3

I can picture his spikey blond hair as he knocked on the door shortly after we started kindergarten, standing on the porch with a black-and-white soccer ball, asking Gloria if I could play with him.

We were in the same class that year, and we became inseparable from the first day. He taught me how to play soccer and helped me develop my love for it as I navigated my first experience with grief. The loss of my parents crushed me as a child with no real concept of why it had to be them .

I hadn’t realized how much I was missing out on until I was old enough to understand that my siblings and I were adopted. That new knowledge had sunk in my gut like a rock. The lack of authentic memories haunted me as I became old enough to grasp what had really happened.

I play song after song, the weight lifting a little more with each one, and when Pickles rests her head on my thigh, I don’t have to ground myself before opening my eyes.

“Hi, pretty girl,” I coo, petting her head. “You ready to go on a walk?”

1. Zombie – Bad Wolves

2. Golden Hour – JVKE

3. Use Somebody – Kings of Leon