Wish You Were Italian (22 page)

Her cheeks turn pink. “I have a boyfriend.”

“What?” I gasp, clutching my chest. “Who?”

“Who do you think?”

I search my brain for the answer to this loaded question. All the boys love her, so it’s hard telling who won her attentions this month. Though I do remember her sneaking out in the middle of the night with … “Jeremy Cable?”

“Yes!” she squeals, clapping her hands. “He actually asked me out, like, in person. It was the cutest thing ever!”

“Ahhh! Morgan! Is there kissing?” I prod, hoping to live vicariously through her potentially normal relationship.

“That’s private information!” she exclaims, pretending to zip her lips.

I try to raise an eyebrow and she laughs. “You expect me to believe he didn’t try to kiss you? You’re hot, he’s hot. The kissing needs to be hot!”

She tilts her head and pulls up a shoulder toward her ear, innocently. “The kissing is totes hot.”

“Wow, this is crazy, Morgs.” I can’t believe I’m not there to jump up and down with her. We’ve never been this far away from each other. “I didn’t even know you looked at him like that.”

“Well, things feel more forbidden when you keep them secret, don’t they,
Pippa?
”

I laugh and roll my eyes.

“What other secrets do you have these days?” She leans in super close to her computer with a devious smile. “Do you have an Italian lover I should know about? Or
lovers?
”

“What?” My cheeks flame.

“There is someone!” Morgan slaps her palm on the desk. “What’s his name? Wait! Is it that Bruno guy? The one who kissed you? What aren’t you telling me?”

“Settle,” I say, turning down the volume to keep her shrill voice from waking up the whole building. “Uh, Bruno’s … well …”

“Yes?” She moves her hand in a small circle, urging me to continue.

“There’s this other guy, he’s American. But there hasn’t—”

“American?” She scrunches her nose. “We have those over here.”

“Morgan!”

“I’m just kidding! How cute is he?”

Darren’s insane hair curls around my heart and I warm all over. “He’s really cute.”

“Has he kissed you? What’s he like?”

“No kissing,” I say with a shake of my head, “but he, like, saved me. I hurt my ankle and he
carried
me.”

Her eyes widen more than I remember ever seeing them. “That’s how you met? Did you die? I would have
died!
That’s so romantic!”

“It didn’t feel romantic at the time.” I laugh. “And no, that’s not how we met.”

“So, why’s he in Italy? Where’s he from? Where does he live? Is he in college? Details!”

I try to gather everything I know about him, but it’s really not that much. I don’t know where he’s from, where he lives, where he’s going to college in the fall. What if he lives in California? Or Alaska? How could I do a long-distance relationship, assuming it even goes that far?

Because it feels like it
could
go that far. Everything about Darren feels different. Real. Like not seeing him anymore would hurt.

What am I doing? What are
we
doing, spending all this time together?

This can’t go anywhere.

The realization hits me like a crushing blow between the eyes. And I’ve forgotten to breathe.

“Pippa? What’s wrong?”

I sit up straight when I hear yelling echo from the street below. “Hang on,” I tell her.

Setting the computer down on the chair, I lean over the ledge of the balcony. Two guys stumble near the gate to our building. Rather, one of them stumbles and the other one holds him up, yelling at him. I recognize Luca’s voice. It’s Bruno he’s supporting upright.

I run back to my computer. “Morgan, I have to go, but it was so good to see you. I miss you!”

We rush through sappy good-byes and I slam my computer closed, carrying it down to my room before opening the front door and leaning against the wall. I cross and uncross my arms a hundred times before they make it to the top. Luca looks up at me in surprise, then motions for me to help with Bruno’s other side. I don’t see anything physically wrong with him, but when I position myself under his arm, I fight back a cough. He reeks of cigarette smoke and alcohol.

We haul him over to the foldout bed and Luca lets him drop onto his stomach.

“
Uffa!
” The pillow thankfully muffles his outburst. He lazily rolls over and locks eyes with me. The dark circles are back, worse now. He rattles off something in Italian, too mumbled for me to piece together.

I look at Luca. “What did he say?” I ask. He hesitates but I insist. “Just tell me.”

“He said you do not belong here.” Luca shrugs and exhales, clearly exhausted. He mopes to the bathroom and closes the door behind him.

I clench my teeth and force my eyes back to Bruno. After everything he said to me yesterday. What changed between then and now? My top lip curls up in disgust as I look at his pathetic form passed out on the mattress. I wish I were leaving for Pompeii with Darren tomorrow.

I swallow down the tightness in my throat. “You’re right,” I say. “I don’t.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Chicago honors a saint: Patrick. But unlike the San Giovanni Festival honoring John the Baptist, St. Patrick’s Day is less about the saint, and more about dyeing everything green—hair, beer, the Chicago River—watching the parade take over the city, and getting wasted. You even get physically assaulted if you don’t wear something green the entire day. You’re supposed to just get pinched, but some of the guys at school take it a little too far. And if you forget to wear green, you can’t get by with the excuse that your underwear is green, because they’re not shy about asking for proof.

But they don’t do anything that flashy here in the little fishing villages of Cinque Terre. Families gather for feasts of roasted pork, or
porchetta
, wine drinking, and what I’m sure will be a tasteful parade through the heart of town after the sun sets tonight.

Chiara flits around me during our lunch shift. The rush is over and we actually have time to chat while we wipe down tables.

“What will you pack
per domani?
” she asks, spritzing disinfectant on the vinyl tablecloths.

I straighten, my hand only going through the motion of cleaning. “I haven’t even thought about packing. But I’m already living out of a suitcase, so I guess I’ll just zip it back up.”

She stops wiping the table and snaps her head up, crestfallen. “You are not coming back?”

I stop wiping too. I assumed I was coming back, but I guess I don’t have to. There’s plenty more of Italy to see. And I probably have enough money since I haven’t been spending any of it. But there are still almost two months left, and I shudder to think about traveling alone now that I have friends here. A home base.

“Yes, I’m coming back.”

Arms reach around my waist and pull me against a strong body.

“Pippas will come back,” Bruno breathes into my ear.

I break free from his hold, fixing him with a glare. “This from the same guy who said that I don’t belong here?”

He laughs. “
Cosa?
”

“Don’t remember, huh? I guess you were too drunk.”

Bruno’s jaw hangs loose as the realization washes over him. “No,
cara mia. Per favore
, I was, as you say, drunk. Angry.”

“At who?
Me
? Why?” I snort. “I don’t know what I did between our boat ride and when you had to be dragged to bed by your little brother, but I do want to thank you for opening my eyes the rest of the way.”

I glance at Chiara who’s beaming at me like a proud parent.

“Pippas.” Bruno waits for me to catch his eye before dramatically placing both of his palms over his chest. His brows wrinkle together above his nose. “You must not take what I said as true. You must say you forgive me.”

“Bruno.” I sigh. “You ca—”

Cutting me off, he plants a swift kiss along my jawbone and disappears back inside. Chiara’s mouth twists into the closest thing to a snarl I’ve ever seen.

My own expression isn’t far off. “Don’t worry,” I say, wiping my cheek with the back of my hand. “I know without a doubt now that he doesn’t mean anything by it.”

She harrumphs and goes back to cleaning. “It is what he does mean by it that you should be concerned with.”

“Look, Chiara. You don’t have to worry about him and me. I promise.” In my mind, Darren smiles at me. I work at a stubborn sticky patch of the tablecloth. “I’ve got bigger problems than a flirtatious Italian.”

This morning, residents scattered bright flower petals along the edges of the main street, and now, as the sun sinks into the horizon, they light the candles among them in preparation for the parade.

Chiara and I place candles in the center of each table at the trattoria and pass out candlesticks with protective cups to the customers who want one. It’s not something every establishment does, but Matilde likes to think of it as a time of reflection and prayer for her husband.

All along Via Colombo, balconies—some draped with strings of lights—are crammed with spectators. Those of us on street level stand just behind the flower petals, passing the flame from our candles down from one person to the next. The walls echo the slow music of drums and horned instruments from the band following behind a procession of men clothed in white-and-black robes, some hoisting banners high. One man carries a golden statue of Jesus on the cross.

The crowd quiets as the main procession passes. I glance down my row at Chiara, then to Luca standing next to his mother, their faces marked with odd shadows from their candles. Even in the darkness, I can see that Matilde’s expression is pained. Bruno ran off who knows where an hour ago, an angry Matilde spitting on his heels as he left, and he hasn’t come back. It seems to me like he should be here with his family. What could possibly be so important?

“I thought you’d be here,” calls a rough voice over my left shoulder.

I turn to find Darren only inches away, holding an unlit candle.

“Hey,” I say with a smile much too large. “I was wondering if I’d see you today.”

“Tate and I have been busy getting everything organized for our trip.” He returns a smile. Something looks different … something with his hair.

I hold my candle higher and lean toward him, both to get a better look and to whisper, “Are you wearing a headband?”

His hand shoots to the black band of fabric pulled tight above his forehead, curls redirected up and over it. “I was sort
of hoping you wouldn’t notice it in the dark. I usually only wear them on dig sites to keep my hair from flying in my face.”

“At least it’s not pink,” I tease. “Although I’m sure I have one of those you could borrow. It may even have flowers on it.”

“Oh, could I, please?” He laughs, his hand still fiddling with it. “Seriously, should I lose it?”

I shrug. “It’s practical. I get it.”

He yanks it off and shoves it into the pocket of his shorts. A shake of his head lands everything where it belongs.

“Here,” I say, angling my candle toward him.

“I already took care of the headband. Fire really isn’t necessary, is it?”

I motion toward the unlit candle at his side. He smiles and raises it to mine. As he watches his wick ignite, I stare at the hundreds of tiny whisker-shadows dancing on his face and the contrast of the smooth, illuminated apples of his cheeks. He looks from his candle to me, his eyes glossy in the orange candlelight.

“I was just kidding, you know. About your hair,” I say, reaching to adjust a stray curl. “But this is better.”

Darren clutches my wrist and lowers my arm slowly, my eyes forced to meet his. The drums from the parade combine with the thump, thump, thump of my heart in my ears. Our smiles fade and my mouth is suddenly a desert. His fingers slide down my wrist until my hand rests loosely in his.

A
boom
from a drum as it passes causes us both to jump. I exhale and take the opportunity to pull away and redirect my attention. Nearly the whole town joins the parade behind the band, some carrying candles, some walking arm in arm. Some holding hands.

Did Darren really just try to hold
my
hand?

The parade has moved on up the hill and the onlookers go back to eating and drinking. Chiara and her family—still minus Bruno—busy themselves serving their customers.

“Well, I just wanted to say hi.” Darren blows out his candle and tosses it behind us into the box with the rest of them. “I should head back and finish getting everything together for tomorrow. Are you all ready to go?”

“Nearly,” I lie.

He grins. “Our first train leaves here around 7:30 in the morning, so I’ll meet you at the mouth of the tunnel,” he says, pointing toward the bottom of the hill, “around ten after. Sound good?”

I nod. “Guess I’ll see you in the morning then.”

We shift forward slightly, unsure if we’re supposed to hug or go our separate ways. Darren opens his arms and pulls me against him, patting my back several times. I do the same, his sweat-dampened shirt warm to the touch.

“
A domani,
” he says as his cheek brushes across my ear.

I watch him start down the street, and wave when he’s about twenty steps away.

“Don’t forget your camera!” he calls back to me.

I wave again and smile.

“And the battery charger!” he calls, feet moving him backward down the hill.

Laughter escapes my mouth as I continue to wave good-bye.

“And memory cards!”

I lose sight of him in the darkness, but the smile he brought to my face stays put.

Still gripping my candle, burned down to half its original size, I gaze into the flame’s blue core. My vision blurs until I see nothing more than a glowing, pulsing orb. My thoughts slip into the past, and I know it’s not the first time I’ve recalled this particular memory since I’ve been away.

Gram and I sat by the pool, watching floating candles brave the ripples. I fought back tears over learning my parents were sending me to Italy alone
.

“
Remember that she loves you,” she said about my mother. “In her own way
.”