Page 12 of Better Than Gelato (Ciao Bella #1)

Chapter Six

“C iao, bellissima !” Jake calls when he sees me on Friday night. Piazza Duomo is packed, but Jake is standing on top of the steps and hopping from foot to foot, so he’s easy to spot.

“Are you hungry?” he asks me first off.

“Starving,” I reply. “Your text was clear. I ate no dinner and only the tiniest afternoon snack.”

“Perfect,” he says. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”

We grab a bus and head out of downtown. Ten minutes later, we get off at a convention center with a giant sign that says Fiero di Sapori.

“Fair of tastes?” I say looking at Jake.

“More like ‘Festival of Flavors,’ but you get the idea.”

He grabs my hand and pulls me inside, nearly skipping with excitement. The space is huge and smells of garlic, bread, and wine.

“The first weekend in October, Milan hosts a showcase of different culinary specialties from all over Italy,” Jake says.

“My colleague told me about it, and I remembered that first night when you ate the pizza. And also how much you loved that seafood risotto. And basically every time I’ve seen you eat something you’ve been so happy about it. ”

I see signs for Sicilia, Emilia Romagna, Toscana, and Calabria.

A nearby table is filled with samples of salami, cheese, and olives.

Another table in this section has jam and honey.

People are wandering between tables and sections sampling the different foods, comparing this region’s bread with that region’s bread.

I look at all the tables. I look at Jake. “I am never leaving this place,” I say.

His smile grows even bigger. “I knew it. I knew you would love it here.”

He leads me to a table with squares of fresh focaccia bread, still warm from the oven.

There are shallow bowls of shimmering olive oil, some of it dark and opaque, others nearly transparent.

We dip our focaccia into the bowls and eat it.

It’s more flavorful than such a simple thing has any right to be.

After we try all the samples from the Calabria region, Jake says, “We should take a trip to Calabria.”

In the Emilia Romagna section, a large man with a beard offers us tiny cups of wine. I politely decline.

“You don’t drink,” Jake says to me. It’s not a question, but he does seem to be asking for an explanation.

“Nope, not for me.”

Jake nods his head, and we leave it at that.

We sample gelato, nuts, and honey, devour olives and cheeses of every kind and try pesto sauces, alfredo sauces and marinara sauces. And after every region, Jake says, “We should definitely visit this place.” And every time, it makes me laugh more, and after two hours, we’re food drunk and giggly.

“I didn’t plan anything else for this evening,” Jake says after we’ve taken the tram back to il Duomo. “But it seems early to call it a night. Are you up for a walk?”

Yes, I want to keep hanging out with you too.

Out loud I say, “A walk sounds wonderful.”

It’s dark and the night air is cold, but my body warms up as we go.

We stroll through a neighborhood filled with restaurants and lit by strands of lights strung between balconies.

We wander into the art district where the streets are lined with galleries and the stone walls of the buildings are painted with murals.

We walk for hours through wide avenues filled with stores and lined with Vespas. We stroll down winding cobblestone streets that end in piazzas and through narrow alleys that lead to nothing but a dead end.

And while we walk we talk. We’ve already had the main conversations about school and family and friends. So we tell each other the small things that don’t matter at all. Like why Jake doesn’t like coleslaw—soggy cabbage is gross—or how crickets creep me out.

He tells me about the time in fifth grade when a bully punched him in the face, and he went home and cried. And how the next day, he went back to school and punched the bully in the face and then went home and cried.

“Since then, I’ve tried to avoid getting punched in the face or punching anyone in the face.”

I tell him about a camping trip my family took when I was twelve, and how proud I felt catching a fish that my dad cooked for dinner that night.

It’s easy to talk when your body is in motion.

You can share things in the dark while you’re moving that you wouldn’t say in the light as you’re looking someone in the eyes.

You can let there be silences in the conversation as you look at the city.

With every street and every step and every word, we share another detail of who we are.

All those small things, hundreds of them, take the shape of a young woman and a young man.

In a narrow alley, Jake takes my hand and doesn’t let go. His skin is warm and smooth. I can feel the warmth spread through me, to my fingers and toes and ear lobes.

We make it to my bus stop just as the 27 is pulling away, and I’m not disappointed I missed it. We sit on a low stone wall and wait for the next tram.

“You know how some people don’t like putting labels on things?” Jake says. He’s running his thumb along the inside of my wrist. Who knew that could be such a lovely place to be touched? It takes some effort to focus on what he’s saying.

“I’m not that way,” he continues. “I like to have labels. Like if there’s a box with an eggplant in it, and the box has a label that says eggplant. I know what it is, and the person next to me knows. And we are on the same page.” He turns to me. “All this is to say, will you be my girlfriend?”

My body freezes.

Don’t do it! my mind yells. It’s a trap!

I take a breath. I’m not really girlfriend material.

And I definitely didn’t expect to be in a relationship with an American boy two weeks into my big year in Italy.

But Jake is wonderful. If I ignore my panicked brain and just go by my feelings, I’m 70% delighted to be Jake’s girlfriend and 30% reluctant. Or is that reversed?

You’re out of time! Just say something!

“Yes,” I say. “I’d be delighted to be your girlfriend.” Which is 70 percent true. Or is it 30 percent?

Jake’s whole body physically relaxes. “I’m so glad.” He gives my hand a squeeze. “Also, are you part Irish?”

I shake my head and try to will my nerves away.

“I have another question,” Jake says, looking at me with shy eyes. “Can I kiss you?”

There’s something sweet and old-fashioned about him asking first instead of just going for it. I can’t help but smile.

I manage to reply in a normal American accent, “I would like that very much.”

He leans in and slides a soft hand to the base of my neck and gently pulls me closer.

I can feel his breath on my lips and all the nerves in my body start singing.

His lips meet mine, softly and tenderly, and I’m done for.

He puts a hand on my lower back, pulling me closer, and I’m lost in his woodsy scent and the sound of blood pulsing in my ears. When he pulls away, I feel tipsy.

Whoa.

And apparently I say that out loud, because Jake smiles and says, “Yeah, me too.”

My seventy percent just got bumped up to one hundred percent.

All the way home and as I take the elevator up to the Rossi’s apartment I relive the feel of his lips on mine and his hand pulling me closer.

I text Maggie just before I crawl into bed.

Jake and I are officially dating, and he kisses like a freaking rock star. Okay, I haven’t actually kissed a rock star, so that may be inaccurate. But man can that guy kiss!

* * *

We’re celebrating Diego’s birthday tonight with a dinner party at Paolo’s house. Jake picked up a gift from the two of us. I guess that’s something we do now that we’re a couple.

As we knock on Paolo’s door, I’m hyper aware of the fact that I’m holding Jake’s hand. In front of everyone. Because I’m his girlfriend.

How did I end up here?

I feel like a salamander wearing shoes, conspicuous and unnatural.

“ Benvenuti, Americani ,” Paolo says, opening the door wide. He gives me a kiss on the cheek and takes our gift from Jake. He sees Jake holding my hand and gives me a raised eyebrow but makes no comment.

Paolo’s apartment is just like Paolo—good looking and rich.

The couches are leather, the rug looks expensive, and there’s a mahogany bookcase filled with intimidating volumes.

My brain pulls up the apartment Mags and I shared last year, furnished with thrift store finds.

It’s a stark contrast. My Italian bestie is an actual grown up. And I am…something else.

Jake gives my hand a squeeze, then heads over to talk to Diego who’s sitting on the couch. I go help Carmen and Valentina set the table.

“So you and Jake!” Carmen whispers to me while she places plates around the table. “Wow! I did not expect that. Although I guess I should have. What happened with you and Paolo?”

“Me and Paolo are just friends,” I whisper back.

“I think you and Jake look really nice together,” Valentina whispers, setting a napkin at each place.

“Thanks,” I say. “I feel weird.”

“Why?”

I shrug lamely.

We finish setting the table, and I go looking for Paolo. I find him in a spotless kitchen filled with gleaming appliances.

“How can I help?” I ask.

“Sit on that barstool and tell me charming stories while I mix up this salad. The lasagna should be ready in a few more minutes.”

“Ooh, I love lasagna.”

“Well, you’re in luck. This is my grandmother’s recipe. Upon eating your first bite, you will immediately fall in love with me. But don’t do anything rash. I promise you, it’s just the lasagna influencing you.”

“Thanks for that warning.”

“Wouldn’t want Jake throwing a punch in the middle of Diego’s birthday party.” Paolo drizzles olive oil over dark romaine lettuce.

“Sure wouldn’t. Though he doesn’t seem the type does he?”

“No, he does not.”

I want to ask Paolo what he thinks of us dating, but I’m not sure I want to pull that thread right now. So instead I say, “How’s work going?”

“It brings me no pleasure but pays me enough to pursue pleasure elsewhere.”