Far From Over

by April Lindner

  Without deciding to, I pull back. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t.”

  She looks hurt for a second, then her expression hardens into annoyance. “Why not?” she asks, sitting up, tucking her blouse all the way back into her skirt. “You don’t like me?”

  “I do,” I say. “You’re a…” I fumble for the right words. “A very beautiful girl. But you said it yourself—we hardly know each other yet. Plus we’re living in a small apartment with your entire family, which, if you think about it, makes this whole thing a little awkward.”

  She says nothing, gets to her feet, and brushes sand from her skirt, intent on getting every last grain as though that were the most important thing she could be doing right now. I don’t say what else I’m thinking—that I’m not ready for a relationship with her. Or with any girl, for that matter. Except Lucy, who’s on the wrong continent. Kissing Lucy—being with her—was something I did without reservations. At first, because I knew she’d be leaving soon and it wouldn’t lead to anything serious. Then, at the end, because I wanted it to lead to something serious.

  Now Angelina’s looking at me, waiting for me to say more.

  “There’s this girl,” I admit. I’m not over her, I think, disappointed in myself.

  Angelina’s face clouds over. “Where?” she says. “Here? In Naples?”

  “In Philadelphia.” Lucy’s school is a mere two-hour drive from my house in Neptune. If I were home, I could borrow my dad’s car, get on the Turnpike, and drive straight to her dorm room. But I chose being here, on the wrong side of the Atlantic, having this uncomfortable conversation.

  Angelina makes a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Then why don’t you go to her?”

  “I’m not ready,” I say. I start explaining about how I can’t admit defeat and go crawling home to my parents’ house, but before I can get even a few sentences out, she turns her back and starts stomping back down the beach toward the spot where she left her shoes. I follow, feeling like an idiot.

  “Just make up your mind,” Angelina says as she retrieves her shoes. “There or here. Her… or not her.”

  “It’s not that simple,” I say, and start up again with my explanations.

  She interrupts me. “I’m ready to go home now. It’s getting cold.”

  At the edge of the beach, she steps back into her high heels, and for the first time, I see her wobble in them. Nothing I can think of to say that whole walk back to the apartment makes the air between us any less chilly.

  By the time we get home, it’s almost nine and Angelina’s sisters are gathered around the television. Signora Zamparelli gives us both the once-over. She doesn’t say much besides asking if we’ve had enough to eat, but I can see her taking in her daughter’s annoyed expression and windblown hair and the sand clinging to my jeans. Angelina says she isn’t hungry and slips past her mother and grandmother, into the room she shares with her older sister. I avoid Signora Zamparelli’s gaze and feel guilty, though I’ve been trying to do the right thing. Haven’t I?

  “Watch TV with us, Jesse?” Nello’s littlest sister pats the empty space on the floor beside her. She’s watching an American movie dubbed in Italian. Normally I would sit down to watch it with Suzetta and her sisters, at least for a little while, but not tonight.

  Instead, I excuse myself and head for Nello’s bedroom. I close the door behind me, wishing it had a lock. Nello’s second shift won’t end until midnight, so I can be alone for at least a little while. I strip down to my boxers, reach for my iPod, and stretch out on the spare bed, trying not to wonder if Angelina will stay mad at me, if there will be tension between us from now on every time I bump into her in the kitchen or ride with her into Naples. Because even if she forgives me, I’m pretty sure neither of us will forget that kiss and the way it ended.

  I need to tell Nello what happened between Angelina and me—or what didn’t happen—before she can. Will he be angry at me for kissing his sister, angry at me for brushing her off, or both? Nello’s the most easygoing guy in the world, but everyone has his limits. The thought that I might have done something to tick him off keeps me tossing in bed for a long time. Not even my music can soothe me.

  Even so, I’m dead asleep by the time he gets home from work. When I wake up the next morning, he’s already in the kitchen, looking bleary-eyed over a cup of coffee. Angelina’s up, too, measuring coffee grounds into the moka pot. She doesn’t say anything to me one way or another—she doesn’t even look at me, in fact.

  Luckily, Nello doesn’t seem to notice, which makes me think Angelina hasn’t told him about last night—at least not yet. He has to turn around and go right back to work, and he offers me a ride. I can tell from how Angelina’s dressed—in jeans and a crisp white T-shirt—that today must be her day off, so I say a quick yes. Better to get out of the apartment if she’ll be here.

  On the ride back into Naples, I wait for the right moment to confess. Usually on the long rides into and out of the city, Nello and I talk nonstop, about music mostly, or places we’d like to travel. This morning, though, he’s tired and I’m tense, so neither of us says much. When I can’t stand my own thoughts anymore, I take a deep breath, then reach for the car stereo and turn it off. He looks at me, surprised.

  “I need to tell you something,” I begin. I blurt out my side of the story, watching for his reaction the whole time. I work my way up to the grand finale—an apology that goes on longer than it probably needs to. “I’m really sorry, dude. I didn’t plan it. It just kind of happened. I realized right away it was a mistake. I mean, your sister needs somebody less messed-up than I am. Somebody who can appreciate how great she is.”

  Nello takes one hand from the wheel to rub his temples, as though I’ve given him a headache. Finally, when I feel that I can’t stand the silence a second more, he speaks. “I know you didn’t try to hurt my sister.” His voice is level. “And that you would never go behind my back.” Except I more or less did.

  I should have known that even if Nello was angry, he would pretend not to be. That’s the kind of guy he is. “Are you sure we’re okay?” I try to read his expression, but it’s hard in profile. “I mean, I wouldn’t blame you.…”

  “I’m sure, I’m sure, I’m sure.” If he’d given me one or even two I’m sures, I would have believed him, but there’s something about three in a row that makes me think he’s not sure at all—that Nello, always so easy to read, is putting up a wall. He turns the radio back on, changes stations, then shuts it off again.

  “You can tell me if you’re mad,” I say. “We can talk about it.”

  “There’s nothing to say,” Nello says, but his voice is about an octave deeper than usual, and he hasn’t called me dude or man once this whole conversation. That’s how I know I’ve hurt him. But how can I make this right if he won’t even admit he’s angry?

  I’m considering offering to let him punch me in the face and call it even when his phone rings. The conversation goes on a long time, with Nello saying nothing much besides si and no.

  “Carlo wants me to work a double shift again,” he tells me after he finally hangs up. “Will you mind taking the train home tonight?”

  “Of course not,” I say. “Do what you’ve got to do.”

  Nello switches the radio back on, and doesn’t say another word for a long time. When he slows the Fiat to drop me off at Piazza Carita, the driver behind us honks and flips us off. Nello unleashes a string of curses out his rolled-down window, which isn’t like him. There’s just time for me to grab my guitar and close the car door. Nello takes off in a hurry and leaves me in his rearview mirror, thinking those curses were really meant for me.

  Now Nello’s mad at me and Angelina hates me. It seems I’ve suddenly got even more reasons to skip town. Should I? I decide to leave the matter up to the universe. I’ll play my best today, throw myself into the music, and be as charming as possible between songs—never my strong suit—and if my luck doesn’t start improving, I’ll consider th
at a sign. I’ll head straight to the train station and buy myself a one-way ticket to wherever.

  But the universe sends me mixed signals. I don’t exactly draw the crowds, but a couple stays to listen for a few songs, and applauds me enthusiastically, which brings over two more stray listeners. I’m just launching into my lucky song when who should walk up but the blond girl from yesterday. Today she’s dressed to blend in, in a black sundress and a gauzy scarf draped over her shoulders. I nod in recognition; I even speed up the tempo a little so I can finish and talk to her. But just my luck: Right before the song is over, she reaches into her purse, tucks a slip of paper in my case, and hurries off. By the time I’m done singing, she’s already out of sight. I check my case and find a ten-euro note that wasn’t there a few minutes ago. It almost seems like a sign—but a sign of what?

  Later, when I’m packing it in for the afternoon, I calculate that I’ve made just shy of twenty-five euros—a lot better than yesterday, but nowhere near as much as I used to make on a good day in Florence. It might be enough for a one-way ticket to someplace not too far away. Still unsure what I should do, I walk straight to the train station, stare up at the departure monitors, and consider the options—all the destinations 24.36 euros plus the little that’s left in my bank account could get me to. For the first time ever, the names of cities flashing orange on black don’t make me giddy with excitement. The crowds and the noise of the station just make me tired, and the thought of picking up and starting over makes my head hurt.

  I wander to the bank of ticket machines and start punching buttons. Florence, I think, and start to type in the word, but do I really want to revisit the city where I met Lucy? Rome’s out, too, for obvious reasons. Even Venice, a place Lucy had never been to, would remind me of how much she wished she could have toured the city—how she listened, eyes shining, as I described the maze of streets, St. Mark’s Square, and the silver-green lagoon.

  Not Venice, not Florence, not Rome. What I need is a whole new country—a totally fresh start. Someplace cool and green, maybe; someplace like Austria. I haven’t been there yet. Mountains, fresh air, Mozart. It sounds about as good as anyplace else. I could go climbing in the Alps on my days off, get in really great shape, maybe meet a nice fräulein who will snap me out of this funk I’m in.

  Just decide, I tell myself. I punch more buttons, buy myself a ticket to Salzburg, and fold it into my wallet.

  Ten minutes later, I’m boarding the Circumvesuviana, on my way back to Nello’s house; I’m steeling myself to pack up my stuff and say my good-byes. To catch my train to Salzburg, I’ll have to wake up before dawn. If Nello gets in after I fall asleep, I’ll leave him a note thanking him for being the best friend I’ve ever had, telling him I’ll get in touch from the first Internet café I see in Salzburg. Maybe he can even come visit me when he’s got a few days off. I hope by then he’ll have forgiven me.

  Once again, my timing stinks. It’s rush hour, so of course the Circumvesuviana is crowded and I have to stand. Even worse, I’ve landed on a slow train, making all stops. After a while, I shut my eyes and try to nap standing up, and almost manage it, except each stop startles me awake.

  We’re pulling into the Torre del Greco station—still a long way from home—when someone pushes through the crowd in my direction, saying, “Scusi, scusi,” to each person she brushes past. It’s a blond girl in a black sundress. No: It’s the blond girl in the black sundress.

  “I thought it was you,” she says, reaching up to grab the strap beside mine. “I was standing over there, wishing I had someone to talk to. I hope you don’t mind.” From up close, I see her eyes are brown, her nose turned up at the tip in a way that can’t help reminding me of…

  No, I tell myself. Don’t even think her name.

  “Hi,” I say.

  The train lurches into motion, and for a second she’s thrown against me, her silky hair brushing my arm. Is this my sign? If so, it’s arriving a bit late.

  “Thanks for stopping to listen,” I say.

  “No problem. I really like your voice. I would have stayed longer, but I had an appointment today. My orthodontist.” She smiles and this time I see the braces on her teeth. On someone else they might look clunky. On her they look cute—like silver tooth jewelry.

  I nod, not knowing what to say.

  “I hate these things. I put off getting them for way too long. But my teeth will be perfect in just a few more months!”

  Is she fishing for compliments? “Braces aren’t so bad,” I try.

  “They hurt like crazy.” She swipes a tube of lip balm across her lips; I’m close enough to smell the strawberry. “I’m Viktoria.”

  “I’m Jesse,” I say.

  “Do you live here? Or are you just passing through?”

  “I’m staying with friends in Torre Annunziata.”

  “Torre Annunziata? But that’s not a place for tourists,” she says.

  The train grinds to another halt. The car empties out a bit, so we grab ourselves some seats. I’m giving her the short version of how I met Nello and why I’m here, so I hardly even notice when two guys cross over from the next car. They come down the aisle and grab the overhead pole nearest us even though there are plenty of empty seats they could have chosen.

  I’m a few sentences into the story of my travels when I notice Viktoria has gone a few shades paler. I’d thought she was watching me intently because my story was so fascinating, but now I see she’s trying not to meet the eyes of the two guys hanging over us, chuckling to each other.

  “Look who it is,” one says in Italian. “Where are you from, pretty blond girl? Germany? Sweden?”

  “Did you miss us?” the other one says loudly.

  It’s the two goons who were pestering her yesterday, the short one with the tattoo sleeves and his muscle-bound buddy. Today they’re slicked up in button-down shirts, wafting clouds of aftershave. Looks like they’re setting out for a fun night of harassing the local girls.

  Viktoria presses her lips together so tight that they whiten, and though we’re already sitting close, she slides even closer, as though she wishes she could hide behind me.

  “Why won’t you give us a smile?” Tattoo Sleeves asks.

  “Because she thinks she’s too good for us,” says Muscles. His mouth smiles, but his eyes stay mean. “Where you going tonight, bellezza?” As if I weren’t even there, he strokes her hair, like she’s his pet. “You should come with us and have some fun.” His index finger traces the side of her face, slips down her throat, lingers at the hollow of her collarbone.

  She’s pressed all the way against me now, and before I can think the gesture through, my arm rises to circle her shoulder, as though there’s any way on earth I could protect her against these two.

  Tattoo Sleeves chuckles “Who’s this?”

  “Your boyfriend?” Muscles asks. “He’s a something something something.” That last part is a string of words I’ve never heard before, but I recognize an insult when I hear one. “He’s not man enough for you, sexy Swedish girl.” He bends over us both, his face moving in closer and closer. “You come out with us tonight.” It’s more a command than an invitation.

  “Leave her alone,” I say in Italian. I’ve never in my life picked a fight. I’ve even walked away from a couple, wondering what the point was. But I can’t let these jerks push Viktoria around. Who knows where they’ll stop if I don’t step in? I brace myself for the ass-whomping I know is probably coming, and I’m surprised and relieved when the two cretins start laughing uproariously, like I’m the funniest thing they’ve ever seen. Everybody in the train turns to see what’s so hilarious before quickly turning away again.

  “Your boyfriend thinks he can tell us what to do?” Muscles asks between chortles.

  “Leave her alone! Leave her alone!” his crony mimics. They elbow each other, practically crying with laughter, and I notice with relief that the train is slowing down, pulling into the next station. It’s not my stop, and
it’s probably not Viktoria’s, either, but I grab her arm, yanking her to her feet and out the door. We push through the crowd of commuters, practically throwing ourselves down the stairs from the train platform to the street. Then we’re running, looking for an alley to duck into, or at least a corner to turn, anything to get away from the station, not daring to look back in case we’re being followed.

  I hear Viktoria gasping for breath behind me, and I slow my pace just enough for her to catch up. We duck into the first alley we come across. Its other end opens onto a wide street with a few stores. We yank open the door of the closest one, and its bell jangles loudly. It’s a fruit and vegetable market, one very old man in an apron adding to a display of lettuce. It feels safer here, even though this guy couldn’t exactly intervene if a fight broke out on his turf. He looks at us, waiting for our order.

  “Uno momento, per favore,” I say, and dig in my pockets for change, thinking we should probably buy something to be polite.

  “Oh my goodness, I don’t know how to thank you,” Viktoria says to me in a flurry of words. “I’ve run into those two before, but this was the first time they actually touched me.” She shudders. “I guess I’ll have to stop riding the CV.”

  “That stinks,” I said.

  “Why do I have to be such a pervert magnet? A half pound of peaches, please,” she tells the grocer in Italian. “I like taking the train. At least I used to. But if I have to, I can borrow my father’s car and drive into Naples.”

  “Yeah, but you shouldn’t let those thugs run your life.”

  “What choice do I have? Unless you plan on always being my bodyguard.” She hands a two-euro coin to the grocer, takes a peach, bites into it, and hands me the bag. “I could buy pepper spray, I guess.”

  I can’t believe she’s calm enough to eat. I hand the bag back. “No thanks.”