Taboo Sessions with My Dad’s Therapist

I was leaning on my bedroom windowsill, “checking the weather,” which is Bella-speak for staring at Matteo like a total idiot. The vines ran in neat green lines to the hill, glittering in the late light. Matteo was down there in his work shirt, sleeves rolled, hair tied back; when he pushed it away, his profile went sharp and—boom—my stomach flipped.

He glanced up and caught me. I turned into a tomato. He grinned and waved, the kind that says, I know you. I bolted. By the time I reached the stone path, my pulse had mostly returned to “human.”

“You’re blushing,” was his comment.

“The sun is bright.”

“It’s evening, Bella.”

I nudged his shoulder. “What are you doing, professor of dirt?”

“Pruning.” He lifted a cane. “Too many buds, you get leaves showing off and grapes that forget to taste like anything. Two buds, happy clusters.” He touched a tiny curl. “Tendril. It hooks when the vine’s aiming for support. Plants tell you what they want if you stop trying to be the boss.”

“You’re very bossy for someone who listens to vines.”

He broke off a sprig and handed it to me. “For luck.”

I twirled it. “For courage.”

“That too,” he murmured, falling into step toward the fig tree. He smelled like sun and crushed leaves; if I could bottle it, I’d retire.

“You’ll need both in Rome,” he added.

“If Papa lets me,” I said, not casual at all. “He hasn’t answered.”

“He will,” Matteo said, in that listening-first way. “It’s your dream. Remember when you said you’d leave me stuck here forever?”

“I was twelve. I also wore neon leggings. My judgment was… developing.”

“You’d run down this path,” he said, “and I’d threaten to push you in the fountain.”

“Effective pedagogy.”

“Race you!”

“You wish,” I said—and sprinted. We looped the fig tree, laughing like we were still kids. He caught me—hands careful, body close—pressing me to warm bark.

“Caught you,” he breathed.

His hair fell forward; his eyes dropped to my mouth; the air went fizzing. “Some lines don’t need crossing to be real,” he whispered, voice rough like he’d kept that line caged.

Matteo leaned in and I raised my hand at the last second—shield, dare, I don’t know. His mouth brushed my fingers. Soft, careful, killing me.

“Signorina Bella!” someone shouted from the terrace. “Your father is waiting!”

Matteo smiled, tight at the edges. “Go. See you tomorrow.”

Dinner was Papa, the long oak table, portraits of serious ancestors, and three wine glasses I’m “old enough to sniff, too young to abuse.”

“You’re making the dishes sing,” Papa said.

“Opera night.”

He studied me—worried, determined. “Your mother wanted classrooms, not cameras,” he said, the old story. “You’ll go to Rome,” he finally said, taking my hand. “One month. With Luisa. See the campus. Decide with your own eyes.”

I squealed, flew around the table, kissed his bald head. “Thank you, Papa!”

“Conditions,” he said, wagging a finger. “Approved housing. Call every evening. No scooters.”

“I’ll walk like a nun.”

“The world took your mother,” he said softly. “I won’t lose you.”

“You won’t,” I promised, meaning it and also wanting to run until the horizon widened.

I ran upstairs to tell Matteo—but the garden was empty, so called Luisa instead.

“We’re going!” I blurted.

She shrieked and, by the sound of it, opened a spreadsheet. “Packing list. Flashcards. Sensible shoes.”

“Boring.”

“Accurate,” she said, then we planned until midnight because girls contain multitudes.

Rome arrived like a new playlist—too loud, too fast, perfect. We dumped suitcases in the approved dorm (smelled like soap and future heartbreak), grabbed the campus tour, and fell in behind Professoressa Conti with her friendly-but-keep-up energy.

We passed packs of students; I watched faces like waves. In the library, I drifted to a stack of textbooks. A thick trauma casework tome made my fingers tingle. I flipped a page, pretending I understood half. (I’d get there. I would.)

“Ambitious choice,” a voice said, smooth as cool water.

I looked up. He stood beside me—late thirties, maybe early forties, dark hair just touched with gray, charcoal sweater, immaculate watch. People noticed him. Two students straightened; someone called “Buona sera, dottore”; he shook a hand with that practiced, precise smile.

He was not like anyone I knew. He was—yes—finished. Handsome in the brain-scrambling way.

“I’m… browsing,” I said, not clutching the book like a life raft (lies).

“Graduate text,” he said. His gaze flicked over me—dress, hair, face—and away, like checking vitals. “Most first-years avoid it.”

“I’m not enrolled yet. Visiting for a month.”

“Ah.” He filed me: transient. “Ferraro,” he said. “Luca. I teach clinical practice.”

I shook his hand. (Warm. Firm. I became thirteen.) “Isabella Moretti. Bella.”

“Moretti,” he repeated, alphabetizing me. He didn’t linger; I felt it anyway. Men see my face first; he saw it and shelved it. Annoyingly professional.

“I want to study psychology,” I blurted. “I’m preparing.”