Wish You Were Italian

by Kristin Rae

  “It’s amazing. I can’t believe you just threw that together.” Assuming he made it for me, I grab the fork from him and taste more. “Seriously,” I say between bites, “incredibile.”

  Bruno watches me eat, obviously pleased. He takes a step toward me and opens his mouth, somehow still smiling. He wants me to feed him. With my fork.

  I should probably put up a fight but as if in a trance, I offer him a little sliver of tomato and cheese. He leans forward to take it, eyes on mine the whole time.

  Holy. Crap. I never ever thought anything about eating could be sexy. I was wrong. So very wrong.

  I break my gaze first and hastily gather the dirty dish and fork, carrying them to the sink to scrub them clean. When I’m finally thinking clearly enough to turn around and continue my veggie cutting, Bruno’s gone and Chiara’s staring me down from the drink station with her arms crossed.

  After the dinner rush, I’m eager to crash on my bed—I haven’t forgotten it’s actually Bruno’s bed—and rest my legs. As soon as Chiara and I head back to the apartment, Bruno calls to us from the door of the trattoria.

  “Chiara! Pippas! Where you go?”

  “To sleep! You can handle it on your own.” Chiara shouts something else to him in Italian before she links arms with me.

  His eyes find mine through the dark and the corner of his mouth pulls up. I bite my lower lip and turn away, allowing Chiara to lead me up the steep hill.

  We walk in silence for several minutes until she says, “You know what he is, do you not?”

  Italian? Hot?

  “You Americans call him a player.”

  Aside from my surprise that Chiara knows that word at all, a weight tacks itself onto my shoulders. Our conversation from the train ride replays in my mind at hyper-speed. Wrong crowd. Bad decisions. Wasting potential. But I haven’t seen evidence of any of that, not really. He’s been nothing but sweet to me … and every other girl in town, but still.

  I don’t respond and she shoots me a pointed look. “Do not let him get to you. It will be a mistake.”

  “I’m not letting him get to me,” I reply too quickly. “I don’t even know him.”

  “You would be wise to keep it that way.”

  I stop at the gate. “He can’t really be that bad.”

  “Pippa, you make your own choices. I only show you what you cannot see. What I know about him that you do not.” She sighs and turns the key, leading me up to the apartment. “I know that he is not right for you. You like nice boys.”

  Nice boys like Darren.

  I shake the useless thought away and press my lips together tight. Chiara’s blurring the line between friend and mother now.

  “And how would you know?”

  “Because you are a nice girl.” She frowns, shrugging her shoulders. “Bene. But do not cry to me—”

  “Chiara, I appreciate you looking out for me, but I get it. I know what I’m doing.”

  I think.

  I mean, I wrote it down on paper, the goal to end all goals—fall in love with an Italian. I threw a coin in the Trevi Fountain, wishing for the same thing. And I didn’t even have to look. An Italian found me! But maybe I’ve been making it too hard on myself, taking my goal too seriously. The idea of falling in love love probably isn’t very realistic.

  And this summer is about doing what I want. So if a gorgeous Italian wants to feed me caprese and whisper in my ear, then I officially want him to.

  After we get ready for bed, Chiara mumbles a good night as she creaks her way up the wooden ladder to the top bunk. I hope she’s just tired and not upset with me. I hate that negative vibe in the air when I’m worried someone’s mad at me. I might talk to her more about it tomorrow. I want her to know I can handle myself around her cousin. At least I hope I can …

  My eyes are closed, mind whirling through a thousand thoughts at once. What is it about Bruno that makes him so charming? Why did Chiara have to get such an attitude about it all? I wish she’d lighten up. Why did I see Darren that second time? Why do I still find myself thinking about it? About him.

  I try to get comfortable but it’s so hot, my legs stick together and my face is clammy. I settle on my back, sprawled across the entire mattress, one leg out of the sheet. The hum of the ceiling fan becomes my focus. Maybe it will lull me to sleep.

  Toss. Turn. Toss. Turn. Too. Hot.

  I shuffle into the kitchen and get a bottle of water out of the refrigerator. I press the cool plastic against my cheek and just as I take a swig, the front door swings open.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I startle, practically jumping into the air, and some of the water in my mouth sneaks down the wrong pipe. Spitting what I can into the sink, I surrender to a coughing fit.

  Bruno shuts the door behind him and rushes over to pat me on the back. “All right?”

  I nod, coughing a couple more times and wiping the tears out of my eyes. The springs on the couch bed in the living area squeak when Luca rolls over. My hand covers my mouth as my throat forces me to cough again. I try to make it as quiet as possible, but there’s really no controlling this.

  “Andiamo—we go,” he says, hand still patting my back. “Outside.”

  He leads me through the living room and up the small spiral staircase to the mystery door. On the other side of the door is a terrace overlooking the main street past the trattoria to the marina. Two reclined lawn chairs are lined up next to each other, beach towels laid out across each of them. Bruno pulls out a lighter from his pocket and lights a couple of candles on the table off to the side.

  Once I finally stop coughing, I lie on one of the chairs, facing the deep night sky. A thin cloud passes quickly over the moon.

  He picks up a soccer ball from the floor and leans all the way back in the other chair. “Who is this tall girl who stays in my home?” I can tell he’s smiling, even without looking at him.

  “Ah,” I say. “My height. I was wondering when someone would point that out. Does it bother you?” I always say I don’t want my height to be an issue, but I end up making it one anyway.

  “Perché?”

  “It just seems like most guys don’t like tall girls. I guess it intimidates them.”

  Bruno laughs, repeatedly tossing the ball into the air and catching it.

  “What? It doesn’t intimidate you?” I press. “What if I were the same height or taller than you?”

  He crosses his right foot over his left. “I buy taller shoes.”

  We laugh together and fall silent. A cat screeches somewhere on the street below, its cry echoing several times before disappearing. It makes me think of Darren. The closet cat lover who skipped out on catechism class.

  I fight a smile and close my eyes, relaxing deeper into my chair. I’ve often closed my eyes and pretended to be somewhere else. Exotic places, just like this. On a terrace, at night. With a gorgeous Italian. So why my mind drifts back to Illinois is beyond me.

  I’m by our pool in the backyard, Gram in the chair next to me, calming me down after the Summer Abroad News Bomb. I can even smell her lavender scent wafting through the air. What’s she doing right now? Is she bored out of her mind without me there? I wish I could talk to her.

  “You miss home, sì?”

  I blink a few times, talking my eyes out of welling up. “Parts of it.”

  “Parts?”

  “My grandmother mostly, and my best friend, Morgan.”

  He shifts onto his side, facing me, resting an arm on the soccer ball. “Do you have parents? You do not miss them?”

  I consider his question carefully before answering, aware that Bruno’s father recently passed away and it wrecked him. Here I am, on the other side of the world from mine, and I haven’t even been thinking about either of them, both alive and well. But that’s not really my fault. Sure I miss my parents. I miss the kind of parents they could have been. Mom more so than Dad—he sides with me most of the time. At least he makes an effort.

  “We have dif
ferent … ideals.”

  He clears his throat again, harder this time. “You have boyfriend waiting for you?”

  I fold my hands over my stomach. “Not for a long time.”

  He playfully rolls his eyes and sighs. “Boys.”

  A laugh escapes my lips. The boys back home seem so lame in comparison to Bruno, with their retro superhero T-shirts and baseball caps. They’re trying too hard, whereas Bruno doesn’t have to. He just is the kind of guy who demands to be noticed.

  “So,” I say, steering the conversation away from my lack of a love life. “Why did you think I was missing home?”

  “You were quiet,” he answers, a catch in his voice. “People think of home when they are quiet. Miss things. People.”

  I lower the back of my chair so I’m lying completely flat, and roll over onto my side, mirroring him. The warm orange light from the candles brightens his face. He looks older than seventeen in this light, with harsher angles, yet there’s something vulnerable about him. Like I’m seeing a part of him no one else ever has.

  “Is that what you think about when you get quiet?” I ask.

  He studies me but says nothing.

  “I see you,” I say. “Sometimes your eyes lose focus and you sort of … go somewhere else.” My throat tightens. The thought of the pain he works through every day breaks my heart.

  Bruno looks above me, past me, anywhere but my eyes. The muscle along his jaw tightens. I have nothing to help him. No words of wisdom. No personal anecdotes. I’ve never been through anything close to what he has.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. Sorry for asking. Sorry about your dad.

  He inhales, breath almost imperceptibly shaky. “You know?”

  “Is that okay? That I know?”

  He allows his eyes to meet mine again and his face softens. “Sì. I am glad that you know.”

  We stare at each other and his mouth twists into a sleepy smile. So does mine.

  “Pippas,” he nearly whispers. “I tell you something that you do not know.”

  My heart picks up speed and I nestle deeper into the chair, waiting for his revelation. I know it’s not right to get hung up on appearance, but he’s so freaking hot. It’s hard not to get excited that he wants to spend time with me. I have no clue what it all means, but I’m going to soak it up while it lasts. Because it’s very likely it won’t ever happen again. According to Chiara, it isn’t even really happening now.

  Bruno strokes my cheek close to my ear with a couple of fingers, back and forth, back and forth. I’m tempted to think he might lean over and kiss me. I’d probably even let him. My body tingles at the thought. The anticipation.

  You know what he is, do you not?

  Nothing happens. His palm rests flat against my cheek, prompting me to look at him.

  A player.

  Shut up, Chiara.

  “Everything about you is lovely,” he says.

  My heart leaps, bounds, springs. Floats.

  Chiara has to be wrong about him. He’s kind and sweet and achingly romantic.

  And he thinks I’m lovely. He could have his pick of any Italian beauty he wants, and he thinks I’m lovely.

  Overwhelmed with the need to touch him, I reach out and trace along his sharp jawline, stopping just before his lips. I swallow hard. So does he.

  He clasps my hand in his and lightly kisses the tip of each finger, his eyes never breaking their gaze on mine.

  There’s something I’m supposed to say to him. Something in Italian.

  One word. My brain remembers one word.

  “Bellissimo.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Wake up, principessa!”

  My eyes fly open at the sound of Bruno’s voice, but I immediately squint in the light streaming through the window.

  “It is noon!” he says.

  I pull the sheet over my head, but he fights me for it and wins, exposing my face in all its puffy mayhem. I groan. Then panic.

  “Wait! Did you say it’s noon?” I sit up, careful not to smack my head on the top bunk.

  “Mamma gave us today free. Andiamo a la Via dell’Amore.” He roots around the room and I spring out of bed, suddenly very awake. I’ve been in Riomaggiore this entire week, but we’ve been so busy with the trattoria, no one’s had much of a chance to show me around farther than our little village. But I’m still not complaining. It sure beats schoolwork. Or begging for food on the street until my flight back home at the end of summer.

  “What about Chiara? Is she coming too?”

  “No.”

  She’s not going to like this plan.

  He finds my sneakers. “Wear these. And something …” He struggles for the word, grabbing the middle of his shirt and pulling it away from himself repeatedly.

  “Breathable, got it.” I laugh and wait for him to leave the room. He doesn’t. “Um … I’m not changing with you watching me.”

  “Oh! Sì!” He flashes his bright teeth before darting out and closing the door behind him.

  We pass the trattoria on the way to the trail. Chiara is taking orders from one table, while Luca delivers meals to another. I catch eyes with Chiara and hesitantly wave. She waves back but her narrowed eyes shift from me to Bruno, then back again. She probably thinks she should be the one to show me around, especially since she’s, well, not Bruno. But he commandeered my day with promises of photo ops and food. Like I could say no to that.

  I didn’t expect to have to pay a fee to use the trail, but turns out it’s considered a national park. It’s gated with a ticket booth, business hours, and everything. I’m handed my pass and a brightly colored map of the trail between villages. The walk from Riomaggiore to Manarola is only supposed to take about twenty minutes.

  Bruno winks at the attendant and she waves him on. I’m sure it’s just because he’s local.…

  “Non necessario.” He snatches the paper from me and wads it into a ball. “I am your map!”

  “Hey! I wanted to keep that! I was going to put it in my book.”

  He smashes his lips together in a very artificial pout and sets the crumpled ball in the palm of his hand, offering it to me. “Your book?”

  I open the map again, but the wrinkles are permanent no matter how much I try to smooth them out. “Yeah, my book. Like a journal? I’m documenting my trip.”

  “The book under your pillow?”

  Fear and anger bubble in my chest. “Were you snooping in my room? Did you read it?”

  “Again, I will tell you that it is my room.” A sly smile takes over half of his face and he slides his hands into the pockets of his tight plaid shorts.

  I swallow hard. If he hasn’t read it, I don’t want to make such a huge deal out of it that he does read it. And if he has … “Just,” I say, calm but firm, “tell me you didn’t read it.”

  “Okay, okay.” He weaves his fingers between mine. “I did not read it.”

  I stare down at our hands. A shiver climbs up my arm and pulses in my chest. This is public. This is weird. And he might have read my journal, the idiota. I should let go of his hand.

  But I don’t.

  Bruno leads me to the official trail entrance and we stop underneath two golden hearts welded to the top of the gate. Padlocks and luggage locks of every size and color dangle from the hearts and from any other available hookable object.

  “Benvenuta a la Via dell’Amore,” he says, poking a bright pink lock with Ashlee+Jake written on it in white paint.

  “What are all the locks for?”

  “Do you know the history of la Via dell’Amore?” I know a little, but I’d rather hear it from him, so I shake my head and he continues. “When this path between Riomaggiore and Manarola was not here, many people did not marry outside of their own village. But with the, ah, connection to the next village, love was exciting again. Lovers walked along the seaside here to meet with one another.”

  I take in the view as we stroll the crowded path. High cliffs stretch up to our right, with s
ections of loose rock held down by wire mesh, padlocks hooked onto every wire within reaching distance. To our left, the Ligurian Sea—clear and bright, blue and green—glimmers in the afternoon sun. Fishing boats and passenger ferries race along the coast. The temptation to take pictures of every detail around me is strong, but that would require letting go of Bruno’s hand, and I’m not sure I want to just yet. I’m curious to see how long he’ll hold it.

  “The locks are for the tourists, a symbol of love for all to see, for the eternity. Until they are cut down.”

  I gape at him. “Cut down?”

  He laughs. “Sì. This path would be nothing but locks if they were not taken away.”

  I smile as we pass a couple hooking a tiny green lock onto an open loop of restraining cable overhead. He’s well over a foot taller than she is, and she rises onto her tiptoes to meet his lips as he bends down, both of them giggling.

  As we approach a tunnel, traffic gets more congested and I feel a bit claustrophobic despite the open-air windows to the sea. Colorful graffiti covers the walls on either side—definitely not an art form my mother approves of, which makes me like it. Scattered solid patches of a neutral color suggest these walls get painted over right along with the lock cutting.

  Bruno and I merge into the lazy pace of graffiti gawkers for several minutes before I realize we’re all in a line. At the end of the tunnel, in front of one of the lookouts to the sea, couples take turns sitting on a concrete bench. The back of the bench rises high into a silhouette of a man and woman kissing, rods of the railing on either side packed with locks, all hooked onto one another.

  Within several minutes, we’re at the front of the line. I assume we’re going to keep walking, but the young English couple in front of us has me take their picture, and then they offer to take ours. I open my mouth to decline, but Bruno bursts out with a “Grazie!” and unhooks the camera from my neck, handing it to the woman.

  He leads me to the bench and we sit, the sides of our legs touching. My stomach clenches. This is the kissing bench. Not a single couple before us has smiled for the camera. They kiss for the camera.