Changing For Her

How I Met Your Mother

To all those who read my story, I am so sorry I haven't uploaded. I won't give anymore excuses because they haven't changed. Here's a new installment but it's rather short. People have been messaging me, saying they want to meet my father in the story, so here he is. This part was all about my interactions with my father regarding our life before American, Selena, his illness and everything. Don't forgert to comment ( I love reading them) and vote (It makes my story look good). Enjoy.

I’m going to start out by letting everyone know a bit more about the mystery that is Marcos Lombardi. My mom died the day I was born back home in Venice, Italy. Obviously, I’ve never met her before. My father raised me as best as he could but being a busy lawyer meant he had to enlist the help of my Nana and Papa. When I was sixteen, my father and I moved to America. A few months into our new American life, my father became sick with lung cancer, something common with many Italians. His father was a cigar roller back in the day and my father had a fine collection of his own cigars, ones we smoked often. His smoking eventually caught up to him. Which brings me here to today, in the hospital room of my father.

 “Ciao, Papà,” I begin to great my increasingly weak looking father, “Come stai-”

He stops me midsentence with a headshake. “No, no, mi figlio. No Italian, I tell you ever time. I need help con il mio English. The nurses and I no understand each other.”

I chuckle at him, he uses so many hand gestures while he talks, something I had to learn to control when we moved to America. “I wonder why, Papà. You are a walking stereotype with your heavy accent and hand gestures.”

 He gives me a laugh but is overcome with a coughing fit, giving me a reminder as to why he is in this lonely hospital. “You should’ve seen their faces when the football match came on. They had to call the doctor because they thought I was having a stroke when Mantoza scored against our Unione Venezia.”

 “I was watching that game with James, Asher, and David. They had to duct tape me to a chair so I wouldn’t break anything.” I still have marks on my wrists from where they bound me. I only broke a vase or three, nothing major.

 He smiles at me and looks me into my eyes. “Allora, Figlio, why are you here?” I was about to say something when he cuts me off again, “I know it isn’t because you wanted to just pay a visit on a Saturday night at 11:45. What is really going on, Figlio?”

 I take a deep breath. Man, this guy knows me too well. I guess that’s what happens when he’s your father. I start messing around with my hair. “I have had a  . . . difficult night, Papà.”

 He becomes intrigued by this and sits up straighter in his bed. “It must be serious, you are running your hands through your hair,” he says and points a finger at my self tousled mess I call hair. Jeez, does everyone know that I play with my hair when I’m nervous? This totally explains why I always lose poker against Asher, that sneaky little bastard. “What did you do this time, Marco?”

 I roll my eyes at him, “What do you mean, ‘what did you do this time’? It’s not always my fault.” My father narrows his eyes at me. “Okay, yes. This was my fault,” I give in.

 He leans back and puts his hands behind his head. “I thought so. So tell me what happened, stupido.” And so I tell him the story of Selena, leaving out some things such as my history of sleeping with numerous girls.

 “And then I say her being comforted by McGregor, it made me angry, so I drove over here to talk to the one person I knew would understand me and my mistakes.” I finish and raise my eyes up to meet his. He relaxes for a moment and then strikes forward to hit me on the back of my head.

 “Idiota, era perfetta!” He says slipping into his Italian. He hits me once more for good measure. “You just gave up the perfect girl for you, Marco Agostine Lombardi! You better get your culo out there and get me my daughter-in-law!”

 We look at each other for a while and then burst out laughing. “Sì, Padre. You are right but I don’t know. Maybe this was a sign that I shouldn’t bust my balls trying to get one girl and stick with her. I haven’t done it before, so why should I do it now?”

 My father squints his eyes at me. “What do you mean you haven’t done it before?” He questions slowly. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Now, my father doesn’t know that I haven’t exactly had a girlfriend. He knows I’m popular with the girls but he doesn’t know to which extent. Me sleeping with lots of girls and then throwing them away probably won’t appease my father greatly.

 “I mean . . . I haven’t exactly tried to stay with one girl before.”

 “You’ve cheated on a girl?” He asks rather confused.

 I scratch the back of my neck. I slowly force out, “No, it’s rather that I’ve never had a girlfriend to start with.”

He nods his head like he understands. “You’re gay.”

My eyes widen in shock. “Gay?! What? Dad . . no!” I yell at him. He raises his hands in defense. “No, I’m not gay. I’ve just never tried to stick to one girl so rather I just  . . . have my fun with them and then leave.” I brace myself for the hit that I know will soon reach me. But it doesn’t.

He chuckles at me. “You may not want to here this, Figlio, but you and I are very similar. When I was seventeen, I worked as a gondolier. You met a lot of people doing this job and many girls, especially. I had one costumer that came daily, a girl about my age, who needed the gondola to get to her job across the city. We talked and talked during our trips and one day, I realized I was in love with her. I had never been I love before so I tried to kiss her but she denied me. Since I still had to drive her in the mornings, I began to serenade her about how much she meant to me. I continued to sing until one day, she stopped me and said, ‘I have a better use for those lips, Franco’ and she kissed me right then and there. And that, Marco, is how I met your mother.” He looks at me with his eyes full of love and memory. “Never give up, Marco. And never stop loving her, I know I haven’t.”

 A nurse pokes her head in and tells me that I need to go. I nod at her and look at my father. “Don’t worry, Papà. I won’t give her up.”