The Weekends He Never Gave Me Chapter 03

The Weekends He Never Gave Me Chapter 03

Nonna was discharged from the hospital that Monday.

Dario arrived at seven in the morning. He brought breakfast and a knee brace the doctor had recommended.

Nonna had no idea things had frayed between us. Her face lit up the second she spotted him. “Dario!”

He sat beside her with a warm smile. “Morning, Nonna. Still sore?”

He knew exactly how to charm elderly ladies. He peeled apples for her, sorted her daily meds into a pill organizer by time slot. He’d even lined up a physical therapist affiliated with the Family for follow-up rehab sessions.

When Dario stepped out to grab some water, Nonna leaned in and whispered to me. “He’s a good boy. Don’t keep picking on him.”

I folded laundry without looking up. “Mhm.”

Dario walked back in and caught the last line. A smug grin tugged at his lips. “Heard that?”

I said nothing.

He drove us home while I sat in the backseat with Nonna.

At a red light, he glanced at me through the rearview mirror. “You still upset?”

Nonna turned straight toward me. “Who’s upset our Livia?”

“I am,” Dario answered readily. “She’s holding a grudge because I wasn’t there over the weekend.”

He shot me a teasing look. “Sore loser.”

Nonna tapped his arm lightly. “A girlfriend wants your time and attention.”

Dario’s smile never faded. “I give her every weekday, don’t I?”

Everyone laughed, except for me.

Nonna’s seventieth-birthday dinner was scheduled for the following month. Before we left, she took hold of Dario’s wrist. “You absolutely have to come.”

The party fell on a Sunday. My gaze instinctively flicked to him.

Dario met my eyes for a split second, then looked away. He never brought it up afterward.

A week before the dinner, I asked him directly. “Are you coming next Sunday?”

Dario was rinsing mugs in the kitchen. The water stopped running.

“Does it have to be a Sunday?”

“The restaurant reservation’s already locked in.”

“Then tell Nonna I’ve got last-minute Family business.”

I stared at his back. “You don’t have a Family meeting next week, and there are no crew assignments either.”

Dario turned around. “Don’t you know a white lie when you hear one?”

He dried his hands and pulled me into an embrace. “Baby, we can’t break the rule. Once we make an exception, there’ll be another one after that.”

I stood rigid in his arms, unyielding.

He kissed the top of my head. “It’s Nonna’s seventieth birthday. I’ll send a generous check. I might not show up in person, but the gift will be there.”

“What would ever justify breaking your rule?” I asked.

Dario laughed. “The end of the world, maybe?”

On the night of the birthday dinner, I didn’t reach out to him again.

Nonna asked twice where Dario was. I smiled and said urgent Family matters had come up.

Halfway through the meal, my cousin pulled up a video on her phone and froze. “Livia, is that Dario?”

She passed the phone over.

I saw a wide lawn and a lake stretching into the distance. Giada was wearing her old college graduation gown, playfully throwing herself onto Dario’s back.

The caption read: [Years after graduation, I finally got the graduation trip I missed. He grumbled the whole time, but still drove three hours to bring me here.]

At the end of the clip, Dario caught her. “Giada, if you choke me any tighter, I swear I’ll toss you into that lake.”

She laughed loudly. “You wouldn’t dare!”

He didn’t argue.

I handed the phone back to my cousin.

Nonna had seen the clip too. But she didn’t ask a single question. She simply set her fork down slowly.

When dinner was over, she sent me off with a container of cut fruit.

Just as I was leaving, she called my name softly. “Livia.”

“Yes, Nonna?”

“If someone truly loves you, you shouldn’t constantly have to be the reasonable one to hold the relationship together.”

My throat tightened, and tears burned my eyes.

That night Dario texted me: [Did Nonna have a nice day?]

A few minutes later: [Did you see the gift? That check was no small sum.]

Then another message: [Why aren’t you replying?]

I ignored every text.

I sat in the back of an Uber and opened my phone calendar. One by one, I deleted every recurring reminder labeled “Dario.”

Breakfast runs.

Lunch plans.

Gym sessions.

Picking up prescriptions for his mother, Lucia.

Dropping off Dario’s custom shirts.

Dentist appointments.

Reminders for his stomach medication.

When the last repeating event vanished, a pop-up appeared on screen: Delete all future recurring events?

I tapped Yes.