“And you’re still coming to Pompeii, right?” he calls out after we’re a few steps away.
I turn my head but keep walking. “I’ll let you know.”
Chiara pulls a little orange umbrella out of her bag and pops it open, linking our arms. I scoot in close, keeping my tote bag between us so it stays as dry as possible. I look back for Darren one more time, but he’s gone.
Our feet scurry along the concrete path, hopping over some puddles and accidentally splashing into others. The angered sea heaves and crashes onto the rocks below, sending white sprays of water high into the air. The photographer in me yearns to risk a couple of shots, but Chiara’s right. We need to get somewhere safe before things get worse.
Chiara suddenly lets out a squeal and slams against me, making me clutch the railing for support. A drenched man attempting to pass us quickly removes his hand from her bare shoulder and apologizes over and over in very poor Italian before continuing to jog. Chiara lets the umbrella go crooked and the edge drips cold water right onto my head. I take it from her to right it, and she places a hand on her chest, breathing loudly, eyes wide.
“Chiara? What just happened?”
“I thought …”
“You thought it was that guy?”
She nods, then shakes her head quickly. “I am all right now.” She takes the umbrella back from me, holding it so hard her knuckles are white.
“What’s going on? Who is he?”
She pulls in another deep breath, then bites her bottom lip. “Mauro.”
“Mauro?” I ask, attempting to roll my tongue to pronounce it correctly. “Is that his name or an insult?”
Her expression turns from worry to surprise. “Listen to you! Sounding like
un vero Italiano.
”
I push aside the fact that she’s trying to change the subject, though I’m happy I’m finally learning something. “
Chi è Mauro?
”
She shakes her head. “No one you need to know about.”
“Chiara. He could have hurt you if Darren hadn’t stepped in.” I’m still shocked that I walked away from him.
“I was only trying to help,” she mutters. “He would not touch me.”
“Well, his balled-up fist could have fooled me,” I say with a bite. Sure, it might not be any of my business, but the situation seemed relatively serious at the time. And she jumped a mile in the air when she thought he caught up with us. That’s not a reaction to someone you don’t fear will hurt you.
“There is nothing else I can tell you,” she says quietly. “So leave it be.”
A hundred more questions fight to escape my mouth, but I do as she says and leave it be. No sense in me getting into a fight with her too. We walk in silence, the growling thunder urging us forward.
“This Darren,” Chiara finally says as we approach Riomaggiore, still huddled under the bright umbrella. “Is he the same boy you told me about in Roma? The one you saw times two?”
“Two times,” I correct, “and yes. Same guy.”
She stops in her tracks. The rain’s still sheeting down, so I stop with her to keep as dry as possible. I slide my hand over my tote bag to check it. It’s just a little moist, not soaking wet. Yet. We really need to keep moving.
“And he happened to be there when you were hurt?” Her wide eyes stare back into mine. “And he left. And he came back.”
“Yes.…”
She places her free hand on my shoulder, our skin clammy from the humidity. “Can you not see?”
I swallow hard. “You’re scaring me.”
Her tone is serious. “Pippa. This is why you are here. Why you knew you must come here.”
A shiver travels down my spine. Could that be? Did I feel the pull of Cinque Terre because I’d find Darren here again?
“I know things,” Chiara continues, still looking me in the eye. “And I know that Darren is for you.”
But there could be another reason I was led here. “Are you just saying that because you don’t want me with Bruno?”
“Run from the truth all that you want. It always has a way of finding you.”
I inhale deep in a vain attempt to relax. “So you think I should go to Pompeii with them? With Darren and his brother and Nina?”
“They have invited you,
sì
?”
I exhale slowly and nod. Just the idea of seeing the ruins of Pompeii in person makes me ache deep inside. Then there’s Darren, no longer off limits. When an opportunity like this falls
into place, you don’t hesitate. You GO. And take millions of pictures.
Chiara leaves it at that, believing I’ve already made my decision.
And I guess I have.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Back at the apartment, I sign in to my e-mail account to send another round of my obligatory check-in messages. My heart nearly skids to a stop when I see the subject headings from both Gram and Morgan. She spilled the beans.
To:
Pippa Preston
From:
Lorelei Mead
Subject:
OPEN THIS RIGHT NOW, YOUNG LADY
PIPPA PRESTON, WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? YOU SHOULD THANK YOUR LUCKY STARS YOUR BEST FRIEND CARES ABOUT YOU ENOUGH TO TELL ME THAT YOU SKIPPED OUT ON THE SUMMER PROGRAM. I HAVEN’T TOLD YOUR PARENTS YET, BUT IF YOU DON’T GET ME IN TOUCH WITH AN ADULT THAT YOU’RE STAYING WITH SOON, YOU BETTER BELIEVE I WILL.
GRAM
To:
Pippa Preston
From:
Morgan Arrant
Subject:
Don’t hate me!
I thought I could keep it to myself but I had to tell someone, and Gram was my best option. I’m sure you’re being as safe as you possibly can, but I’m not there so I can’t see what’s going on day to day, you know? I’m excited for you, but honestly I’ve been worried out of my mind something will happen to you. I just don’t want your anger at your parents to backfire on you. So I told her. At first she was really upset, but after I promised I’ve been in regular contact with you and everything’s fine, she cooled down. Let her talk to Chiara’s aunt so she knows you aren’t just shacking up with some dude or whatever.
I did it because I love you. Don’t be mad.
—M
I orchestrate a time for Gram and Matilde to talk on the phone on Monday, using the landline at the trattoria, and I’m a bundle of anxiety until the phone finally rings. When they actually start talking to each other, I feel so sick I have to wait in another room. What if Gram isn’t satisfied with my situation and makes
me come home, like, tomorrow? What if she’s so mad I lied about going to art school she doesn’t think I deserve this Italian vacation?
Not that it’s
all
fun and games, but it’s pretty amazing. I mean, who gets to do this? No one my age who I know of. I might be quite the celebrity when school starts. They’ll be begging to see my pictures and to hear tales of my Italian adventures.
After what feels like forever but is probably closer to twenty minutes, Matilde pops her head into the bar area from the kitchen. “Pippas,” she calls, holding out the phone to me.
I reach with a shaking hand and take it from her. “Hi, Gram.”
“Hi, honey.” Her familiar voice washes through me. Even though my jitters disappear immediately, tears prick my eyes.
“I miss you,” I say.
“I miss you too.” She sighs. “You sure know how to do a number on these old nerves, Pippa.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I turn my back to the dining area and hunch over, trying to keep my conversation as private as possible.
“If you really didn’t want to go to the art program, why didn’t you just tell your parents?”
“Gram, I
tried
to tell them. Dad would have let me stay home, but Mom wouldn’t even listen to me. I don’t know how many times I can tell her I don’t care about their stupid art gallery. That’s not going to be my future. I have things
I’m
interested in.”
“Honey, I know that, but they’re your parents. And you’re still in high school.”
“But I—”
“I know you’re almost eighteen,” she continues, “and that’s why I’m going to let you stay there the rest of the summer.”
Get. Out. “Are you for real?”
“Matilde adores you.” She chuckles and says, “I mean, I hardly understood anything she said, but I feel really good about her. And she calls you Pippas, how sweet is that?”
I can’t help but laugh. “So you’re sure you’re okay with me staying?”
Her exhale muffles in the phone. “Well, it’s not what I expected you to be doing. Working in a restaurant, living with strangers.”
“I was going to be sharing a room with strangers anyway,” I say.
“Oh, I know. But school is a different type of situation. Anyway, we don’t need to get into that right now. I’ve got some conditions.”
My eyebrows pinch together so hard, they throb. I rub at them, trying to get myself to relax. “Are you going to tell Mom?”
“I probably should. But I can’t say I don’t know why you did it. To be honest, I wish I were with you.” She sighs again. “I want you to tell her yourself wh—”
“What? I can’t do that. She’s gonna kill me.”
“I was going to say you have to tell her when you get home at the end of summer.”
I drop my head on my forearm. “She’s still gonna kill me.”
“She’s not going to be happy with either of us, but if this is your decision, you have to bear the consequences. You have to tell her face-to-face.” She gasps as if she just came up with something brilliant. “Although, it would be awfully funny to watch
you squirm when she starts asking about what you learned and you know absolutely nothing. That sounds like a better plan. Let’s do that.”
“Gram,” I say, still stuck on what she said first. “I didn’t even think about how angry she’s going to be with you when she finds out you knew and didn’t tell her.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m her mother, what’s she going to do? Send me to my room?” She chuckles. “On a serious note, you have to check in with me consistently, or I will tell her. I also want to talk to Matilde once in a while. Make sure you’re not getting in her hair.” She’s trying to sound stern, but the excitement creeps through her tone. She really does wish she could be here with me.
So do I.
“I’ve wanted to call you this whole time but I knew I couldn’t keep my own secret from you. I always tell you everything.”
“You do understand how much trouble you’re going to be in when you get home?” Gram asks. “I hope it’s worth it.”
I imagine what would have happened if I’d gone straight to the train station like I was supposed to instead of staying in Rome. I wouldn’t have met Chiara, wouldn’t have come here, and I wouldn’t have met Bruno. Wouldn’t have met Darren.
“It’s worth it.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
There it is again, that mystifying
clear and bright
anomaly. The morning sky outside the bedroom window is completely cloudless, unlike my brain.
I had a dream about Bruno last night. Let’s just say there was a lot of kissing involved.
I’m shaking the residual tingles out of my head when Bruno bursts in, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and a bath towel wrapped low around his waist.
Really low
. My own stomach tightens at the sight of his. That’s got to be more than a six-pack. It’s, like … a twelve-pack.
Bruno shuffles around in his closet, intermittently brushing his teeth with one hand and pushing hangers with the other. He turns his head to me and starts to speak, but toothpaste flies out onto the tile floor.
I erupt into laughter. Even the hottest guys are
just guys
.
They brush their teeth and it spews when they try to talk at the same time. And unfortunately for me, fresh off a Bruno dream, it’s adorable.
He tries to suppress a laugh and even more spit flies through the room. He clamps a hand over his mouth as he rushes to the bathroom. I hear the water run followed by an earnest chuckle deep from his gut.
I pop out of bed, careful not to bump my head on the top bunk—it’s empty so Chiara must be at work already—and approach the unframed mirror hanging near the dresser. I rake my fingers through my hair, lick my lips, clear my eyes, pinch my cheeks—all that stuff girls do in the movies when they’re trying to look cute in a hurry. But there’s really no hope for Morning Face. It’s puffy and splotchy. Lovely. Men don’t wear makeup and they look perfectly fine. But not us girls, no. Splotchy zombies with big pores.
I study my appearance in the mirror one more time before abandoning the effort, disappointed that I’m not quite as tan as I thought I was.
Bruno returns, still clad in only his green towel, hair poofing out a little as it dries.
“Everything all right?” I ask, with a stupid smile. I fight my line of sight to stay above the shoulders, but despite my best efforts, my eyes dart down a few times as he strides across the room to his closet.
“Yes, clothes. Please,” I say too fast. “Good idea.” Shut. Up.
The corner of his mouth hitches up, and his head turns toward my open suitcase on the floor. He bends over and I realize I’m still watching, both to see what he’s doing, and to see if his towel can hang on for the ride.
He pulls out a few of my shirts and flings them onto the bed, digging deeper into my suitcase until he pulls out a coral-colored sundress.
“Oh, that’s going to look fabulous on you,” I say.
“I do not doubt it.” He laughs, turning and holding the dress up to himself, one hip jutting out, then closes the distance between us in a couple of steps.
I take the dress from him and do my best to avoid eye contact. But now I’m looking at his chest. His
bare
chest. His
tan
, bare chest. And he smells clean, like almonds and oats. A feast for all the senses.