Page 43 of Better Than Gelato (Ciao Bella #1)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

T he airport smells like old carpet and crushed dreams.

“You okay?” Jake says. “Feeling bummed about going home?”

I’m curled up in a blue vinyl chair, picking at a hole in the fabric.

Bummed isn’t the right word, but devastated seems dramatic. Jake gives me a smile and it’s so tender my heart squeezes. I remember with gratitude that my favorite thing about Italy is coming back to America with me.

Jake managed to get a flight that leaves just an hour after mine. Now we’re sitting at my gate waiting for my plane to arrive and break my heart.

“You know, America’s a pretty good country,” Jake says. “Some people even come from other countries just to live there.”

“I’m sure I’ll remember the good things about it once I’m there,” I say.

“I know today sucks,” Jake says, wrapping his arm around me. “I got you something to cheer you up.”

He hands me a white envelope, and I remember some of the other white envelopes he’s given me. Sure enough, I open it and pull out a roundtrip ticket from San Diego to NYC in September. I look at Jake.

“To make leaving each other easier,” he says. I burst into tears. I’m not handling this well. I know I’m not. But I don’t know how else to handle it.

“Thank you,” I say, when I get my tears under control. When did I become such a crier?

Jake rubs my back and tells me about the cool things we’ll do in New York City when I come visit. I listen and try to feel excited. Eventually my flight is called. When there are only three people in line, I stand up and collect my carry-on.

Jake stands with me and wraps his arm around me. “I love you,” he whispers. I nod my head. I know this.

“I love you too,” I say. But I can’t bring myself to let go.

“I’ll see you in six weeks,” he says.

“Okay, six weeks,” I repeat.

And then they’re calling all passengers to board, and I finally let go.

I give him a small kiss and walk over to the flight attendant.

She scans my boarding pass, hands it back to me, and then gestures to the jetway.

Casually. As though she isn’t encouraging me to leave behind all the wonder and magic I’ve found this last year.

I walk two steps, then turn for one more look at Jake. I feel frozen to the spot. I can’t do this. I can’t leave him.

And then Jake sprints past the flight attendant, scoops me into his arms, and kisses me like I’m oxygen and he’s drowning. My hands lock around his neck, and my toes aren’t touching the floor. He kisses me, and I know he’s feeling every single thing I’m feeling.

There’s a loud cough which we ignore, and then a “ Ragazzi, per favore, ” kids, please , which makes Jake return my feet to the ground and release me from his arms. He takes a step back.

The flight attendant gives us a smile and a head shake, like, “We’ve all been there.”

Jake turns and goes back to the waiting area. He smiles at me with dimples in his cheeks and love in his eyes.

“ Ciao, bella !” he calls.

“ Ciao, bello !” I call back. And then I’m turning and walking down the jetway and the tears are rolling off my cheeks and dropping onto the floor before I even make it to my seat.

* * *

The trip home is long. I make a list of all the wonderful things that have happened in the last year.

My parents sold the business, and I got into the photography program.

I fell in love, for crying out loud!

I made friends I will have for the rest of my life.

I tamed a velociraptor child. Or at least befriended one.

I traveled to Florence, Switzerland, Rome, and Greece.

My head lists all these things, but my heart is crying too loud to listen.

As soon as I get off the plane, I find a bathroom and wash my tearstained face. I do my hair and put on makeup until I look like a human being again.

My parents see me before I see them, and I hear my dad yell, “There she is!”

I spot Maggie running toward me and when her hug lands, I’m nearly knocked off my feet. We hug and laugh and talk over each other.

“You’re back!”

“Mags!”

“You look so Italian!”

“I missed you so much!”

My parents make it over to us, and Maggie lets go so my dad can give me a hug. His eyes are teary, and he doesn’t speak. This is where I got my crying from . My mom squeezes in for a hug and there are no tears in her eyes, only happiness.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” she says. “Was it hard to leave?”

“Incredibly hard,” I admit. “Right until this moment.”

“Well, good job getting on that plane,” she says. “I’m glad you did.”

“And great job getting into your photography program,” my dad says. “I knew you could do it.”

“Thanks,” I say.

I haven’t told them the whole story yet, about getting rejected and then fighting to get in. But there’s time for that later.

We go to dinner at the Olive Garden, which was my dad’s idea. It was a terrible idea. The pasta is obnoxiously overcooked, and the server corrects my pronunciation of bruschetta.

The ride home is filled with storytelling and laughter and inside jokes and new jokes. My dad drops Maggie off at her house and then we pull into our driveway a few streets over. Our house feels smaller than I remember.

My parents follow me to my room, each dragging a suitcase. My dad reaches around me and switches on the light. My bed is all made up and on the walls are vintage posters of Rome, Florence, and Athens.

“Ta-da!” my dad says. “We thought you’d feel right at home.”

“They’re amazing!” I say.

“We’re so glad you’re home,” my mom says.

My dad doesn’t say anything. He’s gone teary again.

* * *

I wake up before the sun rises the next morning, and I can’t go back to sleep. I take a long shower. I give my heart a mental poke to see how it’s feeling, and it’s better than I expected. Yesterday’s sadness of leaving mixes with today’s happiness of being home.

I send Jake a selfie of me in front of the poster of Florence.

It’s like I never left

He texts me a picture of him in front of a brand-new pickup truck.

I love you in Florence! Look what my dad got me as a welcome home gift!

I can’t help but laugh. I give him a call and for a moment, it’s so good to hear his voice that all of yesterday’s sadness comes rushing back. But it gets easier the next day. And the day after that.

The summer goes by quickly. For as long as I’ve known them, my parents have worked incredibly long hours.

It’s fun to see them with free time on their hands.

We paint the kitchen cabinets like my mom’s been wanting to do for a decade.

We play Scrabble together in the evenings.

My dad cheats when he thinks we’re not looking.

I take photos around my small town. The shops on Main Street. The crowds at the park on Friday night where local bands play. The sunrise on the lake, smooth and shiny and silver. I text the best ones to Paolo and Carmen and Valentina.

I spend hours with Maggie filling in the gaps from the last year. I show her all my photos.

“Your description of Paolo did not prepare me for how hot he is.”

And she tries on all my new clothes.

“I want to go shopping in Milan!”

She listens as I talk about Diego and hugs me while I cry some. She laughs as I tell her about Isa and asks if she can come with me to Vegas to meet her.

I talk to Jake for hours every day and send him some of the photos I’m taking around town.

“I’d like to visit this Lakeport town,” he says. “It sounds made up.”

“I know, it kind of does. But it’s real, I promise. And I would love to show you. We’d finish the tour in about ten minutes. And then we’d go skinny dipping in the lake. ”

“Count me in.”

He tells me about Arizona. He makes up funny songs about stuff we did in Italy. He sends me flowers for no reason.

Before I know it, Maggie and I are loading up her tiny car for the drive down to San Diego. My parents stand in the driveway and wave as we pull out. Then Maggie cranks up her road trip playlist, and I’m headed back to college.