Kiss Me Goodnight in Rome (The Senior Semester Series Book 2) (2 page)

This fucking restaurant. I roll my eyes. Ever since Papa passed six months ago, my usually calm, collected, reserved mama has been neurotic and obsessed with our family restaurant that no one in our family has actually worked at in at least a decade—or two—not counting the various summer shifts Claudia and I were required to fulfill.

“Now? I’m out.”

Claudia sighs heavily. “Yeah, well, come back. I’ve already made plans with Marissa, and I worked the past two days. I’m not going to keep covering for you and have no life, Lorenzo. It’s time you start pulling your own weight and help Mama out. I don’t know why this restaurant is so important to her, but … just go to Angelina’s, okay?”

I pause for several moments to drag it out, exasperate Claudia a bit more.

“Lorenzo!”

I laugh silently to myself. “Va bene. See you soon.”

She hangs up.

I shake my head and spot the upcoming exit. Shifting down, I dart across four lanes to a symphony of angry car horns and a sequence of rude gestures and smoothly exit the Autostrade, turning in the direction of our family restaurant.

* * *

Angelina’s Ristorante was established in 1907 by my great-grandfather, Bartolomeo D’Angelo, on my mother’s side. Bartolomeo, a handsome man with a hawkish nose and clear eyes, named the restaurant in honor of my great-grandmother, a true looker. Since then, the restaurant has expanded from a tiny two-table establishment to a bustling hotspot close to Campo de’ Fiori. Now, Angelina’s is capable of catering private events, hosting parties, and serving loyal patrons. Angelina’s has passed from generation to generation until it landed in my mama’s lap two years before she married Papa.

At first, Papa encouraged her to continue managing the restaurant. But within a year of their marriage, his business success exploded and Mama dutifully took her place by his side, entrusting the management of the restaurant to other capable hands. Instead of greeting patrons and tourists and stirring a bubbling pot of marinara sauce, she donned couture for various galas, smiled at ribbon-cutting ceremonies, and hosted an absurd amount of ladies’ teas.

To hear Papa tell it, Mama was beautiful and incredibly charming with a slew of suitors clamoring for her hand in marriage—Claudia and I never learned exactly how he won her over—and she only ever had eyes for him. He would always kiss her after making this declaration. Mama would laugh and kiss him back sweetly. Now, without him, she’s completely lost and has turned once again to the routine of her childhood: Angelina’s. Somehow, she has enlisted Claudia and me to work at the restaurant, and while I’d rather do just about anything else, I can’t flat-out refuse a request from Mama. Although I grumble about it, once I’m back in the routine of chopping vegetables, flirting with pretty girls, and laughing with the staff, it doesn’t seem so horrible. Not that I’ll admit it to Mama and Claudia.

I’m walking into the kitchen of Angelina’s forty-five minutes later when Mama’s smile greets me.

“Ciao, caro,” she calls affectionately.

“Hi, Mama.” I kiss her cheek.

She pats my face and turns back to the counter to continue chopping vegetables. Her blue eyes are tired and wisps of gray hair fall from her bun. Her hands, once dainty and smooth, are coarse and rough. I wince as I notice her manicure is chipped, the polish peeling off on several fingernails. Still, she works quickly, her hands moving on their own accord while her mind is clearly elsewhere. A lost look shadows her eyes.

Seeing the loss and grief etched into the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth softens my annoyance at being summoned to serve pizzas to loud, overweight, fanny-pack wearing American tourists.

I blow out a breath between my lips and reach around Mama for a white apron. After tying it low around my hips, I begin chopping tomatoes. She doesn’t look up. Soon, we’re chopping in unison. I chuckle, remembering the summertime days of my childhood, standing at this exact counter, Claudia and me preparing ingredients for whatever dishes the chef was creating. Even though Mama spoiled us lavishly, she also made sure we knew the meaning of hard work—mainly because Papa demanded we always know the value of a euro; in his days a lira. I smile wryly.

“Like old times, no?”

Mama smiles up at me. “You always were a good little helper.”

The hostess Simona breezes into the kitchen, giving me a pointed look. “Table on the patio. They want a bottle of red wine.”

“Okay,” I say, smiling at her.

She averts her gaze quickly, red staining her cheeks. She cuts a look to Mama and then walks out of the kitchen.

I silently laugh to myself. Simona and I slept together a month ago. It was a one-night thing. Too much wine. She had just broken up with some douchebag. I was bored. Still, the fact that she acts like a blushing bride around me is utterly ridiculous. And annoying.

I shake my head and grab a bottle of our house red, made at our family vineyard in Tuscany, and a stack of glasses. Craning my neck to see out to the patio, I spot a group of girls sitting at the table. They are giggling, their heads bent together. One girl reaches down, digs into her purse, and pulls out a makeup bag. She reapplies her lipstick carefully, smacking her lips loudly and looks around to see if any of the male patrons notice.

Incredibile! I almost forgot about the start of the fall semester and all the study abroad students flocking to Rome. A lot of the student housing is nearby and business at the restaurant always picks up, particularly during the lunch hour, with American students sitting down to study and drink espresso.

All those American girls in short skirts and boots. I laugh to myself, shaking my head and scoping out the girls further. There’s a hot redhead next to the lipstick girl. I haven’t hooked up with a ginger in a while. Not since Guilietta.

And, if all else fails, there’s always Simona.

I smile, my earlier frustration completely forgotten. There are definitely worse things than working at Angelina’s. Not all jobs offer a selection of beautiful girls to look at and flirt with.

Chapter Two

Mia

The execution is pure perfection. I leap into the grand jete, the soft material of my costume brushing against my legs, my headpiece glimmering in my hair. My posture is spot on, no tension in my neck, my arms graceful, legs extended, toes pointed. For a brief moment I am suspended between the blurry division of reality and marvel. A miracle. Pure magic. Everything is perfect.

Until it isn’t.

The searing pain that cuts through my knee and jolts up my spine jerks me awake, leaving me gasping in my seat, fingers digging into the armrests, beads of sweat dotting my hairline. Breathe, Mia. It’s just a dream.

Or more accurately, an all-too-familiar nightmare.

“Benvenuti a Roma.” The plane’s wheels have already touched down and as the nightmare recedes from my foggy mind, I realize the plane is taxiing.

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, trying to calm my nerves. It was just a dream. Deep breath in, count to five, exhale. Only a dream. A dream I have relived regularly since my knee injury—the real-life moment of not perfectly landing a grand jete. One misstep, a moment of unbalance, a spark of indecision, that resulted in a torn ACL and a bitter end to my dancing career, my passion, my life, six months ago.

The flight attendant’s warm voice switches to English. “Welcome to Rome. The current temperature is eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit. The weather is sunny and hot, with seventy-eight percent humidity.”

Instinctively, I unwind my pashmina from around my neck and pull the ends of my hair loose from the inside of my T-shirt. Long, brown, pin-straight strands hang over my shoulders.

The plane comes to a stop and the seat belt sign flickers off as passengers bustle around, reaching into the overhead bins for their stowed luggage and filling up the aisles. I wait my turn patiently, smiling to thank my neighbor when he hands me my purple backpack.

As I wait to disembark, I turn airplane mode off on my phone. The aisle is full with impatient Italians and tourists, all shuffling their feet, eager to get off the plane and stretch their legs after such a long flight. Waiting in the crowded aisle, I send Dad a quick text.

Me: I arrived! Just getting off the plane now. I love you.

He responds not even a minute later.

Dad: Happy you arrived safely. Have a great day and message me once you’re settled into your apartment. Be safe. Love you too.

I smile at his message, his words giving me an unexpected strength I didn’t realize I needed.

Deep breath. I can do this.

* * *

Passport control takes ages and still, when I arrive at the baggage carousel, the luggage from my flight hasn’t appeared yet. I shake my head, watching families, couples, and people milling about, waiting anxiously for their luggage, excited to begin their vacations, reunite with family and friends, tour Italia!

I never imagined I would study abroad in college. It’s definitely something I pegged for Lila and Emma, taking a semester to trot around Europe in flimsy flip-flops and oversized backpacks. I had a plan. I was going to star in the Junior-Senior showcase: Romeo and Juliet. As Juliet. There would be no time for studying anywhere but the McShain University library in order to fit in all the extra classes, rehearsals, and general demands required of a dance major. And yet, I loved it. I reveled in the routine, the structure, the discipline. I always knew what to expect, what I needed to improve, how to prepare for perfection.

Despite having landed thousands of grand jetes during hundreds of practice hours, that one moment changed it all. I turned too sharply, landed too hard, twisted too much, and the strain that shot through my left leg and lower back, causing me to crumble in a pile on the floor, was an instant wakeup call that the Junior-Senior showcase would not be the perfect conclusion to my junior year of college.

Or my senior year.

I was devastated. Imagine training for something for hours every day, every weekend, every spare moment, only to have it ripped away from you when you are so close to finally achieving your dream. After years of sacrifice, it all finally seemed within reach.

Until it wasn’t.

The sorrow that colored my reality was crippling. The disappointment in my dad’s eyes when he came to the hospital was evident and hung heavy in the lines around his brow. My stepmother, Claire, didn’t bother coming, but the way she flicked her wrist at me over Easter, while explaining my injury to guests, was another reminder that I somehow failed.

I squeeze my eyes shut, remembering the awkwardness of that holiday: Claire’s stiff smile, Dad’s preoccupied throat clucks when I offered something to the conversation, the stretch of days that hovered between slightly frosty and downright frigid. I was so grateful to return to Philadelphia, to McShain University. Quickly, it became apparent that ballet was my life since I suddenly didn’t know what to do with myself, how to fill all the extra hours in the day when I would normally be at the studio.

I returned from the Easter holiday with a stack of my mother’s journals. Once I was settled in back at the dorms, I spent hours thumbing through them, combing the pages for pieces of her. She loved to write, to chronicle, to pour her feelings and thoughts into flowing, oversized handwriting, comprised of half-print and half-cursive that filled countless notebooks. When she passed away from cancer, almost thirteen years ago now, her journals were one of the only things I still found her in—her spirit, her essence, her beauty dancing across lines of paper, little flowers doodled in the corners.

It was during one of these moments, when I was lost in thought, lost in my mother’s words, that I learned of her desire to travel. To see Rome and London and Madrid. To ride elephants in Phuket and feed giraffes in Johannesburg. She was passionate and loving and had a wild streak a mile long. I always wished I could be more like her, embrace adventure, flirt with danger, have fun.

Her words inspired me, convinced me that instead of wallowing in self-pity and feeling worthless for not performing in the Junior-Senior showcase, my time would be better spent learning, growing, exploring. And I remembered how, even at the end, when her head was bald, her skin nearly translucent as it delicately hugged her bones—even as she grimaced with pain, cancer eating her organs, medicines and pills erasing her body—she dreamed. Whenever I entered her bedroom, her eyes would light up and she would smile encouragingly. “Dream with open eyes, Mia,” she would whisper. Even in her final days, she was as radiant as a sunflower yet delicate like a butterfly.

Completely absorbed by her journals, swept away by her dreams, I handed in the study abroad application at the absolute last minute. I was stunned when I was accepted, couldn’t believe I was really doing this.

Moving to Rome.

To live.

For a semester.

And now here I am, about to embark on the next four months with absolutely no plan in sight. I shake my head, digging my hands into the pockets of my hoodie. I already feel lost.

Clearing away my thoughts, I pinch myself, but yes I am still standing at the baggage carousel. In Rome. Finally, I spot my two suitcases. The first one is smaller and slides off the carousel easily. Then I lean in to gather my oversized suitcase from the baggage carousel, smiling gratefully at an older gentleman who comes to my rescue, helping me tug it off.

“Grazie,” I tell him. He nods his head.

My larger suitcase is massive and weighs the same as I do. Actually, I bet I outweigh it now that I’ve put on extra weight. I shuffle outside, dragging the two suitcases behind me, avoiding eye contact with everyone I pass, and settle into the taxi line. After securing a taxi and handing the driver the piece of paper with my new address typed neatly across it, I lean back in the seat, close my eyes, and count to ten. When I open my eyes, Rome is flying past the window and panic flickers in my chest.

I moved to a foreign country.

What the hell was I thinking?