Page 5 of Better Than Gelato (Ciao Bella #1)

“My grandparents were Italian. I grew up hearing it. And I took classes in high school and college.” I cover my eyes with my hands. “But apparently, it’s still not good enough to distinguish an invitation to a rock concert from an invitation to the opera.”

“Easy mistake to make,” Jake says with an easy smile. “Tell me about the girl you nanny.”

“She’s six,” I say. “She’s smart. And she has thirty-seven Barbie dolls. I know because I helped dig each of them out of the bushes after she threw them off the balcony.”

“Yikes. Sounds like you’ve got your hands full.”

“Agreed. Tell me about your internship,” I say, ready for a new topic.

“I work at the European Institute of Oncology.”

“If you’re trying to impress me, you’ll have to do better than that,” I say. “Last year, I worked at Jamba Juice.”

It takes Jake a minute to realize I’m joking, and then a smile breaks across his face, transforming it. “Well, I tried to get a sweet Jamba Juice gig, but it was too competitive. I couldn’t cut it.”

I nod knowingly. “Not everyone is born to blend. Tell me about your second-choice job.”

His face lights up as he describes a new way of treating brain tumors, focusing on the genetics of the individual. Cutting edge stuff, led by a brilliant boss.

“That was probably way more than you wanted to know,” he says after a few minutes. “I tend to go on and on when it’s something I’m excited about. Are you going to school? Tell me about your studies.”

“Business,” I say.

He waits for me to say more but I don’t.

“Sooo...What do you plan to do with that?”

“Run a dry cleaner,” I respond.

“Is, um, dry cleaning a passion of yours?” he asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Not particularly. But it’s the family business.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it and nods. It feels like a judgy nod.

“Not everyone has to feel passionate about their work,” I say. “Sometimes you just need a good job that pays the bills.”

“Sure,” he says. But the furrow in his brow makes it clear he doesn’t get it. Sure enough, after a second, he says, “But what about?—”

“If you tell me to follow my dreams, I will poke you in the eye.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” he says. It’s not convincing.

“Dreams don’t pay the rent, Jake. Jobs do. I’ve already got a job lined up after graduation, and that’s more than a lot of people can say.”

I’m spared having to explain more by the arrival of Paolo, Carmen and Valentina. We catch a bus and walk a few blocks, then Carmen says, “Welcome to the Saturday market at Sant’Ambrogio.”

White tents stretch as far as the eye can see, and under them sit rows of tables piled with shoes, purses, coats, pants, and more. The market is brimming with people and the chatter of vendors hawking their goods.

Carmen spreads her arms wide. “When I die, I imagine heaven will look like this.”

At the first table, I pick up a pair of black ankle boots with a pointed toe and a skinny heel. I immediately feel more Italian just holding them. A hand-lettered sign says “Scarpe, 15 Euro.” Can that be right?

“How much are the shoes?” I ask the man sitting behind the table.

“Americana!” he answers in a loud voice. “For you, only 15 euro!”

Relief and excitement rush through me. I turn and look at Carmen with big eyes.

“It’s so cheap!”

“I know!” she squeals. “This is why we come here!”

Today is going to be a good day.

Two hours later, I’ve collected a pair of black pants, a black skirt, a black shirt that says Dolce and Gabbana (that is definitely not Dolce and Gabbana) and black stiletto ankle boots. I’ve blown through all my money, but I’m on my way to dressing like a real Italian. Isa is going to be thrilled.

Carmen and Paolo offer their fashion opinions, sometimes subtly and sometimes not-so-subtly. Paolo has found a dark gray peacoat and is doing everything in his power to convince Jake to buy one too, but Jake won’t budge.

“But it is such a nice coat,” Paolo pleads.

“It is,” Jake agrees. “And it looks great on you. When you wear that coat, you look like a handsome Italian man. When I wear that coat, I look like a goofy American trying to look like a handsome Italian man.”

“It is true, you cannot look as handsome as me, my friend. But you could look a bit better…” Paolo gestures vaguely at Jake’s clothes. Valentina gives Paolo a poke in the ribs.

“I love the pants you found,” Carmen tells me. “They’ll be perfect for dancing on Wednesday.”

“Dancing?” I ask.

“Yeah, there’s a club that lets foreigners in for free on Wednesdays. We go almost every week. You’ll love it.”

“Nonsense,” Paolo says. “Juliet is way too sophisticated to enjoy a terrible club like Calypso.”

Carmen smirks. “Paolo doesn’t like going there because he’s the only one who has to pay.”

“And because the music is awful and the decor tacky. Juliet’s going to loathe it.”

But Paolo is wrong because when we walk into Calypso five days later, I absolutely love it.

A chandelier filled with lights of every color showers the dancers in shimmering rainbows.

Black velvet booths and couches line the perimeter.

Everyone is good-looking and dances like they’re in a music video.

It’s hands down the coolest place I’ve ever been.

I try to look nonchalant, like I go to places like this all the time, but I can tell I’m not pulling it off.

The air is humid and smells like warm bodies and cologne.

I can feel the bass pulsing through me. It’s too loud for anyone to talk so we all just dance.

Jake dances like a dorky American, but I think he’s doing it on purpose, which makes it kind of adorable.

Paolo barely moves, he simply sways enough to look elegant and not awkward.

Carmen and Valentina and Diego move like they’ve got the rhythm flowing through their veins.

I feel self-conscious for a moment, then the music takes over and I relax.

A salsa song comes on and Diego offers me his hand. I take it and he spins me dramatically. By the third twirl, I’m giggling like a goose. A few songs later, I attempt to teach Paolo, but I keep getting the steps wrong. Paolo pretends to be exasperated, but I don’t think he actually minds.

Toward the end of the night, Cotton Eye Joe comes on and Jake and I teach the others the line dance.

“Juliet, look at me,” Diego says. “I’m a real American cowboy.”

Diego pretends to lasso Paolo, who’s sitting this one out.

Paolo brushes the imaginary lasso away like it’s a piece of lint on his clothing.

I’m laughing while trying to keep up with Carmen and Valentina who have added their own twirls, dips, and stomps to the line dance.

By the time the song ends, I’m exhausted.

“ That was a good time,” I say, flopping into the chair next to Paolo.

“I especially liked when Diego took off on his own, riding a horse only he could see,” Paolo comments.

“Perhaps next time you’ll join us,” I say.

“Ah, Juliet, you do not know me very well yet.”

We watch the others dancing, and I marvel at my good luck falling in with this group.

“Tell me, Dolcetta, what are you doing this Friday evening?” Paolo asks.

I scramble to think up something clever or flirtatious, but nothing comes to mind, so I just answer truthfully. “I have no plans.”

“Perfect,” he replies. “My boss gave me tickets to the theater. Would you like to accompany me?”

A simple yes would have worked, but like a total dork I blurt, “That sounds fantastic! I’d love to go! What a great idea!”

Paolo’s lips quirk in amusement.

We leave Calypso shortly afterward and walk back to il Duomo to catch our buses home. Diego checks his phone and says, “They’re showing the new Mission Impossible at Cine Centrale on Friday night. Should we go?”

“Ooh, I love Tom Cruise,” Carmen says.

“Those movies are so confusing,” Valentina says. “But yeah, I’ll go.”

“Ethan Hunt is the best!” Jake says. “Count me in.”

Diego looks at me, and I realize I should’ve been thinking up something to say. I hesitate and Paolo says, “Juliet and I have plans that evening.” His smile is smug.

There’s an awkward pause, and then Jake says, “So what time does it start? Should we meet at Duomo first?”

They get into the details of purchasing tickets, and I studiously refuse to make eye contact with anyone. My cheeks heat, and I feel embarrassed for feeling embarrassed. Is that even a thing?

The boys get into a heated discussion over who would win in a fight, Ethan Hunt or Jason Bourne.

Carmen slows down, waits until they're out of hearing range, and then says, “So, you’re going out with Paolo?” She raises an eyebrow. Valentina drops back to join our conversation.

“I am,” I say with an attempt at a casual shoulder shrug.

“So do you liiiike him?” Carmen asks in a sing-song voice.

“I’m not answering that because we’re not in the seventh grade,” I reply. I clear my throat. “I will say that Paolo is funny and good-looking, and I’m looking forward to Friday.”

“As well you should,” Valentina says. “You’re in Italy. You should definitely go on dates with good-looking Italian men.”

“Paolo, you are good looking,” Carmen says in English with a terrible American accent.

“You have a terrible American accent,” I tell her, smiling.

“But am I good looking?” she asks in English again. She is giggling now so it sounds like “Ama goot looky?”

“You are,” I tell her, giggling myself. “Very goot looky.”

“You are both loonies,” Valentina says, shaking her head.

On the tram home, I text Maggie.

Guess who just spent a night dancing at the coolest club in the world and has a hot date with a gorgeous Italian guy on Friday? Me! I am that person!

Her reply comes as I’m climbing into bed:

You are living a dream life!

She’s not wrong.