Damìan is making breakfast; the kitchen smells like eggs and pancakes, and I ask the thing I've been thinking since last night. "How was Calabasas?"

After receiving that photo last night, I swam in the backyard pool to blow off some steam. Eventually, returning to my room, I heard his shower running from his room last night. I was tempted to ask him about the photo I received, but it was late, and honestly, I was afraid to hear the answer.

He looks up from the batter he's mixing. "It was...fine."

That didn't sound very convincing.

He silently mixes away until he suddenly drops the bowl loudly on the table and sighs.

"I know about the photo," he admits. "I came to your room last night and saw your phone."

I bite my lip.

"I'm sorry Livia sent that to you; she had no right, and I wanna let you know...nothing happened. We aren't back together." He peers into my eyes as if to say, 'I'm sorry.'

I exhale, "your ex is such a bitch."

He snickers, picking up the bowl of batter again. I move around the kitchen island he's working at and motion him still. He peeks at me curiously, and I smile, wiping the batter off his cheek with my thumb.

"She can't help losing you, so she's doing anything to get you back." I place my thumb in my mouth; the batter tastes like guava. "It's not your fault for being such a catch."

His eyes flicker to my lips a moment before staring into my eyes. "Still, she shouldn't have done it. Our drama isn't your drama. So ignore her, alright." He softly says.

I inhale; his intense gaze is...making me nervous. He suddenly looks away, clearing his throat, "can you heat the pan again?"

"Yes, sir." When he glances at me, I salute him, and he shakes his head.

"How many are you making?" I observe a stack of pancakes on the counter. "There's only two of us."

"I'm a hungry guy. Need to eat." He answers with his back turned.

I'm not intimidated by Livia because I know she's grasping at straws for Damìan's affection. She had her chance, and she blew it (desperate much) but seeing that photo last night did make me somewhat jealous. I knew Damìan wouldn't return to her, or at least I hoped he wouldn't, and it only cemented the idea I told Carmen about yesterday: I am ready to confess my feeling for him.

After all these years of keeping my feelings in check, it's difficult keeping them at bay, but I promised Carmen I wouldn't be rash because she's right; I need to pace myself.

"Are you okay now?" He asked.

I ponder a moment on what he means then I remember yesterday morning. I didn't like promising Carmen not to say anything. It's hard loving and hoping because your every waking moment is theorising what it will be like. I'm obsessed and can't control it.

Cupid might as well have struck me from his quiver of arrows because I began loving out of the blue. Or maybe Puck from my favourite play gave me a love potion in my sleep.

Irrational.

I never planned to love anyone, not after my parent's divorce. If a couple who claimed to love each other after ten years no longer loved each other, what hope do I have for love to last?

Irrational.

Maybe this is what truly has stopped me from admitting anything to him. I've had years; no matter when it began, how about when it may end? When I look at Damìan, I want to jump in his arms, kiss him, tell him I love him and hear him say the words back. But I also don't want to risk crossing the line of our friendship and somehow losing him forever.

This is why some people say that men and women can't be friends because somewhere down the line, the lines of friendship, love or lust become blurred. I never wanted to believe in that ignorance before until now. It makes perfect sense.

If one cannot control how they feel, then what do they do? I only have three choices: Admit, lose or forever live in the agony of never saying a word.

Unrequited love is the worst of them all because even when you want to be honest, you have to lie, and I have lied more than I wanted to.

"I had a rough headache from the night before. I'm good now."

I hear a jingle of keys and the door open in the main hall. "I smell food!" A voice sing-songs.

I chuckle at the voice; Carmen is such a character.

Damìan motions me away from the stove to add batter to the pan, and I turn to greet my friend.

She comes in, Jackie following behind her. "I see the cook is cooking." She muses, hugging me. "What a great honour, primo (cousin)."

Damìan turns to her as he grabs the pancake stack, handing it to me. "Only doing my part."

"Why so chipper amore (love), something great happened yesterday?"

Carmen glances at Jackie and looks back at me, "wouldn't you like to know." She says, suggestively wiggling her eyebrows. Jackie blushes.

I shake my head amusingly at the comment and dish out an equal share of pancakes onto stoneware plates, Damìan took out earlier.

"Come on, have a seat, lovebirds."

Carmen and Jackie oblige, taking a seat at the island as I pour Aunt Jemima syrup over my pancakes; I can't stand maple. It tastes weird.

"So, I have a plan for all of us for the next three weeks," Carmen suddenly says.

"Really, what's the plan?" I ask curiously.

She can barely contain herself, bubbling in her seat, "We're going to Italy!" She squeals.

I pause a moment, looking at Damìan, and at the same time, he looks at me. His eyes say, 'What is she on about?' and my eyes answer, 'Don't know, just go along with it?' He shrugs and acknowledges the stove again to flip a pancake.

"We're going to Italy?" I ask curiously.

She nods, "Yup. To your grandparent's vineyard."

I laugh, "my grandparent's vineyard?"

"Yeah. I asked your Dad for permission, and he agreed. He also mentioned that you hadn't seen them in a while, so they happily expect us. I also spoke with your Nonna...she's so sweet."

Amused, I stand from my seat to go into the fridge for a bottle of Perrier; Damìan eyes me amusingly. Carmen has had some pretty interesting ideas over the years, but this one tops the list.

"I have no words Camie...you have...outdone yourself."

"It should be fun. I've never been to Italy before." Jackie responds as they fork a piece of pancake into their mouth. Jackie moans at the taste. "Compliments to the chef...is that cheese I taste?"

"Mmm, it's mozzarella and guava paste. My mother's recipe." Damìan answered.

Jackie nods in contentment and forks some more in their mouth.

"So, what do you guys think? Are you in?" Carmen questioned excitedly.

I sit, "wouldn't it be weird if I said no?" I muse.

"Well, if you did, Jackie and I would have gone without you. It's not every day you're invited to a vineyard in Italy." She holds her heart wistfully, "think of the incredible Chianti wine and cheese spreads...I can taste them now."

I giggle, "yes, dreamer, I'm in, and so is Damìan." I glance at him, and he turns to eye me with eyebrows raised.

"I don't get a say in this?" He asked.

"Nope." I simply say.

He surrenders, "when do we leave?"

Carmen squeals, "tomorrow at noon."

He nods, "I will be packed and ready to go."

All my life, I've enjoyed Sundays; it's the two-day weekend away from school (which no longer applies), helping to tend to Aunt Ána's garden (who is presently out of the country) and having lunch with Babbo at his favourite Italian restaurant, in Mar Vista, my home home.

Mar Vista was a pleasant place to grow up, I suppose. My parents resided in Palm Springs previously, and when they parted, they had me decide who I wanted to live with, and I elected to live with Babbo.

Mom wasn't too keen on us being apart because she wanted me to live with her in New York, but that was her doing. She didn't have to move two thousand miles away, but she craved a fresh start even though she consistently travelled back and forth between London and Los Angeles. Eventually, she relocated Deusa Mãe to New York, two years after she left when I was sixteen, where she ultimately met Zulie.

Maybe that's one of the reasons why I agreed to NYU...because it's close to her.

When we moved, I hadn't spent much time in the suburban town; it was just a home home. I spent most of my time at the Pasadena Estate, still do, and Babbo doesn't mind. He gets more time alone with Averie, whom he wedded a year after the move. Some might think it was too soon to rush into a new relationship after ten years of marriage to my mother, but an Italian man forever seizes his passion; one end leads to a new beginning.

And my passion? It happens to be eating pranzo (lunch).

Naturally, when choosing an Italian restaurant for lunch, Babbo went for the small, casual and relatively inexpensive option near home: Il Gioiello di Pienza (The Jewel of Pienza)

The Tuscan trattoria is inviting and comfortable with its creamy peach walls, reversible round tables adorned in white linen, metal ladder chairs, and tulip-shaped light fixtures. The most beautiful part of the restaurant is the brick accent wall decorated with renaissance paintings of the Tuscan countryside. I've only ever been to Italy five times in my life, but walking into Il Gioiello di Pienza feels like a piece of home.

I address the hostess at the front for my reservation with Babbo, and she leads me to a corner seat in the back of the restaurant.

He's already arrived, dressed in a green blazer, grey and white striped shirt and white pants paired with brown boat shoes.

Babbo has Mediterranean solid features; from his dark brown curly hair to his green eyes and olive skin tone, he could pass for Raoul Bova's twin. You'd think with interracial parents, I'd have 2c-3c curly hair and light-toned skin, but I don't.

Instead, I look like I was born straight out of Angola: heart-shaped face, thick pink lips, chesnut brown skin with warm undertones, and kinky 4c hair. The only physical features I've inherited from Babbo are my roman nose and thick eyebrows; everything else...is my mother.

I don't have a problem with how I look and never did, but when you're compared to your clearly white father and people ask who he is to you, it does make you feel somewhat insecure.

He stands to greet me, "ciao, mio bellissimo tesoro (hello, my beautiful treasure)," he says, embracing me in a hug and lightly kissing my cheeks. "How are you?"

"Sto bene, Babbo (I'm fine, Dad), you?"

"Great, now that you're here," he smiles, gesturing for me to take a seat.

I'm an only child between my parents, pride and joy they call me. I would've gone as far as to be my father's namesake if it wasn't for the fact that my name would've been a long one:

Luena Cinzia Knightley-Martinelli? Luena Cinzia Martinelli-Knightley?

It's custom for children to take their father's surname in Italy; it's actually legally enforced, but I was born in Palm Springs, California (March 13, 2004), and my mother wanted to carry on the name of my grandfather, Alakai Castelo Knightley. He passed away from lung cancer five years before I was born. So to appease my paternal grandparents, who were disappointed by my surname, they gave me the name Cinzia after my paternal grandmother.

Nonna is a sweet woman, continuously checking in every other month on me but her name, Cinzia, was never something I could accept, for myself, that is. Despite that, Nonna persistently addresses me as so:

Every. Conversation. We have.

Cinzia is also an Italian variation of the name Cynthia—one of the names of the Greek moon goddess Artemis, that refers to her birth on Mount Cynthus. Having a moon goddess middle name honestly is a little excessive because my first name Luena (named after a town in Angola), also variates from the name Luna for the moon. So, I guess the more unnecessary, the better.

After some time, our waitress, Fabriqua, finally hands us our menus.

"We'll start with antipasto," I say to Fabriqua while looking over the menu. "The burrata and tomato bruschetta, please."

"And a Pellegrino," Babbo added.

Fabriqua nods and leaves the table.

"So, are you looking forward to Italy? It's been a while since you've been tesoro (treasure)."

"Yes, I am, and so is Carmen. I still can't believe she asked you," I chuckle.

"Well, she is a charmer. It's hard to say no." He muses.

"And how are the renovations for 'The Golden Crown' coming along? Damìan informed me that Señor Moreno is in New York right now."

"You know León, he's as busy as a bee," he leans in his seat, "I'll be back in New York with him soon, preparing for the grand opening next month, but I came back because I received some news."

Babbo was always meeting a new client.

His business, Martinelli Architettura, blossoms in New York and Los Angeles; he's a residential architect and an industrial and furniture designer. When he was younger, he worked in the industrial suburbs of Firenze, despite his affluent upbringing. Nonno (grandfather) never spoiled him and taught him the value of working hard for what you have. That experience shaped his goal of becoming an architect, even though he had a whole family business he could be a part of.

He's always been one to establish himself and was raised on Nonno's philosophy:

"The higher you go, the more you remember where you came from."

Babbo instilled the same in me growing up. No matter the privilege, I should always be true to my roots. However, I will admit that I'm spoiled sometimes because Aunt Ana treats me so well.

He clasps his hands on the table, leaning towards me. I eye him expectantly; he seems nervous, so I wait until he's ready to speak. "Averie and I...are expecting...twins," he says, finally.

My mouth parts in surprise. Now it's his turn to wait patiently for a reply.

I look away in contemplation, trying to process his words. Never in my life did I ever think my parents would have more children. I always thought I'd be the only one, but apparently not. I'm about to become a sister to not one but two half-siblings.

Interesting.

I finally look at him, "that...is wonderful news," I genuinely say. "Sorry, I just needed a moment to process it. I'm genuinely happy for you, Babbo."

He smiles, taking my hands into his, "grazie, tesoro. Mi fa piacere sentirlo. (thank you, treasure. I'm happy to hear that). I know how hard my and your mother's divorce was on you, so I feared you wouldn't take the news well. I want to assure you that you will always be il mio bellissimo tesoro (my beautiful treasure), no matter what, Lulu."

I peck the top of his hand, "I know, Babbo." I sit back in my chair, "how far along is she," I asked.

"Thirty weeks."

"What! And she didn't realise she was?" I say surprisingly.

"No, nessun indizio (no clue). It was a surprise to both of us."

Our waitress, Fabriqua, arrives back at the table with our orders. She places a rectangular plate of bruschetta between us and a separate plate of burrata. And finally uncaps a bottle of Pellegrino. I thank her before she leaves and immediately cut into the burrata and drizzle olive oil on the inside.

I'm on good terms with my step-parents, but there was a while for three years after my parents split that I had difficulty adjusting. I won't lie; I took the changes pretty hard, took it hard until I was fifteen. But after getting used to my new reality, I had no choice but to get on board; understanding that my parents were ready to move forward really helped me move forward and accept their new relationships.

Averie's kind; she takes care of Babbo and seems interested in my life.

I will admit I don't spend much time with her, and that's only because I'm barely home, but when I do, she takes me shopping and even allowed me to read the transcript of her book, The Erratica's before it got published. I know she makes an effort, and I could give her a better time of day, but honestly, I'm not ready for a deeper relationship. I feel like I'm betraying my mother somehow like I'm supposed to hold Averie at arm's length.

Don't most daughters feel so when a new woman enters their father's life?

Averie is French-American, born in Marseille but raised in Silicon Valley; yes, the place of Notre Dame or la Bonne-mère.

It's actually where Babbo and Averie met.

A new client he contracted in San Francisco happened to be Averie's adopted father. Babbo is an exclusive architect to mostly business moguls and C-list celebrities, but his business is blooming, so I'm sure that status will rise very soon.

They met months after his divorce and a year later tied the not at El Atlántica Hotel in Malibu.

"How's Averie's movie adaptation coming along?" I ask when our antipasto arrives.

I spread the burrata on top of the bruschetta and placed it on Babbo's plate. He immediately bites into it.

"It's coming along well. Production begins in two weeks." He looks around inconspicuously, then leans closer to me, "I hear that they got that McClain girl for the lead from that show you used to watch."

I chuckle, spreading burrata on a slice of toasted bread, "Is that so? It's called House of Payne, and—,' I whisper, "I still do." He chuckles, "they're on to eleven seasons now. Ask Averie for an autograph, will you?" I muse.

He nods in agreement, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin and taking a sip of his water.

"Umm...Averie is having a festa del bambino (baby shower) this evening. Since so much time has passed. She also asked me to invite you and your girlfriends. Women only."

"Oh, yeah, of course, I'll go."

Babbo smiles, "great. I will order more food for the party after this, okay."

I smile, pouring myself Pellegrino, "sure, Babbo. No, il problema è mio (No, issue with me)."