Page 22 of Better Than Gelato (Ciao Bella #1)

Chapter Thirteen

C hristmas hits hard in Milan. There are lights strung up across every narrow street.

Wreaths on every signpost. There’s cutthroat competition among the shops around il Duomo to see who can create the most over-the-top Christmas display.

Gorgeous evening gowns for holiday parties compete against festive place settings for family gatherings and elaborate gingerbread houses with candy reindeer and Babbo Natale, the Italian Santa Claus.

I take pictures of everything. I’ve been watching YouTube tutorials and trying out some new settings. Jake is incredibly patient as I stop every few feet to take “one more shot.”

“You’re really talented,” he says one night as I edit some photos on my laptop.

We’re curled up on the couch in the Rossis’ living room. The Rossis are spending two weeks in Egypt at a spa with special dead sea mud. Isa is the only six-year-old I know who gets spa treatments.

“Thanks,” I tell Jake.

I close my laptop and snuggle into his lap.

“I’ve been thinking about your grandpa,” Jake says.

“Weird way to set the mood, but okay.”

“I’ve been thinking about him as an artist,” Jake continues. He rubs a hand down my arm. “Just because he neglected his family to pursue his own dream doesn’t mean that following your dream is selfish or bad.”

“I know that,” I say.

“Do you? Because you seem set against doing something you love, and determined to do something that will make you miserable.”

“I’m determined to do something that makes sense,” I say. “My dad didn’t have the luxury of going to college. I do. I’m not going to waste it earning a degree in something frivolous that won’t pay off my loans or help my family’s finances.”

Jake makes a frustrated sound. “It’s not about the money.”

“For you it’s not because you’ve always had it.

For my family, it’s always about the money.

” I sit up, out of his reach. “But it will be different for my kids.

If I earn a degree in business and work hard, I can make that dry cleaners profitable.

I can make the kind of money my dad always tried to and never quite could.

“My kids won’t eat free lunch in the cafeteria. They won’t dig through the bins at the Salvation Army for their school clothes. They won’t endure the teasing that followed because Catrina Bradshaw was dropping off a couch with her parents and saw and told everyone at school.”

“Juliet, I’m sorry. I didn’t?—”

“You didn’t know. I get it. And the truth is, you’ll never know. But you don’t have to feel sorry for me either. I’m not that poor little girl anymore. I’m a grown-up who gets to make her own choices. And I’m choosing a life of financial security over dream chasing.”

Jake doesn’t say anything.

“We’d better go, or we’ll be late,” I say. I grab my coat, and Jake follows me to the door.

Every December, they set up an ice-skating rink in the middle of the piazza.

By the time me and Jake get there, our whole gang is already on the ice.

They are all terrible skaters. Valentina and Paolo keep falling, and Diego is hanging on the side of the rink out of breath.

We spend an hour skating, falling and laughing.

Afterward, Jake and I grab some hot chocolate. It hasn’t snowed yet, but it feels like it could any moment.

“Are you feeling homesick?” Jake asks.

I shake my head. “I was just thinking how if we were back home, I’d be the cliche college girl who brings home a boy at Christmas.”

“You’d bring me to meet your family?” he asks. His tone is the kind you use with a skittish horse you don’t want to spook.

“I mean technically, if we were back home, we would have never met. So when I invited you, you’d be like, ‘I don’t know you. Seems weird to meet your family.’”

He ignores my joking and says, “That’s a big deal.”

“Maybe I’m ready for a big deal,” I say.

He doesn’t say anything, just smiles and kisses me.

“I didn’t know it was possible to smile and kiss at the same time,” I say.

“I’m a very good multi-tasker,” he says, still smiling.

The holidays do funny things to you. Like make you wear outlandish sweaters with tinsel, and drink gross beverages like eggnog, and think ridiculous things like I’m in love with Jake.

* * *

“Merry Christmas!” Jake says. He sets a large bag of groceries on the Rossis’ table and slips a backpack off his shoulder. We’re hosting Christmas Eve dinner for the whole gang at my place tonight, and I’m super excited.

“I got everything we need,” Jake says.

He nudges his backpack with his foot and looks at me, then looks away.

“I also brought some, um, pajamas. And a toothbrush. I thought, since it’ll probably be a late night and we talked about spending Christmas morning together, maybe I could spend the night here, in Isa’s room.

Unless that feels weird to you. It’s totally up to you.

” He’s wiggling his left foot like he has a kink in it. “I’m fine either way.”

“You’re adorable either way. I’d love it if you spent the night. I definitely don’t want to do all the dishes myself.”

Jake’s posture loosens in relief. He brings his backpack to Isa’s room and then comes back into the kitchen and says, “What should I make us for lunch?”

“This. This right here is why I—” I stop just in time. “Why I’m glad you’re here.”

Jake looks at me funny.

“Because lunch is great,” I clarify. “And I’m very hungry.”

Jake opens the fridge to see what we have, which is not much because I’ve procrastinated grocery shopping.

“How about frittata?” he says. He pulls out eggs and cheese and half a bell pepper and four mushrooms and some greens that could be spinach.

I watch in wonder as he turns these things into a tasty lunch.

In the afternoon, we jump into making fried chicken. It seemed like a weird choice for Christmas Eve, but Jake was excited about it. Apparently, it’s a Fields family tradition.

Paolo and Valentina show up together, which I take as a good sign. Carmen and Diego arrive a few minutes later and everyone looks happy to be out of the cold. I’ve moved the kitchen table into the living room so we can all be together.

“Okay ragazzi , we’ve got a lot of fried chicken,” I say.

“We also have salad, biscuits, and mashed potatoes. Before we dig in, I just want to thank you guys for coming tonight and tell you how grateful I am to have stumbled into this wonderful group.” I was going to say more but suddenly find that my throat is tight, and my eyes feel itchy.

“ Buon appetito ,” I say.

“ Buon appetito, ” the group echoes.

Then we dig into the food. I haven’t had fried chicken in ages, and this tastes delicious.

“Wow, Julieta, this is even better than Paolo’s lasagna,” Diego says.

“Diego, I know you’re saying that to hurt me,” Paolo says, “so I will disregard it as the lie that it is. No offense, Dolcetta . The chicken is very good.”

“That was all Jake. It’s a family recipe.”

Paolo raises an eyebrow, and Jake says, “Yes, I know how to cook, and yes, Americans can have family recipes too.”

After we eat, I make everyone go around the table and share something they're grateful for. Just like my dad makes us do on Christmas Eve.

Diego starts. “I’m thankful for all of you. I don’t have my family here in Milan, but I do have a family here in Milan.” He turns his head and rubs his left eye. I think Christmas time makes everyone more emotional.

“I am also grateful for good friends,” Carmen says. “Christmas is a time to spend with people you care about. And I care about all of you. Even you, Paolo.”

“When I left Argentina to come to Italy,” Valentina says, “I had no idea I would meet people that would make this new country feel like home. I am truly grateful for each of you.”

There’s such a feeling of love and friendship in the room. This is what the holidays are all about.

“I’m grateful for the S&P 500,” Paolo says. “It’s had a great year.”

Jake bursts out laughing and sprays cranberry punch all over his plate. I jump up to fetch some paper towels.

“Julieta, come back,” Paolo says. “I’m only kidding. Believe it or not, I also have a heart. And like the rest of you, I’m grateful for the amazing people in my life. They make the bad moments good and the good moments better.”

Jake mops up his plate and brings it into the kitchen. When he comes back, we’re staring at him expectantly.

“At this point, it’s not going to sound very original, but I was wandering alone in the piazza, getting pickpocketed by children, and you guys took me in. That means a lot.”

There are “awws” around the table and some misty eyes.

“This is a terrible tradition,” Paolo mutters.

“You’re a terrible tradition,” I mutter back.

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“You don’t even make sense.”

It’s well after midnight when everyone leaves, and I take one look at the kitchen and decide to leave the cleanup for tomorrow.

I’m tired but excited for my first sleepover with Jake. He’s gone into Isa’s room to change. I zip into my bedroom and put on my fanciest pink and black silky pajamas and then make us some hot chocolate. It’s just the powdered kind, but it’s still yummy and hot.

“Juliet in pajamas with hot cocoa,” Jake says, coming into the kitchen. “This is just like that dream I had.” Jake’s wearing black sweatpants and a Johns Hopkins T-shirt. His huge smile matches my own.

“Merry Christmas,” I say.

The hot cocoa is too hot to drink so we snuggle on the couch, which turns into kissing on the couch. When we pull apart, our chocolate has gone cold. I want to stay on the couch kissing Jake for the next three hours.

Instead, I move the mountain of stuffed animals off Isa’s bed and tuck him in. He gives me a long, lingering kiss.

“Good night, Jake,” I say.

“Good night, Juliet.”

And then I crawl into my own bed and try to forget that Jake is sleeping on the other side of my wall.

* * *