Page 15 of Better Than Gelato (Ciao Bella #1)

Chapter Eight

J ake leaves for med school interviews in America tomorrow.

Am I going to miss him like crazy? Yes. We’ve spent every free moment together for the past two weeks.

Am I also a little relieved he’s going away for two weeks?

Yes. We’ve spent Every. Free. Moment. Together.

For a girl that doesn’t love being in a relationship, it’s been a lot.

Tonight he planned a special date for us, a nighttime tour of the Navigli Canals.

The evening is cold, and the air smells like winter has arrived.

We snuggle together in a little wooden boat while a guide tells us how Leonardo di Vinci built the canals to bring goods into the city.

I listen to the water lap against the stone walls of the canal and watch the bare branches sway in the breeze.

“This is spectacular,” I whisper to Jake.

“I’m so happy you like it,” he whispers back.

And I can see that he means it. He keeps darting glances at me, like he wants to make sure I’m having a good time.

So much of his pleasure is derived from my enjoyment.

I think of how happy he was introducing me to Italian hot chocolate and the way he always watches me eat.

Me being happy makes him happy, which I appreciate.

It also makes me deeply uncomfortable to be responsible for someone else’s happiness.

The boat tour ends, but it’s still early, so we meander through the neighborhood. This area has a different feeling than other parts of Milan. Older maybe, or slower.

We come to a park with tall iron gates with a sign saying the park closes at sunset. A firm shake of the gate confirms that they’re locked.

“Too bad, it looks like a cool park,” Jake says.

“It does,” I murmur. There are giant trees with branches that hang down almost to the ground. I look up to the top of the gate.

Jake says, “Uh oh,” before I’ve even taken the first step.

I look down the road. There’s no one out.

There aren’t even that many lights on in this area.

I give Jake my most persuasive look. And then without waiting for a response, I stick the toe of my shoe into the iron gate and start climbing.

It’s not that tall, and the gate is all horizontal bars, very easy to climb.

I’m on the other side in less than a minute.

I wander down the path, and it gets even darker in the densely wooded park.

Behind me I hear a light thump, and I know Jake has made it over. I don’t look back, but seconds later, I feel his arms wrap around me.

“We’ve snuck into a park,” he murmurs. “What other mischievous things should we do?”

I don’t say anything, but I take his hand and lead him to a bench nearly obscured by long branches.

I sit down and pull him down next to me.

It’s so dark I can just see his outline.

I touch his face. Feel his full mouth, run my hand across his cheek and then into his hair.

I pull his face to mine and kiss him gently.

He tastes like mint. His arms wrap around me, pulling me closer to him.

His lips leave mine and go to my neck just below my ear.

My breath catches, and Jake’s arms tighten in response.

He softly kisses all the way down to my collarbone.

He scoops me onto his lap and we’re a tangle of limbs on a park bench.

I want to stay here until the end of the world.

Then I see a blinking light coming through the darkness.

“Jake,” I whisper. “Don’t make a sound.”

Jake goes still. I can’t see his face clearly, but his posture looks so nervous and guilty I start giggling. The light gets closer, and I make out a guy in a uniform. I jump off the bench and head in his direction. We’re caught. No sense making him duck under all the branches.

“ Buonasera ,” I say. Good evening.

“ Buenasera, signorina ,” he says, sizing me up. “The park is closed for the night.”

“I know. I just wanted to take a closer look. I’ve never seen such wonderful trees.”

“ Grazie ,” he says, as though he planted each tree himself. “Perhaps you’ll come back and enjoy our lovely park during the day.”

“We absolutely will,” I tell him.

And without another word, he leads us back to the gate, unlocks it and ushers us through.

“ Grazie . Buonanotte ,” I say, wishing him a good night.

“ Buonanotte ,” he tells me, and he’s smiling now. “Visit again soon.” He gives me a wink.

I think the incidences of winking in Italy is substantially higher than in the US.

“Wow.” Jake says, visibly relieved. “You totally charmed that old guy. He didn’t even yell at us.”

“Italians are romantics,” I say. “I guarantee you, thirty years ago, that guy was doing the same thing.”

We grab some hot chocolate to warm up, and I’m feeling content and cozy.

And then the night takes a disastrous turn.

“You look beautiful tonight,” Jake says.

“I think it’s the chocolate. Everything seems more beautiful when you’re sipping this stuff.”

“Maybe. But you also looked beautiful an hour ago on the boat. How do you explain that?”

I shake my head and smile. “I have no explanation for that.”

“Ah hah!” he says, like he’s caught me. It makes me laugh.

“You know how hot chocolate makes everything better?” he says.

“You do the same thing. Everything is better when you’re around.

Even when you’re not around. I remember the funny things you say while I’m working in the lab.

I think about getting to see you again when I’m off work. You make me really happy.”

I’m about to respond, but Jake continues.

“I think I might be falling in love with you.”

It’s like someone dropped a gallon of ice water on me.

“No. That’s a terrible idea,” I blurt before I can stop myself.

Jake tilts his head to the side. He waits a second before asking, “Why is that a terrible idea?”

My mind races for an appropriate response. Because I might not fall in love with you back? Because it feels like too much pressure? Because I don’t want to be trapped in a serious relationship?

I can’t say any of those things. My brain searches for a different explanation.

I’m a spy, working for the CIA, and I can’t get involved with anyone.

It seems far-fetched, even for me. Maybe I’m a vampire.

Wasn’t that the hip thing a few years back?

Jake sits there patiently puzzled. I opt for part of the truth.

“It just feels really fast.”

“Yeah, I guess it is. It’s just, the more I get to know you…You’re smart, you’re funny, you’re beautiful. I like every new thing I learn about you.”

Oh man, he’s making it worse. How can I stop this conversation immediately?

“Look, I know you might not be where I am right now,” he says, “and I get that. I’m not trying to scare you.” He must see the panic in my eyes. “But I wanted you to know where I’m at. I’m really enjoying my time with you. And I see a lot of potential in this relationship. For the future.”

Did he just say future? We’ve been dating for three weeks, and we’re having a future talk?! Out. I’ve got to get out.

I take a drink of my hot chocolate to buy myself some time. We’re not on the same page. This is clear. I need to end this relationship immediately before things get worse.

But then another thought hits me. What kind of heartless jerk breaks up with her boyfriend the night before he interviews at Harvard?

“Hey, I see that I freaked you out,” Jake says.

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intention.” He’s rubbing the back of his neck, and his cheeks have gone pink.

Probably because I haven’t said anything in five minutes.

“I was trying to be honest. But you know what they say about honesty in a relationship. Totally overrated.”

I smile. He really is adorable .

“Jake, I also really like spending time with you. You’re one of the coolest people I’ve met. I’m sorry if I seem freaked out. I appreciate your honesty. It just threw me off a little.”

The date ends pretty quickly after that. As we walk to the bus stop, I can tell he wants to say more, and I pray to the gods of freaked-out girlfriends that he won’t. It works. We settle onto the stone wall by the bus stop bench, and he tentatively takes my hand.

I lean over and kiss him and it’s so much better than talking that I just keep kissing him until my bus comes.

“Good luck,” I tell him just before I get on. “You’re going to punch those interviews right in the face.”

His brow creases in confusion, so I add, “It's a good thing.”

And then I hop on the bus and it’s moving away from him and a wave of relief washes over me.

* * *

“That looks like diarrhea,” Isa says. “I’m not eating that.”

It’s a mean thing to say. Unfortunately, it’s also accurate. I tried to cook chicken marsala, like Sofia showed me, but my head is a mess from how I left things with Jake last night. I clearly missed some crucial steps because the mushrooms shriveled up and the wine sauce turned into brown sludge.

“I have a new plan for dinner,” I tell Isa, and she looks relieved. Marco is in Barcelona and Sofia had a late meeting, so it’s just the two of us this evening.

I whip up some toasted PB&J and present it with a flourish. She’s skeptical at first but gives it a try and eats most of it.

After dinner, I suggest seventeen different things we could do, and each one gets shot down with a “No.”

“Well, I’m going to go read a book,” I say. I hop up and head to my room.

Isa looks alarmed that nobody is going to entertain her, but I pretend I don’t notice.

I grab Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone from under my bed and bring it out to the living room.

My grandma ordered me a copy in Italian a few years back, but I never made it very far through it. I open it to chapter one.

I can hear Isa moping around the kitchen, and eventually she sulks into the living room.

“Your book looks boring,” she says.

“Yeah, it probably does look that way to a Muggle.”

“What’s a Muggle?”

“A non-magical person. This book is about magical people. Witches, wizards, that sort. There are potions and spells. And flying broomsticks. You probably wouldn’t like it.”

“Fine, you can read it to me if you want,” she says, flopping onto the couch next to me.

By the end of the first chapter, she’s hooked. After I help her get on her PJs and brush her teeth, I read chapter two to her and the forty-seven stuffed animals that live on her bed.

Once I’m sure she’s down, I head to my room and call Maggie.

“Mags! It’s me! I’m in dire need of romantic advice.”

I can hear her laughing. We've been using that phrase since we were twelve. We read it in a book somewhere and thought it was wildly funny.

“I’m so glad you’re calling me!” she says. “I’ve been missing you like crazy. I have a thousand things to tell you, but none of it’s important. Tell me about your love life. Is this about the American?”

“Yes,” I say with a sigh. “He said he’s falling in love with me.”

“Whoa. It’s been, what, three weeks? What did you say?”

“I gave him a perfectly reasonable response. Like any normal girl would.” I climb under the covers.

“I want your exact words, please.”

“No. That’s a terrible idea.”

“It can’t be that bad,” Maggie says. “Spill it.”

I cough. “Um. That’s what I said to him. ‘No. That’s a terrible idea.’”

Maggie gasps. “You didn't!”

“Oh geez. It sounds worse now that I’m repeating it to you.”

“Well…” I can tell she’s trying to put a positive spin on this but coming up empty.

“I will point out that I didn’t tell him I worked for the CIA,” I say. “Or that I was a vampire.”

“Why would you tell him those things?” She sounds truly puzzled.

“You know, as good reasons for him not to fall in love with me.”

“I see,” Maggie says. But she says it slowly, in a way that makes it clear she does not see.

“Maaaargh! This is the worst,” I say.

“Why is this the worst?” she asks.

“Because! He’s always taking me to cool places and feeding me delicious food.”

“That monster,” she says drily.

“I’m serious. He’s wonderful, and I like him, and now I have to break up with him.” I can tell I’m slipping into a whiny voice, and I hate it.

“I know you’re scared of the ‘L’ word,” Maggie says, “but you don’t always have to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Freak out and bail when things get serious.”

“I don’t always do that,” I protest.

“You broke up with Adam Jensen the day after he told you he loved you,” she points out.

“He showed up at my house drunk and was only saying that to get me to sleep with him. Gross.”

“How about Curly-Haired Tom that you dated for three months last year and refused to call your boyfriend. You referred to him as ‘That guy I hang out with sometimes.’”

“Things with Tom were not that serious,” I explain.

“Because you wouldn’t let them get serious.”

“Because serious is the worst!”

“Juls, you’re overthinking this. Which is a thing you do.”

“It’s not a thing I do,” I start to say as she interrupts me by saying loudly, “It’s totally a thing you do!”

“Listen,” she continues, “maybe this feels uncomfortable at first, but give it a chance. You’re trying a lot of new things over there. Try out being a girlfriend. You might like it.”

I make a grumbling sound, but Maggie can tell I’m agreeing and lets out a tiny whoop of triumph.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll give this a try. Maybe it’ll be great. Maybe I’ll be the best girlfriend ever.”

Twenty-four hours later it’s clear I am not the best girlfriend ever.