by Kristin Rae
I brace myself for the chance he took a memento. “Did you take anything else?”
He sits up straighter and covers my hand with his. “I did not!” His eyes, caramel even in the pale light, beg me to believe him.
I wriggle free from his grasp and shift my focus up to the stars instead. The stars I can believe. Not Bruno. Anything that existed between us before was only lust on my part. Lust and a freakish desire of snagging myself an Italian.
Gorgeous? Check. Italian? Check. Fall in love with and bring home to Mom and Dad? Not. Even. Close.
“Did you enjoy time with your friends?” Bruno forces my thoughts aside.
“Yes.” My cheeks warm at the memory of falling asleep with Darren’s hand on mine, but there’s no risk of Bruno noticing. We both look like ghosts out here.
“With that Darren?” He spits out the name like it’s gristle.
“You’re impossible.” I snort. “You know, Chiara warned me you were trouble before I even got here. Said you were wasting your potential. And when she saw me getting attached to you, she told me I should put a stop to it. That I didn’t know who you really were.”
He shifts uncomfortably on the rock, pulling a broken fragment from under his leg and tossing it into the water. “You know who I am.”
“I know part of who you are, but she was right. I just didn’t want to see it before.”
He leans back, supporting his upper body on outstretched arms. “You have given up on us.”
I twist my body to look at him. His expression is far from amused, jaw set in a hard line reflecting the bluish light from the moon.
“There was never an us, Bruno,” I say. “I can’t be with someone I can’t trust.”
He lies flat on his back and presses the heels of his hands over his eyes. A sigh of exhaustion mixed with laughter escapes my mouth and I rise to my feet. I just need to go to bed and start fresh in the morning.
Bruno peers up at me. “Why you leave so soon?”
“I wanted to get away from you so I could think.”
“Pippas,” he says, sitting up. “Mi dispiace. I walk with you.”
“No,” I say quickly. “I know my way home.”
Without looking back, I leave him behind and stare at the street until my vision blurs. A dull ache settles in my chest when I realize tonight I have to go to sleep without Darren one bed over.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Eat a whole pizza in one sitting
The weekend arrives and I’m on edge, especially working at the trattoria. I’m hyper-aware of everyone around me, twitching at the sight of every youngish-looking guy with a full head of brown hair. The super curly heads are even fewer and farther between, but sightings of those nearly spark heart attacks. Only as the sun sets Sunday night do I let myself truly mope. I know they just started at a new dig site in Tuscany, and I can’t expect Darren to come to Cinque Terre every weekend, but it still stings. I could smack myself on the head for not making sure we had a way to get in touch with each other. Forget about waiting for him to ask me, that’s crap. I can be a take-control girl when I want to be, can’t I?
I’m desperate to see his smile, and not just because it’s his, but because moods are in major need of brightening around here. Considering Bruno stole quite a large amount of money from me, I haven’t exactly been chatty with him, so that makes things nice and awkward. The only excitement comes from my phone call with Gram.
“I have a few things I need to talk to you about today, honey,” she says. “First, I want an update on this guy you met.”
I’ve made a point to keep it vague with her. She knows that I’m crushing on someone, but not that I went on a little trip with him. Or that he hasn’t been back to see me since.
“I don’t know, Gram.” I sigh into the phone. “I don’t think he’s interested in me like that.”
“Impossible!”
“I mean, I thought so, maybe. But I haven’t seen him in, like, a week. I think I might need to just forget about it. I’m coming home soon anyway, right?”
“Well, that’s very logical of you,” she says. “All I can say is follow your heart, honey. Sometimes it’s best to ignore your head.”
“I think I’m the one being ignored, Gram.”
“Your Papa used to say that whatever happens is the way it was always going to happen, so live your life. Regret nothing.”
“Speaking of regrets,” I say, desperately trying to change the subject. “I still regret that I’m going to miss your birthday.”
She gasps. “Oh, that! That was the other thing we needed to discuss.”
“Your birthday?”
“Your mother is trying to talk me into going to Italy to celebrate.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
“And to surprise you.”
I jump out of my seat and start pacing behind the bar. My mind whirls a million miles an hour as I picture myself packing up my clothes, catching a train to Florence, knocking on the school’s door, and begging to be let in. This can’t be happening.
“Gram, that’s—”
“I told her I didn’t want to go.”
My back slides against the wall as I sink to the floor in relief. Chiara peeks her head curiously over the bar but I wave her away.
“And she believed you?”
“She didn’t have a choice. I just refused to let her buy the tickets and informed her that friends from my book club were already planning something big. I guess I have to tell them now. But they won’t mind. Any excuse to eat cake.”
“So you’re not coming?” I ask, my heart rate starting to slow to a normal pace. “And Mom’s not coming?”
“Well, she’s still thinking about visiting you for a couple of days. I’m not sure how to talk her out of that one. I thought about faking an illness or something. But then she’d drag me to the doctor … and then I really would get sick.”
I’m pacing again. Chiara is still watching me with concern, but I ignore her.
“This is so not good, Gram. Why does she want to come all the way over here to see me? I’ve lived with her for almost eighteen years!”
Gram clears her throat. “She talked rather enthusiastically about going to all the galleries in Florence with you.”
I close my eyes and let my forehead smack against the wall as I lean on it. “Of course. Galleries. That’s what she really wants to see.” She probably doesn’t miss me at all.
As if reading my mind, Gram says, “She misses you more than you think.”
“Right.”
“She does. She’s been talking about how fast time goes by, and how soon you’ll be going to college. I think it scares her.”
I have no idea how to respond to this. I thought I was supposed to be the one scared about going to college.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about it, Pippa. She’s been extremely busy with clients, and of course the preparations for the gallery opening. If it turns into more than talk, I’ll let you know right away.”
Whatever happens is the way it was always going to happen.
“Thanks, Gram,” I say, and then a thought occurs to me. “But … if you want to spend your birthday in Italy, don’t let my lie stop you. I really can face her when you get here.” Somehow.
She laughs. “Oh, honey, I love you.”
“I love you too,” I take the opportunity to say.
“You know I don’t get around that well these days. All that traveling makes me tired just thinking about it.”
“I miss you. I’ll be home soon.”
When we hang up, I catch eyes with Chiara.
“What was that about?” she asks, brows together and arms crossed.
I let out a long exhale. “A very, very, very close call.”
Two weekends later—with thankfully no word from Gram about a surprise visit from Mom—there’s still no sign of Darren, Tate, or Nina. I’ve got myself convinced I’m ready to go home and face the music. July’s nearly over, the heat i
s lung crushing, and I miss Gram and Morgan something fierce. And with Luca’s birthday celebration tonight at the trattoria, seeing his friends and family love on one another is sure to put a stake right through me.
I sit at an empty table after the lunch rush and turn to the last assignment in my journal. This one’s the worst yet. The page is blank except for the instructions:
DRAW YOUR SELF-PORTRAIT.
Obviously, she ran out of ideas. She knows I can’t draw worth a flip, and she especially knows I don’t like it when this kind of art is pushed on me. A self-portrait is an interpretation. It’s not the truth—not a real image. It’s going to look nothing like me.
I open my makeup compact and set it on the table next to the vase of flowers and let my mechanical pencil hover over the page. I adjust until I can see most of my face in the tiny mirror and start drawing an outline of the compact itself first. Seems easier than tackling an eye right off the bat.
“Drawing hearts in your diary again?”
I perk my head up, pulse racing. “Darren!”
Instinctively I stand and he rushes to me, opening his arms and pulling me close.
“I wasn’t sure if I’d see you again before I had to leave,” I say, out of breath even though he’s the one that just trekked up the hill.
His eyes widen. “Are you leaving soon?”
“Well, my flight’s scheduled in a couple of weeks when the summer program I’m supposedly going to is over. Gotta keep up appearances.”
He laughs and my smile spreads. It seems like it’s been forever since I heard that sound.
“I’m glad I caught you then. When I woke up this morning … I just had to see you. It’s been too long. I started getting antsy,” he says, dimples appearing in his cheeks. “Things at the new site are intense. It’s really not even a completely free weekend, so I don’t have that much time. I need to leave tomorrow around noon.”
It hits me that our little jaunt south was the last solid chunk of time I’d get to spend with him, possibly ever.
“At the train station in Florence, as soon as we walked out to the cab station I realized I didn’t get your number,” he says. “Again.”
“My cell phone doesn’t work here.” I lift my shoulders toward my ears. “I meant to get your e-mail address, but I forgot to ask you for it.”
“I didn’t bring my laptop to Italy. Didn’t want to have to worry about it, you know?”
I picture Bruno rifling through my luggage while I was gone. “Totally.”
“Were you spying on someone?” Darren asks, finally sitting in the chair next to me and pointing at the open compact on the table.
“What? Oh, no.” I laugh, snapping it shut and pulling it and the journal closer to me. “It’s nothing.”
“You’re awfully secretive with your diary.” He says the word diary with a childish tone to it, as if the cover of mine has a picture of Hello Kitty emblazoned on it. “What are you hiding?” He reaches for it but I’m faster.
“It’s just this project for my friend,” I say, hoping he’ll leave it at that yet knowing he has the power to make me say anything he wants.
He stares at me and waves his hand for me to continue.
“My best friend, Morgan, gave this to me at the airport when she dropped me off. She had me write a list of goals for the summer, and she also cooked up assignments for me to do.”
He raises an eyebrow. “She added schoolwork to your schoolwork?”
I laugh his joke away. “It’s sweet. They’re just silly things mostly, like writing a haiku, getting on a vessel of the public transportation system and getting off at a random stop to explore—which is the one I was working on when I saw you the second time, by the way.”
“I guess I should thank this Morgan girl.”
“But I didn’t even talk to you then. It was just a wave and POOF. Gone.”
“Even so. It was a memorable wave.” He leans back in his chair and crosses his legs, resting an ankle on one knee and grabbing on to the other with laced hands. “So what about these goals?”
“Oh, they’re lame. And I only have a few left now, so—”
“What are they? Can I help you finish them?” He shakes the foot near his knee super fast like he’s eager to get up and do something.
I bite my lip. “Well, I already got Morgan a real souvenir, but I was planning to find something off the wall for her.”
“Oh, shopping!” He sits up straight and claps the tips of his fingers together. “I mean”—he clears his throat and lowers his voice—“let’s do this.”
We laugh together and I cram my journal and compact back into my tote bag.
“Speaking of shopping,” he says, reaching into his backpack and producing yet another small paper sack.
“Another magnet?” I snatch the bag from him and find a rectangular magnet with the red-roofed cityscape of Florence. I can’t believe I haven’t even been there, the place I was supposed to be living all summer.
“Thank you.” I trail a finger across the glossy surface. “For all my magnets. I love them.”
“Even though you have nowhere to put them,” he says with a wink.
I beam at him. “I’m sure I’ll come up with something.”
We decide on shopping and swimming in Monterosso. Since it’s the village best suited to tourism, they’re sure to have something bizarre I can get for Morgan.
It doesn’t take long before Darren spots a shelf packed with handmade figurines. “What are these things?” he whispers.
I study the squat, white ceramic creatures with holes for eyes and colored noses and ears, trying to figure them out. “I think they’re cats. No, that one’s an owl. Owls and cats. Oh, I think you’ve found it. A nonsensical owl from Italy. I’m buying it.” I carefully pick up a smaller one. “You know you want one of the cats,” I add, nudging him with my elbow.
“Funny.” He smiles and nudges me back. “What exactly is your friend supposed to do with it?”
“That’s the point. A souvenir without function that she’s obligated to keep. She’ll love it.”
With that goal checked off my list, I can relax and shop for myself too. A few carts down, we find the most luscious scarves I’ve ever seen. Darren helps me pick one that manages to make my eyes an intense shade of green, and we find some for Morgan, Gram, and my mother because it would be a nice gesture. She might actually wear this one too, because it’s not hot pink and it was made by professionals.
Darren keeps eyeing the fedoras until I make him try one on.
“I don’t wear hats,” he protests.
“I saw you drooling over it; just try it.” I pick out a dark-gray one with thin white stripes and settle it on his head. “You have too much hair. I’ll bet if you chopped it you would rock this hat.”
He takes it off without even looking in the mirror.
I match his frown. “What’s wrong?”
He lets out a sigh. “There’s a reason I stopped wearing hats.”
“Besides your hair?” I say, attempting and failing to get him to smile.
He coughs into the back of his hand. “Remember that girl I told you about?”
“Yes. But you never told me her name.”
“She liked it when I wore hats. She said so all the time.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, did you wear them before you got together?”
He cocks his head to the side. “Yeah …?”
“Then she stole it from you. When she broke your heart, she took part of who you are with her.”
“Part of who I am?”
“You’re a hat guy,” I explain. “If you like them, wear them. Who cares if they remind you of her, you’re done with her. You’ve moved on to better things.”
His mouth fights back a smile. “You think so?” He places the hat on his head and looks in the little mirror hanging from the cart. “You’re right, though. Too much hair.”
“So … maybe you can be a hat person again when you’re not a h
air person anymore.”
We laugh and he returns the hat to the hook before picking up a tan-colored newsboy cap with a dark flower off to the side just above the brim. “Put this one on right now,” he says, switching back into exaggerated, giddy-girl mode.
“You better cut that out or you’re going to have me thinking things about you that you probably don’t want me to.” I giggle and tug the hat down on my head.
Darren adjusts it for me, off-centering the brim from my forehead. He takes me by the shoulders and turns me to the mirror, moving sections of my hair from behind so it lies on my chest. My eyes take in the hat—which I secretly think I adore and must have—before they meet his gaze.
Keeping his hands on my shoulders and his eyes locked on mine in the mirror, he tilts his head, leaning closer until his lips nearly brush against my ear. “What kind of things?”
My whole body quivers as I close my eyes, unable to look at him looking at me that way if he’s not going to do anything about it. I’m so far gone now, there’s no turning back.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
We claim an empty spot on the beach and drop our bags onto a towel. The water is warm yet refreshing enough, especially when we find a cool pocket. Darren’s been quiet since we stripped down to our bathing suits and waded into the water, like his mind is somewhere else. I make small talk, but he gives a lot of halfhearted, one-word answers.
“Is something wrong?” I finally ask.
Darren cups a hand and repeatedly scoops at the water, letting it leak out between his fingers. “What do you see happening a few weeks from now?”
I try to meet his eyes, but he’s focused on the water. “What do you mean?”
“I mean at the end of summer, when you have to leave. What happens after that?”
I open my mouth to speak, but not a sound comes out. I want to say a million things. I want to say that watching him walk off that train, then realizing I had no way to get in touch with him, nearly killed me. That I can’t believe I’m expected to say goodbye to him again. That I think about him. A lot.