“Amelia, your curves. I can’t handle them,” he whispers back.
I sat on the wedged shaped rock formation affectionately named Fionn’s Boot for over a half hour. Just watching Finn try to skip large pebbles against the water of the nearby ocean. I run my hand over the smooth surface of the rock below me before turning my attention to the fragile leather notebook in my hands. I have read my grandmother’s words so feverishly that the pages are becoming more worn with each passing word.
I went to the Dottore today and confirmed by far my worst fears. My padre will kill me and Armando for simply looking at one another. I am sick to think of what will happen to this life we created in the world of Marcelli.
My index finger gingerly turns the fragile page to the next diary entry. Round droplet stains from my grandmother’s tears have permanently stained the off-white pages a rusty yellow.
Armando and I are having a bambino of our own. We are so very young, and my Madre is correct. But this man is it for me. We created a life. My father is so angry. He is so angry at me and Armando, and he doesn’t know of the life inside of me. My love and I agree that we must leave Italy and never return. As quickly as possible. Our family must never know. He wants to marry me and start our new life in America in a matter of days. We leave everything behind because our love together is stronger than whatever feud our families have. I hope this baby is a girl. We will name her Mia after mi Madre. Mia Petruchio. Our new name as soon as we get to New York. Petruchio the only known ghost in Shakespeare. It is what we will become: ghosts.
Tears stream down my cheek and I brush them off with my palm. My Nonna wanted nothing but to get to America safe and have my mom. She fled and I am here getting pounded in different directions for a penis passport.
A penis passport was my bright idea?
“What am I doing?” I ask myself.
* * *
We leftthe Giant’s Causeway shortly before sunset and spent the rest of the evening in the City Center with a surprise dinner at Coppi. We feasted on calabrese sausage risotto, smoked chicken tortellini, monkfish scallopini. I think I even ate my weight in crispy gnocchi, which believe me is a lot of gnocchi. My thoughts are spinning in my head at a frenzied pace. Finn helped me sort out the contents of those entries by reading her words back to me, helping me make sense of them.
As we walked along the cobbled streets, I pulled him inside the most Irish stereotypical souvenir shop. He groaned deeply and tilted his head back in disbelief. I grip his hand and pull him inside with me to be met with every variation of leprechauns you can imagine standing on display.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Finn breathes.
Rows of coffee mugs, leprechaun hats, and snow globes lined the small corner shop. It’s like the movie Leprechaun throw up in every corner of the shop and wallpapered the walls with flags.
“Holy fucking leprechauns,” I say, my fake Irish accent coming in thick.
His jaw clenches and his mouth curls upward trying not to smile. He bites his lip from smiling at my Irish accent, which I’m sure is just as horrible as it sounds in his ears as it does in my head.
“Are you making fun of me, love?” He asks.
“Would I make fun of you in this shop full of leprechauns? I wouldn’t dream of it my dear Irish lad,” I say, exaggerating my horrible Irish accent.
He scoffs in amusement and tries to reach out for me, but I change directions and grab a hat from the rack full of varied baseball caps sitting on a rack next to me. However, my hat is a full-fledged leprechaun cap with orange hair and beard that wraps around my face. The pure amusement I feel in this moment takes over as I exaggeratedly jig near him. Badly I might add. The look on his face is of pure annoyance and desperately trying not to laugh at my obvious amazing dancing skills.
“When Irish eyes are smiling, it’ll steal your farts away,” I sing.
“Farts?” he asks, his brows furrowing in confusion.
I stop and look at him questioningly, raising my brow and giving him an amused smile. I will get this stoic Irish hunk to laugh at me. I will pull the stick from his ass like a proctologist in some way or another.
“Yeah, farts.”
“I believe we steal your hearts away,” he says.
“Hmm, I don’t think so.”
He pursed his lips together and no matter how hard he bites his lip; a chuckle comes from his lips. I have never heard anything so perfect. He gently pulls the orange flame-colored fur away from my face and gently kisses me. As he pulls away from me, he looks at me with a dimpled sweet smile and holds my hand.
“Are you ready for a surprise?” he asks.
With my unoccupied hand, I pull the hat off me and place it back onto the rack with all the others. He pushes his hair out of his eyes and his ice-blue eyes stare down at me. At this moment, I knew I was in trouble. At this moment, I knew that what Lucas and I had was fake because he never made me feel like this. I never knew sex could be this good. This feeling I never felt before. I don’t think it’s love, but the longer I stay the damage this will cause to my fragile heart will do me in. I wrap my fingers around his large hand as he walks me out of the small corner shop. His fingers grazing against the gold of the Claddagh ring he got me on my middle finger.
* * *