"You are my dearest friend, my deepest love. You are the very best of me."

- The Best of Me, coming to theaters October 17

Chapter 1

Talia Walker

“GO ITALY!” screamed Dad, waving the blue, red and white flag higher than anyone else. “Italia has got this in the bag! GO ITALIA! YEAH!”

Luca gave me a side glance and pleaded me to tell him to stop. I patted Dad’s back and told him to sit down. He refused and stood on the chair instead, shouting louder. I couldn’t stop myself from cracking a smile at his consistent enthusiasm for the game. We were tied with England and half time started more than five minutes ago, but Dad hadn’t stopped cheering.

“Mamma,” I complained, “Tell Dad to stop. Please, save this family from eternal embarrassment in another country.”

My mother shook her head and laughed. Her satin-like chestnut hair blew along with the wind, making her seem like a supermodel. She didn’t look a day over thirty. The only wrinkles she had were from smiling too much and if anything, they added to her beauty.

“Kyle, per favore,” she said, tugging onto his shirt. “It’s half-time. Sit down.”

“Yeah, Papà, you’re embarrassing me,” said my older sister Laura, putting a hand on her baby bump, “And my bambino in a different continent.”

“Marry an Italian, they said. Support the sport, they said. Now, look where I am,” Dad sat back down. The paint on his face and the crazy way his hair was standing made him look like a wild fanatic.

Which he was.

A few months ago, there was a radio contest giving out four tickets to the FIFA World cup game in Brazil. The game was Italy and England. Despite Dad’s total inability to speak fluent Italian, he won them. That day, he entered Maria, Mamma’s bakery, with a smile big enough to kill any trace of sadness in the world.

The whole family had celebrated until 1 am, we had danced and laughed. Truthfully, we liked to make any occasion a big party. It was our family’s particularity. Nonna Vale was bummed to be the only one not going, but she shared our joy by drinking five glasses of wine.

“You’re surrounded by a loving wife and three beautiful children,” said Mamma, slapping his arm, “You have nothing to complain about.”

Dad grumbled a few words about having a family that lacked support and shut up when Mamma held her hand in his. His face softened and he looked instantly happier. It was like looking at two teenagers in love. Sickening, yet strangely adorable.

“Talia, they’re still like this?” said Laura, nudging me.

She had gotten married two years ago with our neighbor, whom she loved with all of her heart. Even though Carlo, her husband, didn’t want a kid just yet, she had gotten pregnant. Instead of being supportive, he fought with her all the time. We decided that by bringing her with us, maybe he would miss her and she would stop throwing gasoline to the fire and settle down.

I shrugged, “They’ve never changed. I catch them kissing behind the bakery every two weeks or so. It’s horrifying.”

Laura shuddered and glanced down at her stomach for the tenth time today. There was a look of longing inhabiting her eyes, never once leaving her. She was thinking about Carlo again.

“I’m hungry,” whined Luca, tugging on Mamma’s sleeve. The boy was ten, but he could act like a six year old whenever it came to food. Normally, he never complained, because he would always swipe a cannoli or a mini pizza, commonly known as Panzarotti.

My stomach growled loudly as well and I realized that I was sharing his need for food. The last time we had eaten was this afternoon in the hotel, at 2. It was 7:30 now. There were limits to my stomach’s patience and they had just passed.

“How much time do we have until the game continues?” I questioned, feeling my stomach contract and make whale noises. Gratefully, there was enough sound surrounding us to drown my stomach’s pleas.

Glancing at her watch, Mamma replied: “Fifteen minutes.”

Just as I opened my mouth to announce that I would go find us food in the cafeteria, Dad protested. “No. I’ll go.”

“Dad, just let her go,” said Laura, tying her blonde hair in a high ponytail. She was the intruder in the family; inheriting more of a Californian façade, from my dad’s side. She might not have come off as an Italian right away, but her beauty was undeniable.

Towards the ending of my high school year, my dad had been acting strange. He stopped letting me go out with my friends as often, he wanted to know every detail of my outings and shouted at me for no reason sometimes.

Mamma waved it off, saying that it was because I was his last little girl and he wasn’t just ready to let go of me yet. Especially that Laura had settled down and moved out as such a young age, he expected me to stay by his side more than she had. He made me feel dutiful towards him. For example, if he ever asked me to do an activity with him like play soccer or cards, I immediately obliged, no matter if I had to study for an exam.

Dad glanced at me and back at Mamma, who was communicating with him through her eyes, “Fine. If you’re not back in ten minutes, I’ll go looking for you.”

“I’ll take it,” I said, standing up. Mamma handed me a few dozen of foreign money — Brazilian Real— and I rushed out of the rails, doing my best not to bump into anyone.

This was the Fifa World cup after all, otherwise known as the most important soccer event of the year. There were thousands of people here, all sweaty from the weather and from shouting their throats off during the game. The enthusiasm and excitement hung over everyone’s heads, the joy of being present was as contagious as a sneeze in the winter.

“Scusi! Excuse me,” I said for the tenth time, passing by someone to get to the hall where I could head towards the cafeteria.

What happened during the next moments was a complete blur. I felt something crash onto me and a messy substance on my brand new Italia shirt. I fell to the ground, hard, on my bum. I stood up, looking at the nacho sauce on my shirt. The smell of liquid, spicy cheese and of embarrassment filled my nostrils.

My first thoughts were shock and pity for whomever had bumped into me, because I had just been doing the identical thing moments ago. Then, the fact that the center of my shirt (on the very day when I was supposed to look good, because I was watching my favorite team) was covered in sauce had dawned on me.

Flabbergasted, I blurted out: “Dio mio, excuse you! Why didn’t you look where you were going?!”

“I’m so sorry!” cried out the person in front of me in an unmistakable English accent.

I was forced to avert my complete attention to him. He was taller than me, which rarely ever happened, since I was 5ft 8. Honey dip hair was up in a small Mohawk, but there was no shine of gel in sight. He had bright minty eyes, which were wide in alarm. He had striking features that for a moment, made me blink several times. He must have been around my age, perhaps 20 to 24.

He was handsome.

“You’re British?” I asked, emitting a small shudder.

One thing about me was that I was not racist.

I just didn’t like British people. The fact that everyone in American movies swooned over their accents was a major pet peeve of mine. Everyone thought that Brits were the hottest men on Earth while really, their looks had nothing special. Plus, their egos were the size of Jupiter.

“Yeah. You’re,” He glanced at my shirt, “An American fan of Italy, I assume?”

The way he stood, with his back arched slightly to the back, was getting on my nerves.

“I’m half-Italian, actually,” I said, giving him a smile. “You ruined my shirt.”

“Would you like me to pay for it?” he offered. I noticed that his voice was husky, which, to my dislike, added to his attractiveness.

I pondered over the thought. Dad had spent enough money on the extra expenses of this trip and he would probably be disappointed at the thought of having to buy me another shirt, which was actually quite costly.

“No, thank you. I would like you to go back to cheering on a terrible team.”

I was being rude and I knew it. But I just couldn’t help myself.

A perfectly done eyebrow rose a little. “What makes you think that you can insult my team like that? That isn’t sportsmanship.”

“Wait,” I put up a finger, “Do you hear that?”

He leaned over and I backed away a little, unsettled at the proximity between us. “What?”

“That’s the sound of me, not caring.”

Just when I thought he would answer back by another insult, he threw his head back and let out the strangest noise. He started to laugh. The sound of his laugh startled me, because I hadn’t expected that reaction at all.

I stood there, feeling immobile, until he stopped laughing.

“I’m Matthew,” he said, extending a hand. “You’re funny.”

“I’m—” I paused, “Not going to tell you my name. Because that would suggest the slightest hint of friendship. I don’t like your team.”

“Your negativity hurts me,” he said, pulling back the hand and crossing his arms together.

“I really don’t care,” I replied. Feeling the weight of the money in my pocket, I hurried to walk away from him and headed towards the cafeteria.

A hand wrapped itself around my arm. “Wait! Can I just get your name?”

“My name is no-you-can’t-get-my-name,” I said, snatching my arm away from his grip.

“Alright, No-you-can’t-get-my-name. It’s a great pleasure to meet you,” he said, giving me a serene smile. If this was a movie, this would be the part where I would fall in love with the main character with hauntingly beautiful eyes.

“Are you trying to flirt with me?”

“I’m just being nice. You’re misinterpreting it for flirting,” he snickered.

“You are flirting,” I said, “Leave me alone, yeah?”

“Alright, alright,” he said, putting his hands up in surrender, “I can’t guarantee this will be the last time I see you.”

“Why?” I snorted, “Are you some kind of psychotic stalker who kidnaps pretty girls and shaves their heads off and is a complete freak?”

“Who said you’re pretty?” said the boy, Matthew.

If the comment was meant to hurt me, he had miserably failed. I held myself with confidence and I despised to be insecure in any way. My parents had raised Laura, Luca and I to be modest when necessary and to hold our heads up whenever insults were ever fired our way.

I glared at him with complete frustration. He was wasting my time and I really didn’t feel like arguing with anyone at the moment. It would ruin my day and this was supposed to be one of the best days of my life.

“Thanks,” I said dryly.

Shifting my body away from him, his hand on my shoulder stopped me, for the second time, from walking away from him.

“I meant that you’re beautiful. Pretty is too small of a word for you,” he stopped, “Let’s make a deal,” he mused, shrugging.

As much as I resented speaking to him, deals had always been interesting to me. They were a big tradition in our enormous family. During soccer matches, my dad would bet with my uncles on a certain soccer player scoring, no matter what team it was. I had followed into my dad’s footsteps, making little bets for a small amount of money against my cousins and siblings.

“I’m listening,” I said, already hearing the cheers of the crowd from afar. The game had started again and I was missing seconds of it.

“If England wins, I’ll leave you alone,” he said.

So far, the plan sounded like music to my ears.

“And if Italia wins?” I coked an eyebrow. Distinct screaming was emitted from the stands and I was almost a hundred percent sure that it was my father.

“I’ll meet you in front of the Millennium Hotel, on the Rio Negro.”

He spoke in a way that demonstrated intelligence. I was staying at the Millennium hotel, which offered a direct view onto the Rio Negro, a gorgeous river. In fact, most of the spectators were spending their nights there because it was one of the closest hotels to the stadium.

The evidence was that he wanted to see me again. Despite his gaucherie damaging my shirt, there was something about him that intrigued me. The shine in his eyes when he smiled or the way he was talking to me generally.

I was no stranger to getting hit on by boys. Italian and American —since my school was a private American school— boys had gone to several extremes for my attention; roses, love letters and even songs, everything had been done. Only one boy had actually captured my heart, but even that didn’t last more than two months.

I smiled, “I guess I’ll see you tonight, then.”

Currently, I had nachos on my favorite shirt while being on a different continent. I had the choice to either make this ruin my day or render it better. There was also Creepy Brit, whom was consuming my current thoughts.

The corners of his lips rose, “Whatever you say, beautiful.”

“How do I know you won’t murder me?” I said, disregarding his compliment.

“Because I’ll introduce you to my brothers and they’ll tell you how great and un-murderous I am.”

He held up a finger and ran back to the stadium. I waited a few moments, debating whether I should leave or not. He came back, holding two men by their arms.

They had paint on their faces and the way they were whining reminded me of Luca. The resemblance between them and Matthew was striking. The dark blonde hair was present in all of them, as well as the pale skin color. They were both more muscular than Matthew was and they had more facial hair. I had a doubt that his brothers were twins. The manly beauty was in the family, I noticed.

“Hello!” said one of them, grinning.

”Hi,” I replied. The match was going on and Dad was probably having a panic attack. I expected him to come looking for me, his hair standing up in fear and worry.

“This is Brad,” said Matthew pointing to one of them, “And that’s Chad,” he pointed to the other.

“Hello!” said the one with emerald colored eyes: Brad.

“She’s a beauty,” added Chad, nudging his brother.

Matthew grimaced, “Don’t. You’re both here to tell her that I’m a nice lad. Tell her,” he said, gripping onto their arms.

“Matty, calm it with the “trying to be macho in front of a pretty girl” stuff,” said Brad, taking his arm away.

Chad agreed, “You’re wasting our time, kid. What did you want again?”

“Please, assure her that I’m a good man. That I won’t murder her.”

“Alright,” sighed Brad, looking at me, “Matthew Cole is a good guy, for real. He can be a pain in the arse, but he won’t hurt you in any way. He isn’t a serial killer, he’s just a—”

“—High school graduate whose amazing brothers brought him to Brazil as celebration,” finished Chad.

This confirmed my twins theory.

Matthew gave me a big, exaggerated grin, “That’s me.”

He was close to being my age, then!

A man with a green paint falling down his face walked towards us, stomping his feet on the ground so loud; he reminded me of a dinosaur.

“Leave,” I commanded to the boys, “Now.”

Their eyes met my father and they quickly dispersed back into the crowd in front of the game. Before leaving, Matthew shoved the box of remaining nachos in my hands and winked.

“Who were they?” asked dad, analyzing my appearance.

“People. Don’t worry about it.”

“What happened to your shirt?”

“Uh—I tripped and the nachos fell on me.”

Dad eyed me suspiciously and nodded. He told me to go back with him, because the game was starting to get heated and he didn’t want any of us to miss a second of it.

I proceeded to head back to my seat with not only a stain on my shirt, but nachos barely enough to satisfy my dad and my pregnant sister. The complaints filled my ears, but I couldn’t get the crazy smile off my face.

I had enough faith in my team to proudly state that I was going to see him tonight.