Wish You Were Italian (20 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

I can’t believe I let him kiss me. And a
real
kiss. How weak am I? Why does he have this effect on me?

A pit forms in my gut as we walk back to the trattoria. All I can think about is how Darren would feel if he knew. It’s like I cheated on him and we’re not even together. And I don’t even know for sure if Darren likes me like that, anyway. So what is it about him that I can’t shake? He’s … cute and funny. Smart. Driven. Sweet.

But Bruno’s exciting, foreign, flirtatious, sexy. And he has a boat. All totally fling-worthy attributes.

They couldn’t be more different from each other.

Once we’re back, I scan the outdoor seating area. Only a couple of the tables are occupied, but I don’t recognize anyone. Hopefully I haven’t missed him.

Chiara pours a bottled soda into a glass for an old man before approaching me with her arms crossed.

“He came to see you. While you were …” Her voice trails off and her eyes dart to Bruno who’s tying an apron around his waist. “While you were out.”

“Darren? Did he really?” She nods and I deflate. “What did you tell him?”

“The truth.” A smile plays at the corner of her mouth as she watches me squirm. “That you were out taking pictures.”

I exhale the breath I didn’t know I was holding. Of course she didn’t mention Bruno. She thinks Darren and I are “meant to be” or whatever. She wouldn’t say anything to jeopardize that.

“And what did he say?”

“That he will come back between lunch and dinner when we are not busy.” She looks at her chunky yellow watch. “Which is now.”

I smooth my hair back from my face. “But I’m a mess! I’m sticky and I smell like sweat and salt water.” And I can still taste Bruno’s kiss on my lips.

Stupida! Stupida! Stupida!

I don’t wait for her to respond. Instead I take off in a brisk walk up the hill, up the stairs, and straight to the apartment bathroom. My ankle stings from the fast climb, but I push the pain aside. I freshen up as best I can—brush my teeth and hair, touch up my makeup, and hastily change into a pair of jean shorts and an aqua top. Then I grab Morgan’s journal with the intention of doing the next assignment today since I keep forgetting.

I’m about to reach for the knob on the front door when an exhausted Matilde waddles inside.

She startles when she sees me so close. “Oh! Pippas!” She puts one hand on her chest and pats my cheek with the other like I’m a fat baby. “Going?”

I smile and wait for her to remove her hand before I answer. “Just meeting up with a friend.” Friend. There, I said it. Must be real now. Darren and I are friends.

Her expression dampens a little. “Not with Bruno?”

“No. He already took me out on his boat this morning.”

She flashes me her teeth. “He likes you.”

My heart thumps like I’m standing on the edge of something very high with a long way to fall. Did he tell her that, or is this mom-talk?

“I see the way that he looks at you.”

My shoulders relax. It’s just mom-talk, which is completely biased and off the mark … half the time. It’s that other half that’s going to eat at me and make me analyze every look from here on out. More than I already do, I mean.

She pats my cheek again. “There is a place for you here. Always.” And with that bomb, she shuffles into her bedroom and shuts the door.

For a moment, I don’t move as my brain tries to figure out how to process this information. Does this mean they talked about me? Maybe she just likes having an extra pair of hands around and thinks she can talk me into believing I have a reason to stay.

No. She’s not like that. She’s one of the most friendly and welcoming people I’ve ever met. And it’s genuine, not fake like my mom’s famous for, always having an agenda.

Like the pain still sizzling in my ankle, I push it out of my
mind. Nothing can change. I’m not even supposed to be here. I’m at a summer program in Florence.

I carefully rush down the million steps and literally run into Darren when I round the corner at the gate.

He steadies us and says, “
Permesso
” then, “Oh, hey!” once he realizes it’s me. “Chiara said I might find you here. Were you headed somewhere?”

“Yes,” I say, straightening my shirt. Disappointment softens his face, so I quickly add, “I was on my way to find you.”

He perks up. “You were?”

“Chiara told me you were coming back soon, so I just ran up to change.”

“I hope you didn’t change too much.”

I choke on a laugh. “Wow.”

“I can’t believe I just said that. Sorry. Total cheese.” He palms his neck and leans his head back. “That’s one of those lines that pop into your head but you don’t actually say them.” He looks everywhere but my eyes.

I adjust the strap on my tote bag so it doesn’t cut right between my boobs. “Well, you totally did.”

“Forgive me?”

I narrow my eyes in mock contemplation. “I’m not sure. It’s a capital offense. It might even be illegal here in Italy.”

“Ugh.” He wipes his brow with the back of his hand. “Foreign prisons.”

“I guess I won’t report you,” I say. “This time.”

Darren bows. “Filter engaged. It won’t happen again.” He shakes his head and laughs through his nose. “Hey, where’s your camera? I thought it was attached to you like one of your limbs.”

“Oh.” I wave my hand dismissively. “I’ve taken enough pictures today. Besides, I can’t lug it around with me everywhere.”
Translation: I didn’t have time to transfer the photos from my memory card to my computer and I don’t want to risk you looking through them. Too much Bruno
.

We set off down the hill and skirt past the trattoria without getting harassed. I catch eyes with Chiara, but she just winks and carries on sweeping around the tables. No sign of Bruno, and I can’t decide if I’m relieved or disappointed I can’t flaunt who I’m with.

“Where to?” I ask Darren once we make it to the bottom of the hill.

“I don’t suppose you’re hungry.”

“Starving,” I say, instinctively placing my hand on my stomach. “I didn’t really get a chance to eat lunch.”

After ordering a couple of prosciutto-and-cheese sandwiches and a bundle of grapes to go, we wander down by the marina, chatting about Genoa and my conversation with Gram, until we find a semi-shaded spot to sit and eat. A few birds hop around at our feet, but we ignore them long enough and they move on.

“Where are Nina and Tate?” I finally ask, plopping a grape into my mouth. “I’m starting to think they don’t like me.”

“Of course they like you!” He laughs and takes a drink from his bottled water. “Nina wanted to hunt for the best gelato in Cinque Terre.” It rolls off his tongue so beautifully, like he’s said it thousands of times. “And Tate follows her everywhere,” he says matter-of-factly.

“What, does that bother you or something?”

“No. Not anymore. I’m happy for him.”

“But …?”

“No buts, really.” He stares at the ground and peels the skin off a grape.

I cross my legs at my feet and tuck them under the bench. “That wasn’t very convincing.”

“It’s just,” he says slowly, as if he’s not sure he wants to commit to telling me, “Tate’s done with the hard part.”

“What do you mean?” My eyebrows scrunch together.

“He already knows that she’s it. He’s done trying to figure out if she likes him or doesn’t like him. If it’ll work out or not.” He finally chews the peeled grape and clears his throat. “I mean, it’s exciting, I guess. But also infuriating because—”

“Because you still have to start from the beginning,” I finish for him.

He looks me in the eye and for a moment we just stare at each other, knowing we’re both in the same place. Starting from the beginning.

I sit on my hands. They shake when I’m nervous and right now I don’t want to acknowledge the physical symptoms. The wind catches a curl of Darren’s hair and it sticks up in the air before lying back down again.

I inhale, building my courage, then go for it. “I’ve got to ask you something. Don’t be offended.”

He laughs loudly and a couple walking by jerk their heads toward him in surprise. “I can’t believe you. I’m so offended.”

“Okay, now I don’t want to ask you at all.”

“Too bad. You have to.”

I lift my shoulders toward my ears. “Well, I was just
wondering …” I start to reach up to his hair but pull back. “Is that a perm?”

He grins before biting his bottom lip, eyes cast to our feet. “Maybe.”

“Really?”

“No.”

Thank God. “Have you always kept it long?” I picture him as a toddler, his mom dressing him up like a little girl. He must have been one pretty baby with those mile-long eyelashes and ringlets.

He runs a hand through his hair and his fingers catch on a tangle. He works it out as he says, “This is actually as long as it’s ever been. I let it go the start of senior year just to see what it would do.”

I watch his fingers pick at the knot. “And it did that.”

His eyes snap up at me. “You don’t like it.” It’s a statement.

“No, I—”

“No?” He abandons the tangle and scans the passersby frantically, the corners of his mouth just barely turned up. “Where’s a barber when you need one?”

“No, that’s not what I meant!” I reach up and take over knot duty. A stray curl brushes the top of my hand. “It’s … different.”

He turns his head to look at me, but I don’t let go of his hair and he yelps as it tugs. “Different like it’s so weird you don’t have an accurate word to describe it, or good different?”

“Darren.” I shake his shoulders gently, but he exaggerates it and flops his head around. “Your hair is fine.”

“Fine? That’s not really making it any better.”

“I like your hair, I do! Promise.” I draw an X over my heart, then cross my fingers, holding my hand up for him to see.

One of his eyebrows shoots up. “I think you just voided your promise.”

“What?” I pull my hand down to my lap. “I thought it was scout’s honor or something.”

“Um, that’s three fingers. You cross them when you say something you don’t mean. This is, like, kindergarten 101. Look,” he says, offering me his outstretched pinkie. “This is the real way to make a promise.”

He squeezes my baby finger with his and we act like we’re shaking hands. His skin is rough and dry from digging in the dirt and working with his hands, but I don’t mind.

When it should be time to let go, he doesn’t release. I meet his eyes and find him smirking.

“Your pinkie’s crooked,” he says, tracing the sides of my finger with several of his.

I stare at our joined hands. He’s got a few random cuts across a knuckle or two. I shake my head to clear it when I imagine myself kissing them. There’s a flutter in my gut. Our hands are starting to sweat where they touch.

“Yeah. It’s sort of hereditary, I guess.”

He lets go and raises his hands, palms to him, lining his pinkies up next to each other. They touch up to the top knuckle, but then the tips bend slightly in toward the rest of his fingers, creating a V-shaped gap. I mirror him. My pinkies do the same.

“Wow,” I say.

“Right? I mean, clearly your fingers aren’t normal,” he says. “I can’t believe I pinkie-promised you.”

I point a crooked pinkie at him and wiggle it closer and closer to his face.

“Get that away from me!”

We’re both buckled over in laughter. He swats at me but I don’t let up, and before I understand what’s happening, his teeth are lightly clenched on my finger.

Darren’s eyes widen but we’re both frozen. His tongue is touching the tip of my littlest finger and I can’t breathe. Finally he opens his mouth and I slowly retract my finger, casually wiping off the moisture on my shorts.

“I guess that’ll teach me not to attack anyone with my pinkie again,” I say. Silent laughter shakes my shoulders until I can’t keep it in any longer.

“Man, I’m killing it today,” he says. “It’s just short of miraculous, how cool I am.”

“You’re pretty cool in my book.” I give him a playful shove with my elbow, which he returns.

“So, you’re still coming with us to Pompeii, right? Haven’t changed your mind?”

“If you still want me to go with you guys.”

He turns in his seat to face me, tucking a leg up under him. His knee rests against my thigh, but I don’t move out of the way. “Of course!” he says, eyes lit up. “You’ll love it. I already can’t wait to see the pictures you’re going to take.”

I nod in agreement, trying to rein in the part of me that wants to jump up and down.

We decide to leave Monday so I won’t miss the St. John’s Day feast Matilde is planning. Darren says he and Tate will take care of all the arrangements.

I reach for a couple more grapes and Darren skillfully works the peel off another one. A few of the little birds come back to peck at the scraps at his feet.

“You know the peel is edible right?” I tease.

He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t look at me. “Do you want to hang out tomorrow?”

I hardly wait for him to finish. “Yes.”

His smile reappears.

“Oh, wait.” I sink into the bench. “I should probably help out at the restaurant.” I hope it sounds more like truth and less like a lame excuse. “Or at least make sure they can spare me.”

He nods and says, “It’s not a real job though, right? Are they even paying you?”

“Well, they gave me a bed. They feed me,” I defend. “I already skipped out on most of today. I should probably head back soon.” I didn’t even ask about taking off this afternoon, I just left. Though the look on Chiara’s face proved she didn’t mind.

He turns to face me again. “I’m just saying, this is your summer. Isn’t that the whole reason you skipped out on Florence? To
see
Italy. To make your own rules?”

“Good point.”

Darren stands and stuffs the bag of leftover grapes into his backpack. “Well, how about for today, you go back to work so you don’t feel guilty, and I’ll see if I can catch up with Tate and Nina on their gelato hunt?”

I stand too, brushing off the back of my shorts. “That works.”

Darren shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his shorts and I take a long drink from my bottled water. The air is thick
with the humidity of yesterday’s storm and the strong aroma of seafood.