Page 49 of Better Than Gelato (Ciao Bella #1)

A few days later, Petey brings me a small heart-shaped rock she found.

“It reminded me of those cloud pictures you showed me,” she says.

I hold it in my hand. It’s dark and smooth and heavier than it looks.

“Thanks, Petey,” I say, and slip it into my pocket.

Saturday morning I do laundry and find the rock at the bottom of the dryer. The spin cycle cracked it, and it looks like a tiny broken heart. As I stare at it, something clicks in my brain.

I hop online and do some research. I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking for, but I’m hoping I’ll know it when I see it.

What I find is a flower, Dicentra spectabilis , more commonly known as bleeding heart.

“Hey roomies,” I holler. “Who wants to take a trip to a botanical garden?”

* * *

I turn in my photo series in the morning and spend the afternoon at Jamba Juice second-guessing my editing choices.

Did the cloud photo need a sharper contrast?

But it’s a cloud, it shouldn’t look sharp.

I’m concentrating so hard I don’t notice that Orange Dreamy Dream has walked in until he starts talking to me.

“Hey,” he says.

I jump.

“Hey,” I say back, pretending I wasn’t startled. How is it 3:30 already?

I’m already ringing up his order when he says, “I thought I might try something different today. Do you have any recommendations?”

Oh. That’s unexpected.

“Strawberry Surfrider is my favorite,” I say.

“Okay, I’ll give it a try.”

I make him his smoothie, and he pays for it.

“Enjoy,” I tell him.

“Thanks,” he tells me.

I get my photo series back next class, and I’m pleased to see the red A on the back. Professor Melvin also wrote, “Nice job capturing the different textures of your subjects. I appreciated this fresh take on an old theme.”

I’m glowing with pride and can’t wait to show Maggie. She’s eating sunflower seeds and conjugating Latin verbs when I get home.

“I have something for you,” I say.

“Perfect, I’m starving.” I’ve been bringing home leftover Jamba Juices after my shifts, and the roommates have grown accustomed.

“It’s not for eating, it’s for looking at.”

I spread the three pictures out on our beat-up coffee table.

I spent hours working on them before I turned them in, but I try to look at them with fresh eyes.

On the left is my photograph of the bleeding heart flower.

It’s a vibrant pink and looks young and fresh and delicate.

Next to it is the dark heart-shaped rock.

I magnified it so the crack through the middle is clearly visible.

The third photo, on the far right, is my giant puffy cloud heart.

It looks weightless and somehow content.

I only had forty words for the caption, and I tried to make each one count.

“Hearts start out young and fresh like a spring flower. Sometimes they get broken and feel as hard as stone. But time and love can transform heavy hearts into hearts as light and full as summer clouds.”

“Do you like it?” I ask.

“I love it,” Maggie says.

“It’s for you. I couldn’t have made it through the last month without you,” I say. “Thank you for being there for me and for healing my broken stone heart.”

“That’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard,” she says, wiping tears from her cheeks.

“I know. Very cheesy. But true.”

She gives me a hug and wipes her nose on my shoulder. “I’m glad your stone heart is a happy cloud now.”

“It’s not quite a cloud heart. That was an exaggeration for artistic effect, but it’s getting better.”

* * *

What I wanted was a perfect beach photo capturing the feel of waves and sun and sand. The kind that makes everyone who doesn’t live in Southern California feel stupid for not living in Southern California.

What I have instead is a thundery sky filled with dark purple clouds and an ocean churning like somebody’s pissed it off and is about to pay.

I’ve spent all week trying to capture something amazing for our midterm photography exhibition next week. And so far, I’ve come up with nothing. I don’t know what you call the photography equivalent of writer’s block, but I have it. I decide to head home before I get soaked or struck by lightning.

I take a shortcut around the boardwalk, and I end up by some fancy shops and a gelateria.

It’s been months since I’ve had gelato. I stop and look at all the flavors, then get a small dish of Nutella and raspberry.

I take a seat at the wrought iron table out front.

The first bite brings back a dozen memories.

The second bite brings back Marco’s words.

As I think about what they mean, there’s a shift in the clouds and a few rays of sun break through.

I take my camera out of its case.

* * *

All the roommates come to the photography exhibition. I told them it’s not that big of a deal, but they come anyway.

“Don’t tell us which one is yours,” Petey says when we get there. “I want to see if I can guess.”

Petey runs off to look for my photo and Pirate follows her. The exhibition is for the whole photography department, not just my class, so there are hundreds of eight-by-tens on display.

Professor Melvin sees me and waves me over. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Maggie.

“I’m glad I spotted you,” Professor Melvin says. “I was just telling Professor Hendricks that I have a student he should meet.”

Professor Hendricks is at least 112 years old and wearing a corduroy blazer that looks even older.

“Professor Hendricks, this is Juliet Evans. Juliet, this is Professor Hendricks.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say and shake his hand. It’s dry and papery with a strong grip.

“I’m the editor of Lens ,” he says. Lens is the photography magazine the department puts out each quarter. It’s stunning.

I nod, but don’t say anything.

“I thought your style of photography might be a good fit,” Professor Melvin says. I stare at him blankly. “For the magazine,” he says with a small smile. “I’m encouraging you to submit your work to Professor Hendricks for consideration.”

“You are?” It comes out as a whisper, and I’m hoping Professor Melvin didn’t hear, but he smiles and gives a little nod.

“Shoot me an email,” Professor Hendricks says. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” He hands me his card.

“Okay,” I say. “Thank you. Wow. I will. I will shoot you an email.”

“Enjoy your evening,” Professor Melvin says, gently excusing me before I do anything else awkward.

I can feel the blood pumping in my cheeks as I walk away. Actual published photos! I try not to get ahead of myself. I’m just going to send him some things, and he’ll see what he thinks. But there’s already a feeling spreading through me that this is the beginning of something wonderful.

I dart through the displays looking for the girls and find them standing in front of a photograph. I walk over and grab Maggie’s arm.

“We found your photo,” she says.

“What do you think?” I know fancy photographers aren’t supposed to care what people think about their work, but I still do.

She doesn’t say anything, just nods and squeezes my hand.

We stare at the photo together.

It’s pretty striking, if I’m being honest. And all the credit belongs to the dramatic lighting.

The sky is dark, but I was able to capture a beam of sunlight shining down on the wrought iron table like a spotlight.

In the middle of the table is my cup of gelato.

There’s only a little left, chocolate brown swirled with raspberry pink.

I shot it at an angle, so you can see the glass case of gelato flavors in the background.

There’s a mound of orange mango with mint garnish, creamy white stracciatella with specks of dark brown, and a soft green hill of pistachio sprinkled with nuts.

The table and the cup are in sharp focus and the gelato case behind is soft and blurry.

The title is “Love like gelato.”

Pirate reads the caption out loud. “Some love is like gelato. Sweet and wonderful but not made to last. Enjoy the experience, savor the memory.”

“That’s beautiful,” Maggie says.

“I got it from Marco,” I say.

“Well, he is very wise.”

* * *

The next day at work, I’m still flying high from the exhibition. I was too hyped to go to bed and ended up looking through all my photos to find some good ones for Hendrickson.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” Kevin comments as I restock all the fruits and veggies.

“All right, what’s his name?” he asks in a teasing tone.

“Believe it or not, my good mood has nothing to do with a boy,” I say. “It has to do with me being an awesome photographer and nailing life.”

“I didn't know you were a photographer. I want to see your photos some time.”

“Trust me, you will. Soon they’ll be everywhere.”

He raises an eyebrow.

I give him a cocky smile. “Everywhere.”

That’s when Orange Dreamy Dream comes in for his smoothie.

“Hey,” he says, with a shy smile.

“Hey,” I say back, grinning.

“I liked that Strawberry Surfrider you recommended. I’ll take another one of those.”

“They’re pretty great,” I agree as I take his credit card. “It’s the kick of lemon in there. It keeps it from getting boring.”

“Yeah, I noticed that.”

I make him his smoothie and hand it to him with a smile.

“There you are.”

“Thanks.” He stands there like he’s going to say something else, but then he doesn’t. He glances at Kevin and leaves.

Kevin tries to get me to trade shifts with him so he gets out at six and I stay till closing, but I refuse. I can tell my time of working as many shifts as possible to fill the sad hours is coming to a close. It’s Friday night, and I feel like celebrating.

I give him a smug wave as I walk out the door, and he makes a scowly face at me. I scowl back and then turn and slam right into Orange Dreamy Dream.

Orange Dreamy Dream? What’s he doing here?

“Sorry,” I say a bit too late. “Didn’t mean to slam into you.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “No harm done.”

He stands there for a moment, not going through the open door, so I finally say, “Well, have a good night,” and walk out.

He follows me.

“Actually, um, I came to talk to you.”

What? Why? I think. “What? Why?” I accidentally say out loud.

He clears his throat. “Well, actually I was wondering...My name is Kyle, by the way.”

“I’m Juliet.”

“Yeah, I know. I see it on your name tag every day.”

I look at him and nod. It is on my name tag every day.

“Anyway, I was wondering if you’d like to go out some time.”

“Go out some time?” I repeat stupidly.

“Yeah, like maybe get something to eat or something.”

He’s asking me out on a date. My palms start sweating, and my mind starts coming up with reasons why I can’t go out with him. I’m a vampire. I’m a spy for the CIA. I fell in love and got my heart broken and it sucked.

I take a deep breath. It feels risky. I’m not sure I won’t end up heartbroken.

But I say, “Yeah. I’d like that.”