“Mrs. Perino, I can’t take another bite. Thank you again for the delicious food, the hospitality, and the place to stay for a night,” I repeat, even though it might be the fifth time I’ve told her thank you in the last hour.

“Prego. It means you’re welcome.” Mrs. Perino’s kind grey eyes shine with the same genuine smile she gave us when we entered her home and she had kissed both of our cheeks, then hugged us tight acting like we’d known her forever before dragging us to this kitchen. “I love how the family grows bigger when we have invited guests.”

Angel had warned me that the similarities between me and Cara might choke his mother up some, but she hasn’t shown any signs of that at all. She’s only been smiling at us and stuffing us with food the whole time.

She talks over our silence, ever-smiling, “I do wish you’d stay longer than only one night. You wouldn’t hurt an old woman’s feelings by leaving before I make you my some of my special chicken dishes, would you?”

“I don’t see any old women in here,” I evade, ignoring her offer to stay longer, because we aren’t guests. And though they did invite us, we’re strangers, we sure aren’t family, and her generosity, concern and kindness, like Angel’s, has been overwhelming.

Needed, I’m finally admitting, just like Angel had suspected, but still, overwhelming.

It wasn’t until Mrs. Perino—a woman who’s turned out to be as tiny as Angel is gigantic—was telling me to test out the comfort of the pillows on Anna and Julia’s twin beds that she’d made up. While hugging the pillow she’d handed over, and breathing in the fresh-washed-flowery scent of whatever magical detergent she uses, I realized how much this woman and her son were giving to us. This was more than dinner and a place to sleep.

This was them giving me back parts of my sanity that I hadn’t even known I’d lost yet.

Somewhere in the middle of her dragging me from room to room to show us her house, and explaining how the hot-water knob in the bathroom shower was to be pulled, “extra hard, because it sometimes sticks.” I was able to fully relax for the first time since we ran away.

Maybe since my father disappeared.

Then, in the middle of showing me how to lock the door to our bedroom in case I felt uncomfortable sleeping in a strange house, I had this sensation of a huge weight being lifted off my back. I also knew right away there would be no need to lock our door in Mrs. Perino’s house, ever. They were the real deal, and they were all amazing.

My lungs and shoulders ached with relief as some of the tension I’d been holding there left me. Suddenly the air that went in and out of my lungs came easier and smelled fresher--felt like it was filling me up instead of only escaping out of me like it had been. This warm home was full of laughter, food, family and most of all safety. It held a family that seemed happy that we were at the table, not like a nuisance how Joanie had always treated us.

And not like we owed them somehow, which was constantly how Joanie had acted. Even though, we didn’t owe her. Our father was paying for our upkeep, and I had stepped up to fill Joanie’s weekend child care needs because Joanie’s husband, our father’s best friend, was deployed along with our dad, so she needed help.

The deployment was only supposed to last for eight months. My brother and I had been through long deployments before and we had stayed with other caretakers during those times so at first we hadn’t minded. Joanie’s little boys were cute and nice, and Joanie was at least grateful for how well I did care for her kids, but it had never been a real home. Never felt right.

Never once felt like sitting around this table feels right now.

Mrs. Perino intercepts me at the sink, taking the plates from my hands. As she rinses, I start stacking the dishwasher. “Does anyone have room for tiramisu for dessert?” she asks.

“I absolutely do not.” I groan pausing to try to stretch my back again.

“Oh, I do.” Sage looks as if he might leap out of his chair and attack Mrs. Perino as she pulls a gorgeous cake-looking concoction out of a corner.

“Good answer, Sage. I know the little girls always have room for dessert, too.” Mrs. Perino walks to the door and calls down the hallway to Angel’s little cousins who were too wiggly-and-giggly to sit through the entire meal. They’d been excused to go play right after eating their vegetables. “Anna and Julia, if you pick up your toys and get ready for bed, I will give you each a small plate of tiramisu.”

“Okay!” It’s impossible to tell which one answered, because their voices are nearly identical. We hear plastic toys being pelted into a toy bucket as quickly as possible.

Angel’s smile for me matches his mom’s. I return it, hoping my expression says that over the last two hours he and I have started to become the friends he suggested we’d become; but more importantly, I hope it also says that I will work hard to pay them all back for this kindness someday.

Sage takes the remaining salad bowl and his glass to the sink while Angel gets a cloth to start wiping the countertops. “Anna and Julia say there’s live chickens and rabbits out back? Do you need any help with them?” Sage asks.

“We always need help with them, but for now, Sage—you take dessert to the girls.” Mrs. Perino hands him a tray with two small plates of what looks like layers of cake, chocolate cocoa, and some sort of whipped layered cream-pudding. When he has the tray in his hands, she slides on a third plate with a huge square of the same dessert. “And that one is for you, growing boy.”

He beams at her like he couldn’t be happier, and takes the tray out of the room.

When he’s gone Mrs. Perino turns back and points to two large bags in the back hall. “Can you and Angel take the trash around front? Tomorrow is trash day.” She asks, her cute accent coming through.

“Not a problem at all.” I walk down the narrow back hallway and pick up a bag, puling the red drawstring on top to tie it in a bow. “After this, I can help get the girls to bed. I could draw some special pictures for them and tell them stories. Sage used to love that.”

Mrs. Perino draws in a breath and stops dead in her tracks, looking at me like my suggestion has shocked her. “My Cara, she used to do something similar with her little brother at bedtime too…”

“Robin is an artist. Did I mention that, Mamma?” Angel is still at the sink, squeezing out the damp rag as though he wants every last drop out.

“How do you know that?” I ask quietly.

“I saw your books and portfolio in the car. When I saw them—and because of Cara…” He flushes. “I guess I just assumed you were. Am I wrong?”

I shake my head, flushing as much as he just did. “No. You’re not wrong,” I answer quietly, feeling really strange.

He and his mom share a weighted look I don’t quite understand, one that makes their obsidian eyes lose half of their sparkle and that makes me feel even more strange.

Does me, being an artist, somehow make them sad?

“Why am I not surprised about that, Angelino. Not surprised at all,” Mrs. Perino answers, pausing to move Sage’s backpack out of her way. She pulls in a fast breath and I notice she’s reading Sage’s luggage tag. “Mamma-mia. You’re your last name is Love? You are Robin and Sage Love? Love? Amore? Angelino. Did you hear? It’s belissimo this last name. Perfecto per voi. Robin Love. Perfecto.”

“It’s awkward, I know, but yeah. That’s it.” I swallow, acting all casual while ignoring the ball of fear her saying our whole names out loud is bringing to my stomach because—what if Joanie reported us as runaways? What if they decide to hop onto laptops and Google our names and somehow we’re in some sort of runaway database, somewhere, if there is such a thing.

God, I hope not.

I swallow again.

“Angelino, can you believe this? It’s not awkward, all of this is wonderful.” Mrs. Perino beams at her son like she’s been hit with a thousand suns.

Eyes never leaving his mom’s, I get the idea Angel is having some sort of silent conversation with her before he joins me in the back hallway. “Ma—do you have to call me Angelino? In front of—people?” he asks stiffly, and I can absolutely tell he’s trying to change the subject, I just don’t know why.

“She’s not just people, are you Robin. You’re going to be more than friends. I just know it.”

Before I can answer, they start what sounds like a little argument in Italian with lots of ‘Mamma-mia’s and caro-mios, and one mi-amore-caro, and so much Italian I can’t understand. It all ends with Mrs. Perino scooting in between us so she can pinch one of Angel’s cheeks. “He’s such a good boy, my Angel. He’s made me so happy by bringing you two here. Truly.”

He ends it with a frustrated, “Oofa, Mamma, okay please. Ferma. I love you, yes I do. You know that, but you’re sounding and acting crazy.”

Angel’s grin and embarrassed cheek rubbing is kind of adorable.

He drags his trash bag out the back door, motioning for me to follow.

When we’re far enough away, I ask, “What does your mom mean when she says she’s not surprised I’m an artist? Was she choked up back there? Were you? Are you? And why? What’s up with all of that, plus my last name?”

“Don’t mind us,” He says, not turning back. “Italians are too emotional about things that mean nothing. My mom is in love with the word love, that’s all.” Angel pauses so I can fall in step with him. “She’s always saying everything that happens, is for a reason. She thinks the people we meet is all part of some bigger plan. She’s into manifest-destiny and how things are all created from our actions. That kind of stuff. The word love means a lot to us.”

I nod, not completely understanding all that he’s said, and address the parts I do get. “I used to believe in that kind of stuff, too. But when things go bad or get sad, like…” I choke back words and facts that almost slipped out about my father. “When things go bad or sad,” I repeat, gathering my thoughts. “It’s really hard to believe that some higher power—God, the universe, whatever that may be, would do that to people on purpose. Harder to believe that we could attract things that hurt, you know?”

He sighs loudly. “After what happened to my sister, hell yes, do I know. But even after Cara died, my mamma still believes it was all for a reason. She says that we don’t make the plan, the plan finds us. It comes from years and years of church and, also from watching this Oprah woman who was on TV when I was a kid. Your mom get into that show?”

My back stiffens, and I glance over at him. “You promised no questions. That’s a question.”

“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t think.” His expression is so surprised I realize I’m being too paranoid. He shrugs. “Back to my mom, then. She, like me, is moved by how you and Sage remind us of the past. But it’s more that you, personally remind us of Cara.”

“How?” I stop walking, and look directly at him.

He pauses for a long time and I realize the buzzing going on around me is not from my head, it’s from the sound of the backyard crickets.

Finally he answers, “It’s your face. The big eyes and the shape of your face and the long, curling hair. That’s what drew my attention to you at first. The way you set your shoulders when I questioned you in the garage reminded me of Cara so much it almost brought me to my knees. Even though your coloring is the exact opposite of hers, my mom agrees, you could be sisters or cousins. But…it’s more than that. You radiate this very natural prettiness, or maybe it’s how this unwavering hope and determination shines from you non-stop. It’s also…something about how your eyes go over your brother to make sure he’s okay , just how Cara did with me. That’s what made me call my mom after I’d parked your car.” His voice wavers and he breaks my gaze to look up at the dark sky. “Hell, I don’t know exactly, but your essence is so very much like my sister’s was, and…there’s one more thing.”

Angel pauses to swing his bag of trash to one side and takes the one I’ve been carrying out of my hands and motions me to walk ahead.

“What?”

“My sister…she was also into art. Painting. Like you are. She was so talented and creative. Her dream was to go to art school, but we couldn’t afford it.”

My throat constricts again at that information, and suddenly I feel way, too exposed. This time it’s me creating the long pause while I grapple with how much of myself I want to reveal to this guy. “It’s also my dream to go to art school. I mean, I am going. I have a scholarship waiting, and once my life is all figured out, I will go. I hope.” I sigh, taking in how he’s shaking his head and staring at me like what I’ve said has made me grow a second head.

“You look like you might cry,” I say, calling out how his eyes look too weighted and, too shiny again. “And your mom? In the kitchen, she also seemed sad and…well.” I pause, because my lips itch to form questions about his sister, about what really happened and how she died. Only, I can’t ask questions when I won’t allow them to ask me any. Maybe they’re like me. Their personal secrets and pain might be too heavy to send into breathable air. Like if they did, it would collapse them. On a whisper, I finish, “I don’t want my presence to make you guys feel sad, that’s all.”

“I think mom and I are always sad about Cara,” Angel replies. “Having you and Sage here so suddenly has brought feelings to the surface we’ve spent years working to put to rest. It’s possible mom and I will choke up about it here and there, but please just know Mamma and I are so happy that you and Sage will be safe tonight. And safe tomorrow, and hopefully for as long as you need. You two, staying here under our protection, it’s like a balm to that sadness. We know we’ve helped, or stopped some worry or sadness for you two.” Before I can speak he holds up a hand. “Not that the same things would have happened to you two, but like, you never know who you could have met. And, Cara and I met the worst possible people in the world when we needed help so it means a lot to us that you met…us.” he shakes his head. “Hell. I don’t know what I’m saying because I’m really bad at talking about this stuff, but, does any of what I said make sense?”

“Yes. I get you,” I choke out. Not knowing how to deal with the raw emotions now swirling between us, I nod, because damn him, and damn my situation, but this guy is completely right.

To change the subject, I point around the huge yard. “Are those three cottages back there? What are they? Is this a bed and breakfast kind of place? That’s what it looks like.” I eye the tiny-house shaped structures on the far side of the yard.

“They were built in the 1920’s. Foremen’s cabins from back when this was a part of a working orange grove. We’ve talked about renting them out, but two don’t have running water and the third, which is the largest, used to belong to Cara. The idea of changing her cottage has always seemed impossible for us, but at the same time we could use the money rentals might bring. We’ve been torn over deciding what to do back there for like five years now.” He sighs. “We also couldn’t rent to just anyone, because after what happened to Cara, we’ve become really private people.”

He nods to the picnic tables. “This center garden area was as built like a real town square. Mamma calls it her private piazza. The migrant workers would have been housed nearby in canvas tents and caravans. Here, they could gather after work, play music, eat together, and have a family environment during the long months spent working. The big house we live in belonged to one of the overseers. Part of it was used as a one room school.”

“It’s really nice here. Peaceful. You wouldn’t know there’s a big city nearby.”

“That’s why we love it so much. Mom’s got her own mini-farm going, and there’s still fruit trees all over the place.” He motions to the dark gardens behind the cottages. “Tomorrow you’ll see. Hopefully the flowers on the remaining few orange trees will hold off falling for one more day. They’re beautiful.” He leads me to a small gate and holds it open. “The pathways go in a circle. One to the gardens leading out back, the others all leading out as separate, secret escape routes.” He winks.

“Nice,” I say. “Because after today, you know I’m all about quality escape routes.”