Wish You Were Italian (12 page)

“Is that what you think about when you get quiet?” I ask.

He studies me but says nothing.

“I see you,” I say. “Sometimes your eyes lose focus and you sort of … go somewhere else.” My throat tightens. The thought of the pain he works through every day breaks my heart.

Bruno looks above me, past me, anywhere but my eyes. The muscle along his jaw tightens. I have nothing to help him. No words of wisdom. No personal anecdotes. I’ve never been through anything close to what he has.

“I’m sorry,” I say.
Sorry for asking. Sorry about your dad
.

He inhales, breath almost imperceptibly shaky. “You know?”

“Is that okay? That I know?”

He allows his eyes to meet mine again and his face softens. “
Sì
. I am glad that you know.”

We stare at each other and his mouth twists into a sleepy smile. So does mine.

“Pippas,” he nearly whispers. “I tell you something that you do not know.”

My heart picks up speed and I nestle deeper into the chair, waiting for his revelation. I know it’s not right to get hung up on appearance, but he’s
so
freaking hot. It’s hard not to get excited
that he wants to spend time with
me
. I have no clue what it all means, but I’m going to soak it up while it lasts. Because it’s very likely it won’t ever happen again. According to Chiara, it isn’t even really happening now.

Bruno strokes my cheek close to my ear with a couple of fingers, back and forth, back and forth. I’m tempted to think he might lean over and kiss me. I’d probably even let him. My body tingles at the thought. The anticipation.

You know what he is, do you not?

Nothing happens. His palm rests flat against my cheek, prompting me to look at him.

A player
.

Shut up, Chiara.

“Everything about you is lovely,” he says.

My heart leaps, bounds, springs. Floats.

Chiara has to be wrong about him. He’s kind and sweet and achingly romantic.

And he thinks I’m lovely. He could have his pick of any Italian beauty he wants, and he thinks
I’m
lovely.

Overwhelmed with the need to touch him, I reach out and trace along his sharp jawline, stopping just before his lips. I swallow hard. So does he.

He clasps my hand in his and lightly kisses the tip of each finger, his eyes never breaking their gaze on mine.

There’s something I’m supposed to say to him. Something in Italian.

One word. My brain remembers one word.

“
Bellissimo.
”

Chapter Eighteen

“Wake up,
principessa
!”

My eyes fly open at the sound of Bruno’s voice, but I immediately squint in the light streaming through the window.

“It is noon!” he says.

I pull the sheet over my head, but he fights me for it and wins, exposing my face in all its puffy mayhem. I groan. Then panic.

“Wait! Did you say it’s noon?” I sit up, careful not to smack my head on the top bunk.

“Mamma gave us today free.
Andiamo a
la Via dell’Amore.” He roots around the room and I spring out of bed, suddenly very awake. I’ve been in Riomaggiore this entire week, but we’ve been so busy with the trattoria, no one’s had much of a chance to show me around farther than our little village. But I’m still not complaining. It sure beats schoolwork. Or begging for food on the street until my flight back home at the end of summer.

“What about Chiara? Is she coming too?”

“No.”

She’s not going to like this plan.

He finds my sneakers. “Wear these. And something …” He struggles for the word, grabbing the middle of his shirt and pulling it away from himself repeatedly.

“Breathable, got it.” I laugh and wait for him to leave the room. He doesn’t. “Um … I’m not changing with you watching me.”

“Oh!
Sì!
” He flashes his bright teeth before darting out and closing the door behind him.

We pass the trattoria on the way to the trail. Chiara is taking orders from one table, while Luca delivers meals to another. I catch eyes with Chiara and hesitantly wave. She waves back but her narrowed eyes shift from me to Bruno, then back again. She probably thinks she should be the one to show me around, especially since she’s, well, not Bruno. But he commandeered my day with promises of photo ops and food. Like I could say no to that.

I didn’t expect to have to pay a fee to use the trail, but turns out it’s considered a national park. It’s gated with a ticket booth, business hours, and everything. I’m handed my pass and a brightly colored map of the trail between villages. The walk from Riomaggiore to Manarola is only supposed to take about twenty minutes.

Bruno winks at the attendant and she waves him on. I’m sure it’s just because he’s local.…

“
Non necessario
.” He snatches the paper from me and wads it into a ball. “I am your map!”

“Hey! I wanted to keep that! I was going to put it in my book.”

He smashes his lips together in a very artificial pout and sets the crumpled ball in the palm of his hand, offering it to me. “Your book?”

I open the map again, but the wrinkles are permanent no matter how much I try to smooth them out. “Yeah, my book. Like a journal? I’m documenting my trip.”

“The book under your pillow?”

Fear and anger bubble in my chest. “Were you snooping in my room? Did you read it?”

“Again, I will tell you that it is my room.” A sly smile takes over half of his face and he slides his hands into the pockets of his tight plaid shorts.

I swallow hard. If he hasn’t read it, I don’t want to make such a huge deal out of it that he
does
read it. And if he has … “Just,” I say, calm but firm, “tell me you didn’t read it.”

“Okay, okay.” He weaves his fingers between mine. “I did not read it.”

I stare down at our hands. A shiver climbs up my arm and pulses in my chest. This is public. This is weird. And he might have read my journal, the
idiota
. I should let go of his hand.

But I don’t.

Bruno leads me to the official trail entrance and we stop underneath two golden hearts welded to the top of the gate. Padlocks and luggage locks of every size and color dangle from the hearts and from any other available hookable object.

“
Benvenuta a
la Via dell’Amore,” he says, poking a bright pink lock with
Ashlee+Jake
written on it in white paint.

“What are all the locks for?”

“Do you know the history of la Via dell’Amore?” I know a little, but I’d rather hear it from him, so I shake my head and he continues. “When this path between Riomaggiore and Manarola was not here, many people did not marry outside of their own village. But with the, ah, connection to the next village, love was exciting again. Lovers walked along the seaside here to meet with one another.”

I take in the view as we stroll the crowded path. High cliffs stretch up to our right, with sections of loose rock held down by wire mesh, padlocks hooked onto every wire within reaching distance. To our left, the Ligurian Sea—clear and bright, blue and green—glimmers in the afternoon sun. Fishing boats and passenger ferries race along the coast. The temptation to take pictures of every detail around me is strong, but that would require letting go of Bruno’s hand, and I’m not sure I want to just yet. I’m curious to see how long he’ll hold it.

“The locks are for the tourists, a symbol of love for all to see, for the eternity. Until they are cut down.”

I gape at him. “Cut down?”

He laughs. “
Sì
. This path would be nothing but locks if they were not taken away.”

I smile as we pass a couple hooking a tiny green lock onto an open loop of restraining cable overhead. He’s well over a foot taller than she is, and she rises onto her tiptoes to meet his lips as he bends down, both of them giggling.

As we approach a tunnel, traffic gets more congested and I
feel a bit claustrophobic despite the open-air windows to the sea. Colorful graffiti covers the walls on either side—definitely not an art form my mother approves of, which makes me like it. Scattered solid patches of a neutral color suggest these walls get painted over right along with the lock cutting.

Bruno and I merge into the lazy pace of graffiti gawkers for several minutes before I realize we’re all in a line. At the end of the tunnel, in front of one of the lookouts to the sea, couples take turns sitting on a concrete bench. The back of the bench rises high into a silhouette of a man and woman kissing, rods of the railing on either side packed with locks, all hooked onto one another.

Within several minutes, we’re at the front of the line. I assume we’re going to keep walking, but the young English couple in front of us has me take their picture, and then they offer to take ours. I open my mouth to decline, but Bruno bursts out with a “
Grazie!
” and unhooks the camera from my neck, handing it to the woman.

He leads me to the bench and we sit, the sides of our legs touching. My stomach clenches. This is the
kissing
bench. Not a single couple before us has smiled for the camera. They
kiss
for the camera.

My eyes lock on the lens like a deer in the headlights. I force a smile, a big one, with teeth. My head nearly vibrates with the strain. This is fine. We’re going to break the trend and smile. Absolutely no kissing.

The woman lifts my camera to her face. “One, two—”

On two, Bruno reaches behind me and cups the back of my head in his hand, turning me to face him. His other hand is on my cheek. His lips press onto mine. The camera clicks.

“WOOOOOO!” echoes around us. One person claps. Bruno pulls away but stares into my eyes for a moment before hopping up and getting my camera back for me.

My head is spinning.
I’ve been kissed. In Italy. By an Italian!

I remain seated, stupefied, until a couple shoos me away for their turn, and soon we’re walking the next section of the path along with the English couple. Bruno chats with them—heavy accent enforced—but their words turn to garble. All I hear is
He kissed me. Bruno I-don’t-even-know-how-to-pronounce-his-last-name kissed me!

And it was short. Too short.

No. Too long. Shouldn’t have happened. Chiara will kill us if she finds out. But she won’t find out. I’ll hide the picture from her. I’ll delete the picture! No, I have to show Morgan. And I want proof for myself. I’ll just make sure Chiara doesn’t see it. It only happened because it’s what you
do
at the kissing bench when you’re sitting next to the hottest Italian boy you’ve ever seen.

I just have to stay away from that bench.

Chapter Nineteen

In no time at all, we make it to Manarola. The colorful buildings are identical to those in Riomaggiore, just arranged differently. The streets are lined with shops, all of them crammed with sweaty tourists. Every visible table and bench hosts families eating slices of pizza, sandwiches, and gelato.

We wave good-bye to the English couple as they head into a store, and we decide to grab lunch at a little restaurant Bruno promises is worth the wait for a table. And of course he knows the owner.

After we order, I don’t say much. Bruno just stares at me across the table with an unreadable expression. Too bad I don’t know what he’s thinking.

I’m so nervous, all I can do is keep shoveling food into my mouth.

“Why eat so quickly?” he asks, taking a sip of wine.

“I’m not eating fast, you’re eating slow.” I laugh, stabbing at another square of pesto ravioli.

He sighs and asks the waiter for more wine. “In Italia, sharing a meal is …” He waves his arm over the table, palm toward me, as he searches for the words. “Do not rush. Enjoy it.
Mangia
.”

“I am enjoying it. I just also enjoy taking pictures, so the quicker we eat, the more I get to see.” I set my fork down, finished.

He laughs and leans back in his chair. “Eat as fast as you wish, they will not bring your bill any sooner.”

I cross my arms. “Well, not if you keep ordering wine, they won’t.”

And they don’t, not for another twenty minutes. My leg bounces under the table, eyes darting around anxiously.

“Ah,” he says, patting all the pockets of his shorts.

“You forgot your wallet,” I mutter after a sigh. Not that I expected him to pay for me, but he should have at least made sure I had money with me before ordering anything. And two glasses of wine, no less.

A player
.

No. Forgetting your wallet is an easy mistake, like locking your keys in the car. Nothing to get irritated over. Though I am a little irritated.

I pay the bill and just as we step back onto the crowded street, someone slams into my side from behind, lurching my body forward. I regain my balance and turn to see a thin local girl, possibly a few years older than I am. Before I can come up with something to say to her, she squeals and throws her arms around Bruno’s neck, kissing him on each cheek. Pretty close to
the mouth, I might add. They plunge into an energetic conversation and I stand nearby, waiting for an apology. Or at least an introduction.

Nothing. I’m invisible.

She offers him a cigarette and he pulls a lighter from his pocket and lights hers too. He takes a long drag and laughs at something she says, their smoke mixing together in the close space between them. I want to gag. He’s definitely not kissing me again now.

I wait a few more minutes, but neither of them even looks my way. This is total crap. If he really liked me, wouldn’t he be showing me off or something?

I scowl at both of them before noticing a gelato place across the street. The line’s out the door but I join it anyway, eager to slip away from Bruno and his fan club. The warm smell of waffle cones tickles my nose and my mouth waters.

I’m just about to make it inside when a figure catches my attention in the street a few shops down. There’s something familiar about the mop of hair … the cargo shorts.…