I took another slug of my coffee—like most of my old boyfriends, it was strong, dark, Italian and slightly bitter. . .

...if Nonna sensed weakness, she'd zero in for the kill

I pointed, still unable to utter a word. Tim looked down at the spectacle behind the shed, his face swiftly draining of color. He gripped my arm with a clammy hand. And then he did something I'd been waiting half my life to see: he dropped into a dead swoon at my feet.