Page 24 of Better Than Gelato (Ciao Bella #1)

Chapter Fourteen

I f six-months-ago-me saw current-me, she would puke.

Or punch me. Or punch me while puking on me.

Jake spends the rest of the week at the Rossis’, and we tell each other “I love you” so much you’d think we’d get sick of it.

We don’t. We snuggle, nap, eat, read books.

We go out to eat a few times and invite the gang over to watch Jake’s favorite Christmas movie, Home Alone . They have a lot of questions.

“How did they forget one of their kids?”

“Why didn’t the mom just have a neighbor come over and look in on Kevin until the family could get back from France?”

“Does he have grandparents? Where were the grandparents?”

“How did Kevin know how to do all those terrible things to those burglars?”

“Do all American kids know how to do that?”

“Is this something they teach in the schools?”

Two days after movie night, Jake and I catch a train south to Florence. We travel through rolling hills dusted with snow and dotted with quaint towns.

As we pull into the city of Florence, I take in the piazzas, buildings, and cathedrals. The Arno River catches every ray of sunlight and sends it sparkling back.

We grab a taxi at the train station, and our driver hurtles us toward our hostel. It’s a little far from central Florence, but it’s spectacular. A magnificent villa perched on a hill. There’s a huge fountain in front and big marble columns.

Jake checks us in while I stare at a ceiling that looks like a Renaissance masterpiece.

“I’ve got a key for you,” Jake says. “The good news is you have your own private room. The bad news is, from the map she showed me, it looks like a closet that they turned into a room.”

The women’s dorms are in the west wing and the men’s dorms are in the east wing. And Jake is right. My room definitely used to be a closet. It has a bed, a shelf, and two hooks on the wall for clothes. I put my stuff away and meet Jake by the fountain out front.

We go straight to the Galleria Dell'Accademia to see the David. The wait to get inside is long, but when I finally lay eyes on him, he’s even more incredible than I imagined.

The sculpture is fifteen feet high, and it’s standing on a tall pedestal so the feet are above eye height.

The ripples of the ribs and abdominal muscles look so real it’s hard to believe it’s stone.

The veins under the marble skin look like there could be blood running through them.

I have limited experience with naked men, and I get uncomfortable easily. But I don’t feel uncomfortable staring at this work of art that seems more living man than stone. It’s the kind of beauty that dazzles you so much you don’t feel awkward.

Next, we make our way toward the Uffizi Museum.

It’s an impressive building with a large courtyard and a thousand ornate columns.

We opt for an audio tour, and I swear the low Italian voice coming through my headphones is trying to inform me and seduce me at the same time.

We emerge two hours later with our heads full of beautiful things.

“My mom would love this,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. My dad is a homebody, but my mom is more like me. She loves traveling. I mean, she would if she ever got to travel. And I know she’s always wanted to see Italy, where her parents grew up.”

We head to the botanical gardens of Bardini Villa and stroll along stone paths under canopies of purple wisteria. We explore the hedge mazes, sculptures, and fountains. We stay so long I almost believe we live here together in this palatial villa.

We walk across Ponte Vecchio, the oldest bridge in Florence. It’s lined with shops selling souvenirs, jewelry, and trinkets. Jake buys necklaces for his mom and sister. I pick up some bangle bracelets for Maggie.

By the time we get to the other side, the sun is thinking about setting.

The hour before sunset is called the “golden hour” because the light makes everything vivid and vibrant.

It’s my favorite time to take pictures, and Florence is the most photogenic city I’ve ever visited.

I get shots of the bridge, the river, and an old couple walking hand in hand.

I’m so engrossed in my picture taking I startle when Jake wraps his arms around me.

“You should take pictures, Juliet,” he says into my ear.

“I am taking pictures,” I whisper back.

Jake shakes his head and gives me a kiss. “As your job,” he clarifies.

I shake my head. Not this again.

“If you could see your face right now,” Jake says. “You look so happy. It’s the same look you have when the server brings out your food at a restaurant.”

I smile and give him a kiss. “Who’s to say my face doesn’t look like this when I’m working on spreadsheets? Now tell me about those lab mice of yours. Cured any of them yet?”

Jake tells me about his research as we watch the sun drop behind the Florence skyline, turning the sky a rosy pink, then a soft purple, then a dark violet.

We take a bus up to Fiesole, a hilltop town overlooking the valley of Florence and find a cozy steakhouse for dinner.

We’re instructed to order the bistecca fiorentina , which is the specialty here.

Our waiter doesn’t explicitly say our descendants for three generations will be cursed if we don’t try it, but he does imply it.

It’s a gigantic cut of meat cooked rarer than any steak I’ve ever had. The red puddle growing in the middle of my plate would be off-putting if the meat itself didn’t taste so delicious. My plate is still half full, and I can’t take another bite. I look longingly at my bread.

Jake reaches across the table and takes my hand. “You’re feeling sad because you want to keep eating, but you’re too full?”

My cheeks heat up, and Jake smiles. I love and hate that he knows that about me.

Just as we’re about to go, we hear a loud boom followed by crackling and a thousand white lights appear in the sky.

“Fireworks!”

They’re coming from somewhere down in Florence, and we have the perfect view.

Jake comes around and sits by me, and we watch the show.

They explode across the sky in brilliant colors.

They whistle and shriek and split into droplets of fire.

When it’s over, we clap and cheer and yell great things about Florence.

It’s nearly 11 p.m. when we get back to the main piazza of Florence.

It’s only half full when we get there, but it’s packed forty-five minutes later.

They’ve set up large speakers and a local station gives highlights and lowlights of the last year.

Each piece of news is greeted with wild cheering or vehement booing.

By the time we’re closing in on the last minutes of the year, the crowd is whipped into a frenzy.

The air is electric with anticipation. Finally, the DJ starts the countdown.

“30, 29, 28, 27, 26…”

The crowd yells along with him.

“…25, 24, 23, 22, 21…”

Jake is telling me something, but I can’t make it out over the yelling.

“…20, 19, 18, 17, 16…”

He leans in close. “Thanks for making this the best year of my life.”

“…15, 14, 13, 12, 11…”

“Just wait until next year,” I tell him with a smile.

And then the volume level goes up to an impossible pitch as we all count down together.

“…10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2…”

Before we make it to one, Jake has me in his arms. I can hear shouting and yelling and people popping champagne, but all of it is background noise as Jake’s lips find mine.

People bump into us, but I hardly register it.

Happiness is zipping through my body like an electric current.

If I live a thousand years, there will never be a moment as perfect as this one right now.

There are fireworks and cheering, and we kiss.

There’s yelling and singing, and we kiss.

Someone nearby is spraying champagne everywhere, and we continue to kiss.

When we break apart, I can see that the piazza is a sea of chaos and celebration.

I’m soaked head to toe in beer, wine, and champagne.

Jake’s face is flushed, and his hair is wet. His smile could light a city block.

“Happy New Year!” he yells.

“Happy New Year!” I yell back.

We stay in the piazza a few minutes longer, soaking up the intoxicating energy from the crowd.

“Are you as covered in beer as I am?” I ask Jake.

“Yes. I can’t wait to shower once we get back to the hostel. Are you ready to call it a night?”

“Ready.”

Jake consults the map and leads us to a bus stop a few blocks away. We’ve been waiting five minutes when a group of teenagers walks by and one of them yells in English, “No buses.”

“Hmm.” Jake looks at the schedule posted at the bus stop. Sure enough, the buses stop running at 11 p.m. on New Year’s Eve.

“What about taxis?” Jake yells to the group of teens. The same kid turns around and smirks. “No taxis.”

“Well. That’s not great news,” Jake says.

“Who doesn't love a three-mile stroll at midnight?" I reply.

Jake takes my sticky hand, and we start walking. I’m exhausted, but I also feel like I could walk next to Jake, holding his hand, for miles. The last stretch is the hardest because the villa is at the top of a hill, but finally we make it back.

The smell of my own sweat is mixing with the beer and wine soaking my clothes. I’ve never been more ready for a shower. One of the staff unlocks the door for us and crushes all my hopes.

“The amenities are closed for the evening, and all guests are asked to go directly to their sleeping quarters.”

“But the showers are still open, right?” Jake asks.

“All the amenities are closed for the evening,” he repeats in a maddening monotone.

“But we’re covered in beer!” I say. He says nothing, but his expression makes it clear he feels that’s a problem of our own making. I think about trying to explain that it’s not our beer, but I give up before I start. It’s obvious he’s not changing his mind.

Jake walks me to the women’s wing, and we share a very pungent kiss. Once in my tiny closet room, I strip down to my underwear and fall into bed.

The next morning I shower, a glorious ten minutes that makes me feel like singing.

The trip home goes by fast. The train’s not crowded, and we’re able to stretch out and sleep.

When we get back to Milan, we head to Jake’s apartment so he can drop off all his dirty clothes and grab some new ones.

Then we head back to the Rossis’. We only have a few more days of break left, and we want to spend it together.

On the tram home, I text Maggie a picture of the bracelets I got her.

Merry Christmas! You’ll get your gift when I see you in 7 months.

I add a picture of me and Jake in Florence.

Her text comes a few minutes later.

Oh my gosh you are in love with this boy! Don’t even try to deny it, it’s all over your face. Wow. Juliet Evans in love. This is huge. Call me ASAP. Also, thank you for the bracelets, they look lovely.

I laugh and promise her I’ll call her in three days when the love of my life has gone back to his apartment.

Her reply is a string of exclamation points and question marks.

“So, what are your New Year’s resolutions?” I ask Jake when we get back to the Rossis’ apartment.

“I want to learn to play the guitar,” Jake says.

“Ooh, I’m picturing you with a guitar,” I say. “You look very sexy.”

“How about you?”

“Yes, I would also look sexy playing the guitar,” I say.

Jake laughs. “Agreed. But what about your New Year's resolution?”

“To learn the fascinating secrets of running a small business.”

Jake sighs. “Do your parents even know you want to study photography?” he asks.

I wait a moment then ask, “Do you want to hear about my worst Christmas?”

He nods and doesn’t say anything.

“I was nine. It was Christmas Eve. I got up to get a drink of water, and my parents’ door was open.

I watched my dad hand my mom a stack of cash.

I watched him slip off his jacket and saw two big bandages on each arm.

I listened to him tell my mom about driving to four different places to sell plasma, removing the bandage from the last place so they’d accept him at the next place. He looked exhausted.

“The dry cleaners wasn’t bringing in much, and there were four kids looking forward to Christmas.

” I can feel Jake’s eyes on me, but I focus on the Rossis’ yellow curtains.

“I ran back to my room and never told them what I’d seen.

And I cried on Christmas morning when I got the Barbie doll I’d asked for. ”

I take a second to compose myself. “And now I’m supposed to tell the man who sacrificed everything for his kids that I’m too good to run his company? That I’d rather do my own thing? That’s not going to happen.”

Jake looks a bit stunned. I don’t know why I even told him. I’ve never told anyone about that, not even my siblings.

“I love you, Jake,” I say. “And I know you love me and want me to be happy, but I won’t be happy at my dad’s expense.”