Wish You Were Italian (14 page)

He stops our momentum and looks ahead, prompting me to take my eyes off my feet. Stairs.

“What do you think, Pipperoni?”

I smile at the nickname, surprised he remembers calling me that. I urge us forward and he helps me hobble up a couple of steps. It’s pathetic. We won’t make it to Riomaggiore until midnight at this rate.

He rotates me and stands two steps down, back facing me. “Hop on.”

I freeze, jaw dropping. No way. He turns his head and smiles wide, revealing his crooked tooth. I’d almost forgotten about it.

“Pansy,” he throws at me.

“I’m too heavy for you to carry,” I protest.

“My travel backpack weighs more than you do.”

“Doubtful.”

“Do you have a better idea?” He stands up straight and looks around, shading his eyes from the sun. “Taxi!” he shouts, letting out a whistle.

A group of old people eye us in alarm as they pass.

“I don’t know him!” I call out to them before I look at Darren and sigh. “You win.”

He adjusts his backpack so it’s against his chest. I make it onto his back and he hooks his arms around my legs—freshly shaved, thankfully. He trudges up the steps with surprising speed and I arch my back as much as possible to keep my chest from completely smashing against his back. I can just see two
round sweat marks on the front of my shirt … and on the back of his. No thanks.

He finally sets me down and we decide to walk la Via dell’Amore back to Riomaggiore instead of taking the train from Manarola. We would have to defeat a steep hill and a lot of steps to get to the station, then wait for the train. In all that time, we could probably three-legged race it on the trail.

We chat about all kinds of things: movies, hobbies, places he’s been, places I want to go. Though I’m curious, neither of us brings up Nina. I ask him more questions about archaeology, and his face lights up when he talks about it. He says he’s heading back to the dig tomorrow, and he’s anxious to get his hands dirty. I try to act excited for him, but I wish we had more time together.

I have to piggyback a few more times before it’s all said and done, but eventually we make it through the mosaic-tiled tunnel and we stand at the base of the familiar monster of a hill.

“Well, this is my stop. The trattoria is right up there.” I swallow hard, then make myself look at him, study him. Will this be the last time I see him? “Thanks so much, Darren. I never would have made it without you, seriously. I’d probably still be sitting there waiting for who knows what. I can’t believe you showed up when you did.”

“Crazy, right?” He’s still holding my waist and I’m delaying pulling my arm from his shoulders.

“Totally crazy.” I test the weight on my foot and wince. We both look back up at the hill.

“I don’t really see how you’re going to be able to—”

Bruno’s deep voice calls out from just up the hill, “Pippa
mia!
What happens?”

Chapter Twenty-One

My stomach drops and Darren shifts, making me wobble.

Bruno’s eyes don’t even register Darren’s existence. “All right?” He looks down at the foot I’m favoring.

“She’s fine,” Darren says before I can respond.

“Are you?” Bruno rests his hands on each of my shoulders and hunches so we’re eye to eye.

“Stop,” I tell him, shifting back. Of course he’d try to stake a claim on me now when there’s another guy around. Why can’t I get this much interest back at school?

Darren releases my arm and takes a step away. I can’t look at him.

“Tell me,” Bruno says, dropping to his knees to assess the damage. His skilled fingers glide all the way down my bare leg.

My face flames so quickly, my eyes water. “I stepped on a rock. My ankle fell out.” In my periphery, Darren brings a fist up to his mouth to suppress a laugh.

Bruno looks up at me, puzzled. “Your ankle … what?”

“It twisted or something. It’s no big deal.” I swipe at my forehead with the back of my hand.

“You cannot walk. Look.” Bruno whistles and points to my foot. “It is …” He makes a gesture with his hands, but I can see for myself. My ankle is swollen like a baseball.

Chiara bounds down the hill to us, spouting something frantic in Italian. Her wide eyes take in the scene and she’s at my side, relieving me of my backpack within seconds.

“Pippa! What—”

“My foot. Rock. Twist. Really, it’s a lot less dramatic than you’re all making it seem.”

Before I know what’s happening, Bruno scoops me up in his arms, cradling me like a child. I have no choice but to cling to his neck. His really thick, strong neck. He smells of sweat and balsamic vinegar with a tinge of smoke.

“You don’t have to carry me. We’ve been getting along just fine.” I nod toward Darren, whom Bruno still hasn’t acknowledged.

“You must put ice on it. Soon,” Chiara says. “I have to go back to the trattoria; it is madness right now. But you should go home.” She offers a smile to Darren just before she turns and says, “
Grazie, signore
. For helping my friend.” And she’s gone, taking my backpack with her.

Bruno starts up the hill after her, leaning slightly forward, which makes me feel like I’m going to roll right out of his arms. I grip his neck tighter and he smirks.

“I’m telling you, you really don’t need to carry me.”

He shushes me with a string of Italian phrases I can’t
respond to. I look around to find Darren since I assumed he was walking along with us. He’s not. He’s still at the bottom of the hill, near the tunnel entrance, jaw slack.

Panic. Why isn’t he following us? Then I remember Nina. I wonder where she is. Maybe he has to go back to her. Of course he does. He didn’t come here for me. He didn’t even know I was here.

I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m one
idiota grande
.

I strain my neck over Bruno’s shoulder and yell, “Darren! Thank you for your help! And tell Nina I said hello!”

He waves good-bye, his expression unreadable. I bite my lip to keep myself from saying anything else, and to keep it from trembling.

We stop at the gate to the apartment, but Bruno’s still hanging on to me.

“The key,” he says, swaying his hips. “Pocket on left.”

“So put me down and get it out.”

He lowers his lips to my ear. “You get it for me?”

Goose bumps. All over. I may have decided I want his attention, but that’s a little much.

I remove my hands from his neck and push my legs down against his arm, making myself as heavy as possible. He gives in and lets me slide off, then opens the gate. I hop over to the stairs and use the railing as leverage to hoist myself up the first and second steps, blood pounding in my ears with every move. With a top floor apartment, this could take an hour.

Bruno scoops me back up without a word and trudges up the stairs. Despite the strength and precision it takes him to avoid letting any of my appendages smack into the wall, he’s not even
winded when we finally get to the apartment. He sets me down on the couch—the boys’ temporary bed folded away inside—and carefully props my giant foot on a pillow. He rummages in the kitchen and comes back with a plastic sandwich bag filled with ice, wrapped in a hand towel.

The weight of it sends a fresh wave of pain up to my temples and I lean back, bracing myself.

“I am sorry!” he says, a deep line between his eyebrows.

“It’s fine.” I force a laugh. “This”—I motion to my foot—“is definitely not your fault.”

“It is. I should have gone. It would not have happened.”

If he had come with me, I know exactly what would have happened, and it wouldn’t have involved sightseeing. It would have been The Kissing Bench Part II.

And I might not have seen Darren again.

As if reading my mind, Bruno asks, “So who is this Darren?”

My cheeks threaten to betray me. I focus on the chill of the ice numbing my foot and imagine it cooling my face, too.

“He’s a—” What? A friend? Friends would have at least exchanged phone numbers or e-mail addresses, right? “He’s a guy I know. Sort of.” Like I owe Bruno any explanations.

“I do not like him.”

“Why? You didn’t even speak to him, much less look at him.”

He shakes his head and kneels on the floor, pressing his upper body close to me and against the couch. “He should have carried you.”

I remember the feel of Darren’s arms looped around my legs, his frizzed hair brushing against my face with every step.

“He did,” I say, clearing my throat. “On the stairs, when I needed the help.”

He rolls his eyes and leans closer, taking my hand in his and looking straight into my eyes. “I would have carried you the entire way.” He strokes the inside of my wrist.

My lips form a tight line as I try to focus on the pain rather than his touch.

“I did not know you were, ah …
una ragazza goffa.
”

My mouth drops open. “You think I’m a goofy girl? Like stupid?”

“No! Ah—” With two of his fingers, he mimes a person walking up my arm, then crumbles his hand and says, “Oww.”

“Clumsy?”

“
Sì
. Clumsy.” His smirk coaxes true laughter out of me.

“I’m not. The stone moved!” I sigh and lean my head back, staring at the sloppy plaster job on the ceiling. This whole situation is so ridiculous. I just ran into Darren for a third time, hurt myself so he has to carry me halfway home, and now I’m being nursed back to health by every American girl’s dream. How is this my life?

“What do you need? Are you hungry?” he asks, thankfully standing and taking a few steps back. “I go get food for you.”

I nod and roll onto my side, mashing my back against the couch pillows.

Bruno’s hands twist together in front of him as he anxiously glances between my foot and my face, concern worked into the crease in his brow. An idea brightens his expression just before he bounds into his room and emerges with a set of crutches.

“These were mine,” he explains.

I study them as he adjusts the height. It’s hard to imagine such a strong guy gimping around on crutches. “What happened? Did a rock jump out and get you, too?”

He shakes his head and leans the crutches against a chair within my reach. “
Calcio
. You say soccer.”

“Of course you play soccer,” I mumble as he disappears again, this time into the bathroom. He comes back with a dampened washcloth. “You’re probably the best one on the team, aren’t you?”

“
Naturalmente
.” The couch creaks as he sits in front of me. Reflexively, I scoot farther back, but he adjusts to take up the extra space. One hand supports his weight on the armrest behind my head, and the other gently wipes the film of sweat from my forehead, smoothing back my damp hair. His eyes gaze into mine until they dart to my mouth. For a second I think he might kiss me. For a second I almost want him to.

But he touches his lips to my cheek, lingering briefly before standing. “I go,” he says suddenly, handing the washcloth to me. “You rest.”

As soon as the door clicks behind him, my body relaxes deeper into the couch, both exhausted and confused. I lay the cool cloth over my face and close my eyes.

My mind’s a big swirl of Bruno heads and Darren heads, Italian accents, lips on lips, chest against back, arms around necks. These boys.… Bruno practically peed on me earlier, marking his territory. But he was so sweet to me tonight, especially when we were alone. Maybe all the fuss wasn’t a show for Darren. Maybe he really does care for me.

And maybe deep down I wanted Darren to see it. I could’ve
done more to protest Bruno’s help, been more vocal. Told Darren that Bruno and I aren’t actually
together
and I had no idea why he was being so hands-on. But I didn’t want to explain it all away. Not really.

My breathing slows as I drift into the dizzy, happy space between awake and asleep. I see Bruno, holding my hand, snuggling here on this couch, openly, for even Chiara to see. My own Italian, right here within my grasp.

I resolve to focus on Bruno, to truly
get at
the real him.

But when I sleep, I dream of Darren.

Chapter Twenty-Two

ASSIGNMENT NUMERO SETTE: WRITE A HAIKU Hai-ku: a Japanese poem, often seventeen syllables, in three lines of five, seven, and five
.

I’m sure there’s a lot of creative stimulation for you in Italy. Look around you and write what you feel
.

Nestled among cliffs
,

my temporary home lies
.

Time pulls me away
.

The rest of the week, I stay confined to the apartment like I’m in quarantine as my ankle heals. Bored. Out. Of. My. Mind.

Chiara and Bruno take turns checking on me and bringing me food, and while one day I’ll miss the room service, I’m itching to be outside. Building my tan from an open window isn’t
the same as basking on the beach with the warm breeze snaking through my hair. I could hop my way up the little spiral staircase to the terrace, but getting back down won’t be as easy. Adding a broken neck to my list of injuries isn’t one of my goals.

I spend a lot of time gazing out the window to the green hills lined with vineyards and dotted with houses. There’s not much to this quaint valley snuggled along the coast, but it’s the most magical place I’ve ever seen with its multicolored buildings, steep streets bordered with wooden fishing boats. It’s like the postcard you stare at for hours, wishing you’d been the one to take the picture just so you could experience such a perfect place. I’m living inside that postcard. I’m taking the pictures.

Gram would love how peaceful it is here, far away from the city lights. She’s always told me not to hate anything, that it’s a waste of emotion. I could dislike whatever I wanted as long as I acknowledged my dislike, then moved past it. My whole life, she’s lived by example in this school of thought, except for one thing: she hates the city. Moving in with us after Papa died was bittersweet. She was happy to see me, happy not to be alone, but within a month’s time she’d lost her husband and given up her home.