Page 19 of Better Than Gelato (Ciao Bella #1)
Chapter Eleven
I ’m wearing a sweater, my special thermal pants and my long coat, but I’m still cold. There is a sciopero for the fourth straight day and all the public transportation in the city is shut down.
I’m nearly halfway through my book, right when the fairies are plotting a revolution, when I make it to Jake’s. I knock on his door and one of his roommates answers it. I should know his name by now, but I don’t, and I’m too afraid to guess.
“ Ciao , I’m here to see Jake.”
“Sorry, he’s sick.” He doesn’t look particularly sorry.
I smile as nicely as I can. “I know. That’s why I came.”
He shrugs his shoulders and moves out of the way, which I take as an invitation to zip to Jake’s room.
“Juliet!” Jake says. His voice is low and croaky, and his face is pale. He does not look good.
“I brought you soup!” I say in my most cheerful voice. I place my backpack on his desk and carefully take out the Tupperware.
“Soup?” he asks. He struggles to sit up in bed, and I help him prop an extra pillow behind his back.
“Yes, soup. And a pomegranate from that fruit vendor I told you about.”
“Is the strike over?” Jake asks, grabbing a box of tissues and blowing his nose. He sounds like my Uncle Melvin.
I shake my head. “I walked.”
“From your apartment?” His croaky voice rises in surprise.
“I’m a fast walker. And you’re sick.”
“You’re the greatest girlfriend in the world,” he says.
I flinch a little at the word girlfriend, then jump up to grab a bowl and a spoon from the kitchen. When I get back, Jake has scooted to one side to make room for me on the bed.
“I must look terrible,” he says, as I snuggle in next to him. He’s probably contagious, but I don’t care.
“I’ve missed your face,” I say.
He takes a bite of his soup. “This tastes amazing.”
“Thanks, Isa helped me make it.”
“How is she doing?” he asks, taking another bite.
“Not great. Sofia put her hair in pigtails and then Isa cut one off because she only likes ponytails. Then she yelled at Sofia, like an angry asymmetrical pixie, because clearly this was Sofia’s fault.” I shake my head and smile. “Now they’re trying to find a salon that’s open during the strike.”
“Oh man.” He’s nearly finished his soup, and I swear he looks a little bit healthier. “What have you photographed lately?” he asks.
I tell him about the pictures I took this week around the Rossis’ neighborhood.
All the ordinary things I don’t want to forget.
The cobblestone path to the park with a big crack through the third stone.
The front door of the Rossis’ apartment.
The bus stop where Isa and I catch the bus every morning.
“Do you remember when you threatened to poke me in the eye if I encouraged you to follow your dreams?” Jake asks.
“That doesn’t sound like me.”
Jake smiles. “I’m counting on the fact that I look too pathetic for you to poke right now. What’s so terrible about following your dreams and becoming a photographer?”
“We’ve had this conversation before,” I say.
“Yeah, and I didn’t get it then either.”
“Have I told you about my grandpa?” I ask. Jake’s eyebrows knit together at the abrupt change in topic.
“I don’t believe you have,” he says.
“My grandpa was a painter. He pursued his dream of painting even when it didn’t pay the bills.
” I look around Jake’s room. At his desk, at a poster on the wall, anywhere but him.
“My dad grew up with nothing. He’s the oldest of seven, and he got a job at fourteen to support the family.
All while my grandpa painted.” I try to say it lightly, but it doesn’t quite work.
“That must have been hard for your dad,” Jake offers. His voice is full of sympathy.
“It was. So, when he became a dad, he worked eighty hours a week to make sure we always had food on the table. We barely saw him when we were kids. And somehow we were still poor.”
I smile to show that I’m over it, and it’s not a big deal.
I clear my throat. “Anyway. I think sometimes you need to be realistic about your dreams. There are other people to think of. My dad’s already been hurt by one dream chaser. I can’t do that to him again.”
I don’t wait for Jake to respond.
“Can I get you some more meds?” I ask.
Jake looks at me like he wants to say more, then shakes his head and says, “Sure, the meds are on my dresser. I don’t think they make much difference, to be honest.”
I bring him the bottle and his water. Within minutes, his eyelids start drooping and his voice gets floaty.
“Thank you for taking such good care of me. I feel like I’m a hundred years old.”
“I’m so sorry you feel so bad. I’m going to let you get some rest.”
His eyes fly open. “No, I don’t need rest! Stay.”
“Okay, I’ll stay,” I say. His eyelids flutter back closed.
“Good. Stay forever.”
I smile but say nothing. When his breathing has gotten nice and even, I collect my things and let myself out. I zip up my coat, put in my headphones, and start the long walk home.