Kiss Me Goodnight in Rome (The Senior Semester Series Book 2) (8 page)

“Hi, Claire. No, not yet. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“It’s a wonderful museum. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

“Okay, well, here’s Dad.” She smiles tightly before Dad’s face comes back on screen.

“Glad to hear that everything is going well, Mia. You really like your roommate and the Franchettis, huh? They sound like wonderful people.”

I nod enthusiastically. “They’re really awesome. Anyway, I have to get going now. Paola and Gianluca are taking Lexi and me out.”

“Oh, okay.” Is that a flash of disappointment in his eyes? Ugh, why can’t I ever do anything right? “I’ll talk to you soon then. Have fun, honey. Be careful.”

“Thanks, Dad. Enjoy the play.”

He nods. “I love you.”

“Love you too. Talk to you soon.”

“Okay, Mia. Take care now.”

“’Bye.” I end the call.

Why does it always seem like talking to him requires effort? Why can’t it just be easy, natural, like it used to be?

“Mia?” Lexi knocks on my door. “You ready?”

“Yeah, I’m coming,” I tell her, slipping on some sandals and opening my bedroom door.

Paola and Gianluca take us to a classy, upscale wine bar. We sit around in the dim glow of candles and clap as a singer and pianist conclude their set.

I’ve always loved live music. There’s just something about the performers, a glimpse of vulnerability in their courage, the way they expose themselves fully to a sea of strangers, the passion they have for their art, which I admire and respect. Clapping for the performance, I’m reminded of my own days up on stage, performing, dancing, enjoying the appreciative cheers from the crowd. A sharp pang of longing fills my chest and for a moment, it hurts to breathe. In many ways, losing dance was like losing my identity. And now, in Rome, I’m just starting to learn how to be me without dance. How to be just Mia. Not Mia, the ballerina, the dancer.

“This is awesome.” Lexi smiles, taking a sip of her wine. She swirls the glass expertly. “The limpidity of this wine is perfect,” she says in a posh accent, turning up her nose snootily.

Paola, Gianluca, and I laugh, enjoying Lexi’s impersonations. Pretending to be wine connoisseurs, we polish off several bottles before calling it a night. It’s strange to me, in a good way, experiencing this type of familial normality, having this easygoing, stress-free atmosphere in our home. My Italian transplant family has offered me more support, more balance, and a lot more laughs than Dad and Claire have in recent years. This realization causes an unexpected wave of sadness. I was always so close to Dad. Is the connection we shared for so many years, strengthened by mom’s passing, weakened by Claire’s presence, completely gone now? Or is our bond something that can be revived?

As I sink into my fluffy pillow for bed, all I can think of is how much has changed in such a short amount of time. Just three weeks ago, I was in New York panicking about coming to Rome. Would I make friends? Would I get lost on the way to school every day? Would I know how to interact with guys? And now, I’m tipsy on a school night! I laugh to myself, my hands splayed over my stomach. I wince at the roll I feel there when I pinch my fingers together. Although I did consume too many glasses of wine tonight, I did do a stellar job at skipping dinner completely—and still holding my alcohol.

I shake my head.

Tomorrow I’ll do better.

* * *

After the conclusion of class on Wednesday, Pete trails me out of the classroom.

“Ciao, Professoressa,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Ciao, Pietro.” She waves back.

Pete places his hand on the small of my back, his fingers lightly working up the back of my shirt to touch the small strip of exposed skin between my long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans. I stand up straighter. His touch guides me into the hallway, down the stairs to the main entrance, and outside into the sunshine. Once we’re on the street, he takes my hand lightly in his own, walking briskly down meandering side streets.

“Ready for lunch?” he asks.

I nod.

“Hope you like Italian,” he jokes.

I walk faster, trying to match his pace. “You know you’re way around really well.”

“I’m not living too far from school. You’re going to love this restaurant; it’s got awesome pizza. But I guess most places here do, at least compared to home.” He smiles at me warmly when he says home and a little flicker of anticipation shoots through my stomach.

I suppose home is practically the same for both of us. Here we are, amongst a ton of study abroad students from all over the world, and Pete and I are the only two in our program from the tristate area. It’s shocking really. But then again, most study abroad students from the U.S. study at the University of Rome, not the small private university Pete and I attend.

“Hey…” I swat a hand at his arm “…our home has got some pretty decent pizza!”

“True.” He laughs. “Yours more than mine.”

I nod in agreement. New York does have the best pizza in the U.S. Hands down.

“Here we are.” Pete tugs my hand as we arrive at our destination. Quattro Gusti. Four Flavors. Sounds more like a gelateria, but whatever. I’m glad it’s not. A green awning with white trim hangs over the outdoor seating, providing a stretch of shade.

“Looks good,” I tell him.

“It is.” He nods seriously. “Here, take a seat.” He pulls out a chair for me on the patio, and I settle back into it.

Pete walks around to the other side of the table, running a hand through his sandy-brown hair. He’s cute. Really cute actually. He wears his hair short, cut close to his scalp. His eyes are hazel, a dreamy swirl of blue and green and grey. Although he’s not very tall, I’d say about 5’9, he’s broad. The muscles of his upper arms strain slightly against the fabric of his button-down shirt. He dresses differently than any of the college guys I know, more presentable. No sweatpants and hoodies for Pete.

He sits down across from me and smiles broadly at the waitress when she arrives to take our order. I’m so caught up in watching Pete, the way his whole face brightens when he speaks with someone, the lopsided grin that casually spreads across his lips, the amusement that flickers in his eyes, I don’t even realize that he and the waitress are staring at me until the waitress clears her throat.

I jump and want to smack myself.
Good God, Mia, get it together.
“Vorrei un caffé con latte scremato,” I say, happy I remember the Italian word for skim milk.

“And for lunch?” Pete prompts me.

Ugh. Lunch.

“Insalata verde.” I point to the salad listed on the menu.

“That’s all?” Pete asks, furrowing his brows. “You sure?”

“Oh yeah. I’m not too hungry.”

He shrugs. “Okay. Thanks.” He turns, handing our menus back to the waitress.

She repeats our order and walks back into the restaurant.

“So…” I start “…for the project …”

Pete leans forward, snaking his arm across the table and placing his hand over mine. “Relax, Mia. I promise, we’ll get to the project. But for now, let’s just take a minute and hang out. Enjoy all of this…” He gestures around him “…We’re in Italy.” His voice is laced with excitement.

I laugh, his enthusiasm contagious. “Yeah, you’re right.”

His hands rest on the tabletop. “Do you miss home at all?”

I tilt my head to the side, thinking over his question seriously. Do I miss home at all? “Not really,” I answer honestly and then blush. “Does that make me terrible?”

“Not at all. I don’t miss it either.”

I laugh. “I miss my friends a lot.”

He nods. “Yeah, I miss some of the guys from my baseball team. And my brother.” He laughs. “My sisters, not so much.”

I smile. “You play baseball?”

“Yeah, that’s why I had to study abroad in the fall. No way could I miss the season, especially senior year.”

“I bet that’s tough to balance.”

He shrugs.

“What position do you play?”

“Short-stop.”

“That’s cool.”

“Do you play any sports?”

I groan inwardly and consider telling him about dance. But really, what’s the point. I shake my head. “Not anymore.”

His brow furrows again, and I can tell he’s going to ask a follow-up question so I lean forward and latch onto his gaze. “When are you heading to Scotland?”

He smiles back, his face warming and opening immediately. Wow, he has an incredible smile. His parents must have spent a fortune on braces. I mentally slap myself.
Get a grip.
If Lila were here she would be hysterical at the turn of my thoughts.

I scoot my chair closer into the table and listen to Pete as he shares his plans to travel to Scotland soon to visit his family in Glasgow. He also plans to see a friend in Germany. He gestures broadly as he speaks, his excitement palpable.

And before I know it, we’ve enjoyed an entire lunch and not once did we discuss anything for our partner project.

Fail.

* * *

My classes are in full swing and the semester is officially underway as the heat of summer dissipates into cool autumn breezes. Each day, my Italian grows stronger as I converse with Paola and Gianluca. And of course, with Lorenzo.

I see him nearly three times this week when I stop by Angelina’s for a caffé latte and a study session. Through my conversations with him, I even pick up some Roman dialect to add to my Italian notebook.

Lorenzo is kind and sweet and funny. Behind that handsome face and deep blue eyes is a bona fide player. I can tell by the way other girls react to him, how they giggle when he approaches their table to take an order, the flip of their hair, the smack of their lips, the wide-eyed gaze of their eyes. It’s obvious by the way that he swaggers, how he flashes his dimple and winks casually, how he addresses everyone—from the staff at Angelina’s to random customers—with a general familiarity that he has no problem getting girls to fall at his feet. He’s intoxicating, and I look forward to my afternoon breaks at Angelina’s more than I should. I tell myself it’s for the caffé latte, but mainly it’s to see Lorenzo’s face light up when he sees me, always greeting me with an endearment: bella, bellezza, carina. The list goes on. Lila would already be engaged.

Now that I’m truly a local, the days seem to pass by in a flurry, blurring together as I adjust to my classes and everyday life in Italy. Finally, I’ve settled into a routine of sorts: morning run, classes, lunch at Angelina’s, studying, hanging out with Lexi, dinner with Paola and Gianluca.

Pete and I have met for lunch several times now and still, we haven’t made any decisions regarding our project. The uncertainty is making me anxious, but I can’t bring myself to say anything … mainly because whenever I am with Pete I’m way too distracted by his good lucks, charming personality, and hilarious stories to demand that we focus on our schoolwork. But as September draws to a close, I realize we really do need to buckle down and work on our assignment.

Me: Hey, Pete, I think we need to start working on this project for real. Thoughts?

Pete: Agreed, Mia. I’m heading to Scotland this weekend. Yeah! Let’s talk when I’m back in Rome.

I sigh. I forgot all about Pete’s trip to visit his family in Glasgow.

Me: Okay. Have fun!

Pete: Will do. Have a good weekend.

Moments later, Lexi bursts into my room. “Get your ass up.” She snaps her fingers at me. “We’re going shopping! We need to buy new dresses. Tomorrow, we party! Gianluca told me about a sick club. It’s even better than the last one we went to.” She takes a deep breath.

I raise my eyebrows at her. “You mean the one I barfed at?

She laughs. “That’s in the past. I’ve now learned you can’t drink tequila. Stick to prosecco. And maybe vodka?” She advises before clapping her hands, “Chop, chop. We need to find dresses for tomorrow night. I’m giving you five minutes to get ready. And that’s being generous.” She walks over to my laptop and logs into Spotify, choosing a playlist as I open my wardrobe to find a pair of jeans.

“Love this song,” she comments when the playlist begins with Justin Beiber’s “Love Yourself.” Lexi throws a long-sleeved tee at me. “I love it here.”

I laugh and nod my head because really, I do too.

Chapter Fifteen

Lorenzo

Jab, jab, one-two, hook. Jab, jab, one-two, hook.

My gloves pound out a steady rhythm against the pads Sandro holds as we get in a workout. Muscles in my shoulders and arms burn, and I welcome the sting; it’s been too long since I’ve hit the gym.

A techno beat pulses out of the speakers, the guys around us all focused on hitting the heavy bags, sparring, or shadowboxing in the mirrors that line the wall. A lone guy in the corner jumps rope. It’s been a long time since I’ve hit the boxing gym. I used to come here with Papa when I was home from university on summer holiday. He had one hell of a right hook. Even in the end.

“Pick up the pace,” Sandro comments as I throw a left jab.

I focus on the pads, weaving as he comes at me.

Come on, Enzo. Keep your elbows in. Tuck your chin. Gloves up. Don’t drop your hands.

Sandro swipes at me again, and I step back, faltering slightly. I swear loudly and a rare smile cracks Sandro’s face as he tries to knock me back farther. I throw a hard punch and wipe the grin off his face. He’s creepy as fuck when he smiles. Doesn’t do it often enough to be a welcoming sight.

Fifteen minutes later, sweat pours down my spine, pooling into the small of my back, dampening the fabric of my T-shirt. “Fuck,” I comment.

Sandro nods. “You need to get back in here. You’re lagging. Too slow.”

Frustration grips me as I clench my fists and glare at him.

Unaffected, Sandro shrugs. “It’s the truth.”

I give him a dirty look but don’t say anything because the fucker is right. I am lagging. It has been too long. I’ve been logging too many hours at Angelina’s; I’ve been too preoccupied with the messed up budget from the vineyards, the fudged ledgers Giuseppe keeps calling about. I’m spending too many nights drinking and trying to fuck a beautiful brunette out of my mind, not out of my system since I haven’t had so much as a kiss from that sweet mouth. And now I’ve put on weight.