Page 104 of The Roman Holiday Rule

There’s a long pause, and I resist opening my eyes because he’ll unravel my self-control with his focus and half-smiles.

“Yes, but—”

I put up my hand, stopping him, and squeeze my eyes harder against the image of Mark’s blueprint instructions, against a bulldozer scraping the bits of rubble into a pile, against the empty spot where it once stood.

When he showed up in Boston, I’d hoped for a minute that he had changed his mind. That he had erased his line drawn in the sand.

And for a second I wonder—should I change mine? Can I drop my ultimatum and forget what he’s done?

If he had called me and explained, braced me, kept helping me work through it, not let my grief be the loudest thing in the room, maybe. But it hurts that he bulldozed over my request without any communication or apology.

Mark’s fingers graze my elbow. “I saved something for you.”

I open my eyes.

He pulls a small piece of intricately carved stone from his pocket. I’d recognize the decorative top from the temple’s column anywhere. How often had I gazed at every detail in Mom’s painting while chatting with her in her room? How many times had I seen her soft, wistful expression whenever the painting caught her eye? A sharp pain tears through my chest.

“It’s the only part that I found intact after the—” He clamps his mouth shut. At least he finds it hard to say the actual words. I’m touched that he saved me a piece, but it’s too little, too late.

Isn’t it?

I’ve clung to this temple, to my grief, for so long, it feels like a part of me. I have to be strong and push him away out of guilt for Mom’s memory and self-preservation.

But why do I want to preserve my misery? Does losing Mark—again—help my heart, lessen my grief?

Or triple it?

“I’m touched, thank you. But—” My throat closes up. I don’t know how to reconcile what I want with the hurt and loss.

I take the piece he saved from his hand, keeping my eyes trained on the stone and not Mark’s face. It’s lighter than I expected.

This piece of rubble is dead, I realize. I’m grateful to have it, but it reminds me of how I felt, standing at the site of my parents’ first kiss.

Mom captured one moment in time, but that moment is gone and there’s no holding on to it.

Like the paintings Mom decorated on the envelopes that showed up in Italy, the magic isn’t on the flat, static, tangible leftovers, as artistic as they are. It’s in the living, breathing life in front of me. In the bouquet the hawker offered, in Ms. Accardi’s used apron while she restored artifacts, in the Gallos holding hands as they walked, in the Russos’ orange villa full of love and family.

Maybe that was the point—to take my eyes off my grief and loss and notice the world around me.

I want to let go of this rock too. To hold on instead to the man standing in front of me, who saw me so clearly, down to the scrap of fabric tied on my suitcase. And it seems, as strange as the envelope art manifesting in Rome was, that Mom would want that too.

“I know it’s painful for you, Lexington. But I thought—” He frowns and dips his head until I have to meet his gaze. “You asked me not to be the one to tear it down,” he says slowly.

“Right.” I lift the stone, as if he needs reminding that he did, in fact, destroy the temple. If Santino is here in Boston, that means Mark’s plan worked. His dad must have flown to Italy to be on the reconstruction team and reconciled with Santino. Mark got what he wanted, and I’m happy for him, truly, even if my heart’s broken. I put on a brave smile. “Congratulations, by the way. Mariella told me the news.”

“What news?”

“That you were hired for the palazzo reconstruction.”

He huffs. “Is that all she told you?” He clenches his teeth, looks away, and mutters under his breath.

“Isn’t that true? The Gallos offered you the job?”

“Yes, but I turned it down.” He folds his arms and frowns at me. “You thought I bulldozed the pavilion against your wishes and then presented a piece of it to you like some kind of trophy for being a callous jerk?”

Wait—“What?” I hold up the rubble. “This wasn’t you?”

“No. I asked the Gallos to let me know when it was done and dashed over before their construction crew carried it off.”