Page 81 of Marcus

“But?”

John shook his head. “No buts, Cella, I just hope you understand who Marcus Guzzi is.”

“He’s a lot like you, isn’t he? Or Daddy.”

“There was a time when like us was something you didn’t want.”

He wasn’t wrong.

“He’s what I want now, John.”

Her brother nodded. “All right.”

“Don’t worry about me, okay? I know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he replied, “as long as you’re happy.”

“I am.”

She continued walking toward the kitchen ready to get a start on spending quality time with her family before she made the long drive home. Because once she was home, a long phone call with Marcus would be waiting while she enjoyed a glass of white wine in the bathtub. That was, by far, the next best thing to being there with him.

Behind her, John added, “But if anything changes, we’re all going to be here for you then, too. No matter what, Cella.”

Yeah.

She knew that, too.

“Ma?”

“Mmhmm.”

Cella kept her focus on the freeway while she waited for her daughter to ask whatever question she had on her mind. Thankfully, traffic wasn’t too bad, but she attributed that to the fact it was summer, the weekend, and late in the evening. Another day, and they would have been bumper to bumper all the way back to Rochester after the dinner at her parents’.

“Do you like Marcus?”

Cella’s gaze darted from the windshield to the rearview mirror where she was able to stare at Tiffany who was currently sitting in her booster seat. With a book in her hands, the girl wasn’t even paying attention to her mother while she awaited her answer.

“Well, yes,” Cella eventually said, “I do like him.”

“Well, yeah.” Tiffany glanced up, but quickly went back to her book to flip to the next page. Cella put her attention on the road again. “But I mean, do you like him? You know, the way Grandpapa Lucian likes Grandmama. Or how Uncle John—”

“Tiff—”

“Why was everyone asking so many questions at dinner about him?”

God.

Yep.

This was the conversation Cella had been waiting for with her daughter. She expected it to happen, but strangely, she never considered it would be like this. Perhaps a part of her thought her daughter would ask for other reasons, but instead it seemed like the curiosity of others had her child thinking about her own questions.

“Not everyone asked questions,” Cella muttered under her breath.

Not low enough, apparently.

Kids heard everything.

“Yep, everyone. Even Lucky asked who Marcus was. I told him he was your friend, remember?”