Page 16 of Better Than Gelato (Ciao Bella #1)

Chapter Nine

I watch billboards and buildings whiz by my window. Suddenly, a black car pulls even with the tram, and I find myself looking into the eyes of a dark-haired man in a black coat. We’re separated by two windows and twelve inches.

He smiles in surprise and calls out, “ Ciao, bella !”

I smile back and say, “ Ciao !”

The car pulls ahead, and I see him tap the driver. Then the car slows down until our windows are matched up again.

“Where are you going?” he calls to me.

“Home,” I call back.

“Come out with us instead!” he says. There are three other guys in the car.

I laugh. Yeah, right.

“Tell me your name, bella ,” he shouts. Although now that we’re stopped at a red light, I can hear him perfectly fine.

“Juliet,” I say, and his whole face lights up like I’ve just told him he’s won the lottery.

The light turns green, and the tram lumbers off with the black car driving alongside, like a momma whale and her calf.

The man calls, “You are very beautiful!”

“ Grazie ,” I call back. I’m tempted to add “you too,” because he is, in fact, very good looking. But I don’t want to encourage him. The tram veers away from the car lane again, and I lose them.

I don’t quite register when the tram stops to pick someone up. And I’m absolutely shocked when that person comes and sits down next to me.

He holds out a hand and says, “ Ciao, Julieta , I’m Lorenzo.” I’m too surprised to speak, but I shake his hand.

He’s even better looking up close. All sharp angles and dark eyes. He’s grinning victoriously.

The black car makes another appearance with all his friends yelling and cheering out the windows. He waves them away and turns to me.

“Can I get your phone number?” he asks. He looks me right in the eyes. And maybe it’s not wanting him to look bad in front of his friends, or maybe it’s because I feel like he’s earned it. Or maybe it’s because he is really good looking, but I give in.

He pushes a couple of buttons, and I get a text with a smiley face.

“There. Now you have my number.”

The tram has stopped at a bus stop, and I can see the black car idling nearby.

“I better get off here,” he says. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Julieta. I look forward to seeing you again.”

And then he takes my hand and kisses it. I sit there slightly stunned as he walks off the tram and gets into the car. I can hear more yelling and cheering. I look around to see if anyone else saw the crazy thing that just happened, but there’s only one old man on the tram with me and he’s asleep.

* * *

I get Lorenzo’s text during breakfast the next morning.

Buon giorno bella! This is Lorenzo. Can I take you out tonight?

Wow. Less than twelve hours, and he’s already texting me. Now, how do I tell him no? I can’t actually go on a date with some random guy who got on my tram. I’m dating Jake. That’s that.

Or is it? I think, two hours later, folding laundry . I mean, what harm would it do if I go on one date? Jake isn’t even in the country!

By two o’clock, I still haven’t texted Lorenzo back. I think about calling Maggie again. Or even running it by Paolo. He can be discreet. He’s mafia. But then I remember I’m twenty years old. I can make my own decisions.

Which is how I end up at a cozy table in the back of a restaurant with Lorenzo that night. There’s a large fireplace in one corner and oversized photographs of trees and mountains on the walls.

“This place is really cool,” I tell Lorenzo. He looks gorgeous in a leather jacket and dark pants.

“Thanks,” he says. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“So Lorenzo, what do you do?”

“I design restaurants actually.” He gives me a smile. “This was my first.”

My mouth falls open a little. “You designed this?”

“Yes.”

Lorenzo tells me about the company he started a few years out of college and how he’s hustled to build a name for himself.

“How about you?” he says. “Are you working? In school?”

I did the math while he was talking, and it’s clear that he’s much older than me. Admitting that I’ve completed two years of college and have resigned myself to running a dry-cleaning business my whole life seems pathetic.

“I work as a nanny,” I say. “And I’ll go back to school in the fall. But in the meantime, I’m enjoying every second in your amazing country.”

Our first plate arrives, fresh tomatoes topped with mozzarella and basil. I cut myself a small triangle, balancing the red, white, and green in a little stack on my fork. The first bite is juicy and savory and zingy. I take two more bites, then breathe and say, “This is really good.”

“The food in America is terrible, yes?”

“It’s not that bad.”

“I heard that they have cans of cooked pasta already mixed with the sauce and you just heat it in the microwave.”

“Okay, it’s pretty terrible.”

The next course is a wild mushroom risotto with a strong, earthy flavor. Then the main course arrives, some kind of herb-crusted white fish. It’s flaky and flavorful. I eat until there’s not a crumb left on my plate.

“You liked the cod?” Lorenzo asks with a smile, and I nod.

I feel embarrassed, but if people don’t want me to eat every last bite, they shouldn’t serve me such delicious food.

Lorenzo tells me a story about one of his restaurant clients, and I have a hard time concentrating on his words while looking at his face. What is wrong with me?

The waiter brings out two small dishes of crème br?lée. I pick up my spoon and gently crack the golden-brown sugar crust on top. The crème underneath is smooth and thick and sweet. When I’ve eaten the last bite, I’m sorely tempted to lick my bowl but manage to resist.

“I thought we could check out a pub nearby,” Lorenzo says. “It’s just a short walk from here.”

As we leave the restaurant, Lorenzo takes my hand in his. He does it easily, like we’re… hand holders. I remember how uncomfortable I felt showing up to Diego’s party holding Jake’s hand.

As though reading my mind, Lorenzo asks, “Does it bother you if I hold your hand?”

“Not at all,” I say honestly.

What does it say about me that I’m uneasy walking into a room full of friends holding my boyfriend’s hand, but fine walking into a pub full of strangers, holding a stranger’s hand?

I don’t know what pubs in America smell like. I’ve never been to one since I’m under the drinking age. But in my head, they smell like beer, bad pickup lines, and vomit. This place smells like an Italian grandmother’s house; fresh bread and sauteed garlic.

Lorenzo introduces me to the bartender, and it sounds like they’re old friends.

“We’re going to head to the back and see what the boys are up to,” Lorenzo says.

“Hogging the pool table,” the bartender offers.

Before we even make it to the back room, the three guys who were playing pool drop their sticks and walk toward us.

“She showed? I don’t believe it!” says one guy with a neatly trimmed beard.

“He has all the luck,” says another, shorter guy.

“It’s not luck,” says the third. “Lorenzo has the gift.”

Pretending he didn’t hear any of this, Lorenzo closes the gap and introduces us.

“Julieta, these are my friends. Nico, Luca, and Giorgio. Ragazzi , this is Julieta.”

There are piaceres and cheek kisses, and then Luca says, “Are you up for some pool?”

I try to play well. I really do. But my first shot jumps off the table, and my second shot sinks two of their balls. Lorenzo does that thing no man can resist where they stand behind you and show you how to hold the stick. It doesn’t help. We lose badly.

“Do you feel like dancing?” he asks afterward.

“Yes,” I say. I’m much better on a dance floor than a pool table.

“Perfect, I know a great spot near here.”

In the month I’ve been here, I’ve only ever been to Calypso.

This club’s a lot flashier. A neon sign out front says DIAMANTE .

Diamond. French doors open onto a double staircase that leads down to the dance floor.

Each step is embedded with glittering stones that catch the light from the chandelier. It feels like walking on stars.

The dance floor is a dense forest of moving bodies, and the pounding music stops my brain from working, in the best way.

Lorenzo is a good dancer. His hips sway to the beat of the music, and occasionally he takes my hand and twirls me around.

When a bachata song comes on, he pulls me close, and I can feel the skin on the back of his neck, hot and slick with sweat.

His heart is beating fast. Or maybe it’s just the bass.

The chemistry between us has been building all night and by the time Lorenzo walks me to the Rossis’ apartment, I’m dangerously close to kissing him. Everything in me is geared up for that moment. One look in his eyes tells me I'm not the only one.

And that’s when the guilt comes crushing in with brutal clarity.

What am I doing? I’m dating Jake . Whatever mental trick let me ignore that fact all night has abandoned me now. I can’t do this. I shouldn’t even be here . I stand on tiptoes and kiss Lorenzo on his cheek.

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” I say. “I really enjoyed it.”

The disappointment in his eyes is clear.

“Thank you for joining me.”

I still want to kiss him. I know that if I make eye contact right now and go up on my tiptoes again, we’ll be kissing in less than two seconds. Instead, I keep my feet firmly planted, look at his chin and say:

“Goodnight, Lorenzo.”

“Goodnight, Julieta” he says.

He’s holding my hand. I still have a chance to lean in and kiss him. But I don’t. I give his hand a squeeze and then let go. I turn and walk toward my apartment, relief and disappointment flooding through me.

* * *

I spend the next day moping around the Rossi house grumpy and confused.

Lorenzo texts me in the morning, asking when we can go out again, but I don’t respond.

My brain is firing questions at me: Am I going to keep dating Jake?

Am I going to go out with Lorenzo again?

Am I going to convince Paolo to let me join him in the mafia?

Isa notices my mood and makes me a cup of tea. It’s the nicest thing I’ve seen her do. We read three more chapters of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone .

I go to Calypso with the crew on Wednesday night and bring my camera for some photo therapy. I’ve gotten two more texts from Lorenzo. I hate that I’ve turned into the kind of girl that ghosts a nice guy, but I don’t know what else to do. And I have no idea what to tell Jake when he gets home.

So I take pictures of the colorful chandeliers, and a profile shot of the bartender mixing drinks. I take photos over the balcony of the dancing crowd below. I take candids of Carmen and Paolo arguing and Diego and Valentina salsa-ing.

“Alright, ragazzi ! Time for a group shot,” I holler. I set the timer, then squish with everyone else onto a tiny sofa. There’s a blinking light and a flash, and I know that this moment is recorded forever.

Then the light starts blinking again.

“Smile some more,” I call, just before it flashes.

We’re trying to untangle ourselves from the couch when the camera blinks again.

It flashes a third time capturing our tangle of limbs and confused faces.

It flashes a fourth time capturing waving hands and everyone looking at me.

It flashes a fifth time just as Carmen falls off Diego’s lap, which makes Paolo spill the drink he was holding, and accidentally elbow Valentina in the head.

As I edit the photos the next morning, I laugh so hard I have tears in my eyes.