by Gina Azzi
“Not this.”
Lexi laughs, a soft, breathy chime. “Come on, let’s see what ya got.”
We go back to my room and begin digging through my suitcases. Lexi holds up articles of clothing that she likes, mainly from the stack that Emma packed, commenting the entire time and keeping a log of everything she needs to borrow.
I smile at her. Yeah, I definitely lucked out in the host family and roomie departments.
Chapter Five
Lorenzo
“Something’s up with Mama,” Claudia yells out to me as I pass her bedroom. I prop an arm against the doorframe and look at her expectantly.
She pulls an earbud out of her right ear and props her head up on her palm, her elbow resting on one of the many Versace throw pillows scattered across her bed.
“What do you mean?” I ask. Surely I would notice if something was wrong with Mama—despite the obvious.
“She’s not herself. She’s quieter, more withdrawn. She barely ate last night.”
“She’s been like this for months. Her husband died. Give her a break, Claudia. Stop looking for an issue where there isn’t one.”
My sister huffs loudly, sitting up fully and facing me. “I’m not looking for an issue, Enzo. I’m being serious. Something is off with her. She’s not herself.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Such typical Claudia behavior. Always one for drama and theatrics. “I haven’t noticed.”
“Well, open your eyes and take a look around,” she snaps.
I bite my tongue, controlling my anger. “What do you think it could be?” I say instead of the nasty retort on the tip of my tongue. My God, Claudia would test the patience of a saint.
She shakes her head thoughtfully. “I really don’t know, Enzo. But it’s something. I heard …” She pauses. “Forget it.”
Ah yes, another classically Claudia move. Start a sentence and then stop abruptly to generate interest from the listener and prompt him to dig for information. I debate dropping the conversation completely, but what if something is wrong with Mama?
“What?” I take the bait.
Claudia raises her eyebrows. I guess I’ve even surprised her with my cordiality.
“She was on the phone with Zio Benito.”
Fuck. “Are you sure?”
Claudia nods, her face solemn. “This is bad, isn’t it?”
I nod. “Real bad.”
If Zio Benito is talking with Mama, it could only be for one reason: money.
* * *
I’m back at the restaurant for the dinner shift. For the third time this week. Claudia promised to talk to Mama about Zio Benito, and in return I agreed to work for her this evening. I guess it was the better option though because broaching the topic of Zio Benito is bound to be awkward and painful for her. She might even cry. And I definitely don’t do tears.
Zio Benito is my papa’s brother. They went into business together way back in the day and made a shit ton of money. Then they had a falling out. Once they went their separate ways, Papa’s wealth continued to grow, his businesses expanded, his status in society improved. Zio Benito’s money dwindled; he became an avid gambler, his personal life a series of scandals involving drugs, models, and bribes. With Papa’s passing, his reaching out to Mama could only be for money, a stake in one of Papa’s businesses, or something sketchy.
He didn’t even come to the funeral.
I shake my head to clear my thoughts and the negative turn they take whenever I think of family politics. I just have to get through this shift, and then I can hit the bar with Sandro to burn off some steam, hopefully pick up a girl for the night. Preferably not Simona. I never should have gone home with her two nights ago. The fallout after the first time should have been enough of a warning to steer clear of her.
Stepping out onto the patio, I spot two girls sitting at a corner table. One girl laughs loudly, her gestures exaggerated, her blond hair swaying in the breeze as she shakes her head. I check out her friend. A petite brunette. There’s nothing remarkable about her at first-glance, but after watching her for a moment longer, I’m intrigued by the expressions flitting across her face. Her hair hangs straight past her shoulders and she hunches forward self-consciously.
The blonde laughs again, and I see several men on the street turn in their direction. I shake my head again. American girls are always an entertaining distraction. At least this shift will pass quickly now.
Chapter Six
Mia
Lexi and I meander down the winding streets near our apartment before sitting down at a cute, family-owned restaurant—Angelina’s—to eat dinner. My jet lag is starting to hit, and I turn my head to cover my mouth while I yawn obnoxiously. I have to force myself to stay awake so I will be fully adjusted to the time difference before classes start next week.
Angelina’s is located off one of the tiny streets leading from the bustling Campo de’ Fiori. I people-watch from my seat on the patio, enjoying the momentary solitude from the busyness of the city. Rome is overwhelming. It’s everything at once. I wish I could absorb each detail simultaneously, but I think it would be sensory overload.
“Una bottiglia di vino rosso, per favore.” Lexi smiles at the hostess, ordering a bottle of red wine.
She nods. “Your waiter will be with you in one moment.”
“So…” Lexi leans forward, her blond hair swinging with the movement “…how was your flight?”
I shudder for a moment, remembering my dream/nightmare. “It was good, thanks. It went by much faster than I thought since I slept for so much of it.”
She laughs. “That’s good. Let me know when you start feeling tired. Jetlag’s a bitch.”
I nod in agreement.
“Una bottiglia di vino rosso,” our waiter announces, placing a bottle of the house wine and two small glasses down on our table. He smiles at me, and I feel my insides warm and melt. “Cosa vorremo ordinare?”
My breath lodges in my throat as I stare at him. He meets every criteria for one of Lila’s tall, dark, and handsomes. He’s tall, easily six feet, with dark hair that curls slightly behind his ears and over the collar of his shirt. Incredibly handsome. In fact, he’s downright hot. A chiseled jawline, a slight shadow dusting his cheeks and chin—the beginning of a beard he didn’t shave this morning—a tiny dimple winking from his left cheek. His skin is tanned: the olive sun-kissed skin of a Mediterranean dweller. And he has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.
“What would you like to order?” He switches to English easily, with only the slightest hint of an accent wrapping around his words.
Ah, yes, I was supposed to respond to that question. Immediately I feel my face grow red like a tomato. Shoot me now. Stop ogling the hot waiter!
Lexi laughs good-naturedly. “I would like the bruschetta Pomodoro and penne arrabiata please.”
He nods. “And for you?” His blue eyes turn to me again, and I pinch my leg under the table to center myself.
“Insalata caprese per favore.”
“Perfetto. So one bruschetta to start, followed by penne arrabiata and insalata caprese?”
“Si.”
“Okay, grazie.” He smiles at me one more time, his eyes latching onto mine. He winks once before turning back into the restaurant. Oh good, so he knows he makes me nervous, flustered, blushing like a teenager.
Lexi hunches forward on the table, her elbows pulling herself in closer. “Relax, girl, he’s only the first Italian we’ve met.”
“Oh my God.”
Lexi laughs.
“Could I be any more awkward?”
“Don’t sweat it. I’m sure he’s used to girls reacting like that. And he clearly likes the attention. That wink wasn’t even remotely subtle.” She laughs again, a clear ring through the quiet patio. “We’re going to have some fun here.”
I smile at her warmly, relieved to have already made a friend in my roommate. I think so too.
Chapter Seven
Lorenzo
; The dinner crowd has picked up and the restaurant is busy. Still, when the two American girls are settling their check, I pass by their table with homemade biscotti to take away. The blonde smiles sincerely, her face lighting up.
“Grazie!” she says enthusiastically, taking the bag from me.
I look at the brunette. She smiles shyly and quickly averts her gaze. “Enjoy the sweets.” I tell her, trying to catch her eyes.
“Grazie.” Her eyes flit up and she smiles briefly before stepping around me.
Her smile, even in the short moment I glimpsed it, transformed her face. I watch the girls leave the restaurant and walk down the street, the bag of biscotti swinging from the blonde’s hand. I turn back to their table and quickly begin to clear it so other patrons can sit down. The bruschetta and penne arrabiata are completely gone, pieces of bread used to sop up the extra arrabiata sauce, effectively wiping the plate clean. Good, I’m glad the blonde enjoyed her meal. I pick up the insalata caprese, confused to see only two thin slices of tomato and half a piece of mozzarella consumed. Did she not enjoy it? Did something taste off?
Of course not! Mama prides herself on using the freshest and often organic ingredients. Maybe she’s just nervous? Adjusting to a new country? It’s obvious the American girls are here on an exchange program.
“Table four would like to order dessert,” Simona whispers as she passes me, her breath tickling my cheek. She leans in, pressing her body against my back as she grabs the wine bottle and empty glasses from the table.
“Okay.” I turn back into the restaurant, ignoring Simona’s advances, my thoughts preoccupied by the brunette.
* * *
It’s late when I finally lock the door to Angelina’s. Although I’m grateful tonight was a busy shift, I’m also beat. Things seemed to lag after the pretty brunette and her friend left. As much as I want to go home and drop into a coma, I already told Sandro I would meet him for a few drinks.
I drive to the bar slowly, my eyes scanning the students littering the streets, falling out of bars, posing for selfies. I know it’s ridiculous, but I’m looking for her. The brunette. Is she one of the girls laughing amidst a group of friends, updating her Instagram account, taking shots of limoncello? I doubt it. She didn’t strike me as the party girl type. Still, a lot of these American study abroad students really cut loose the semester they visit Europe. For many of them, they aren’t even able to legally drink in America. Suddenly, they can drink, party, and travel—all on their parents’ credit card. Who the hell wouldn’t take advantage of that setup? I should have studied abroad when I was in university. I would have gone to New York.
After trolling for two blocks with no sign of a petite brunette with big brown eyes (I knew it was a long-shot), I hang a left and park the car. The walk to the bar is amusing, instantly waking me up as I take in the poor, or awesome depending on how you look at it, decisions being made around me: random hookups, a few guys lighting a joint, some American kids already puking on the sidewalks. I laugh to myself, pulling open the door to a bar Sandro and I frequent.
As soon as I enter, I spot Sandro. He’s standing at the bar, chatting up two beautiful women, an Americano dangling casually from his left hand as he gestures with his right. His face is serious, composed, giving nothing away. Typical Sandro. Getting him to crack a smile is about as easy as keeping the seat clean when pissing drunk.
He raises his hand in welcome when he sees me, turning toward the bartender to order me a Negroni.
“Ciao, Enzo.” Sandro greets me. “This is Aileen and Kerry.” He motions toward the two girls sitting at the bar. “They’re visiting Rome. From Ireland.” He raises his eyebrows. I can read the thoughts hidden behind his eyes. Want to fuck a couple of Irish girls?
I nod my head, agreeing to his question. Then I turn toward the girls and smile broadly, turning on the charm. This is how it always goes. Sandro plays the role of moody and brooding, I act playful and interested, we seal the deal within an hour. “Good to meet you girls. Hope you’re having a great trip so far?”
They nod. Kerry (or is it Ailene?) rattles off some generic observations about St. Peter’s.
I nod in agreement. The bartender hands me my drink. I turn, raising it toward the girls. “To a beautiful night with new friends.”
They giggle, as expected. I wink, as required. Sandro drinks, as usual.
An hour later, I bang Ailene and he takes Kerry.
September
Chapter Eight
Mia
On Saturday, Lexi and I spend the day sightseeing. The weather is crisp and clear, a beautiful day for city walking and people-watching. The sky is a cloudless, vibrant blue as we walk down Via del Corso, popping into shops along the way. I buy postcards to send to Dad and Claire as well as Maura, Emma, and Lila.
When we reach the turn for the Trevi Fountain, Lexi announces that we need to be eating gelato for our fountain selfies. We stop at a gelateria and order cones with two scoops: strawberry and pistachio. Lexi demands that we add panna, a thick cream, on top. It’s amazing. The strawberry tastes like fresh fruit on a summer day.
Lexi tucks into her cone like she’s never had ice cream before. She’s laughing and twirling around in front of the Trevi Fountain, digging into her purse for coins. I wish I could be like her. After my second taste, all I can think about is the extra calories I’m consuming, the additional layer of cushion padding my waistline, the shrinking gap between my thighs when I stand with my feet pressed together. Pistachio gelato drips down the side of the cone and onto my wrist. I wish it would melt faster so it wouldn’t be so tempting, so I wouldn’t have to invent a reason for not enjoying it.
“This is incredible. Con panna was definitely the right call!” Lexi calls out, licking the thick cream topping off her gelato.
I smile weakly.
“Tomorrow we will try the gelateria next to our apartment.”
“Sure.”
The pistachio gelato melts farther, the drops sliding down my arm. I fight the urge to lick my wrist and turn in front of the Trevi Fountain, snapping a quick photo of me posing as if I’m about to bite into the gelato. Bits of panna stick to my cheeks and nose. I SnapChat the picture to the girls—proof that I’m enjoying all the finer things Italy offers.
“This is awesome,” Lexi chatters behind me. “In the middle of the city is this incredible fountain that was constructed centuries ago, and here we are, just eating gelato, walking by it.”
Guilt blooms in my stomach. She’s right. I should be enjoying this moment, living in this moment, breathing in the atmosphere and committing this moment to memory. Instead, I watch Lexi and wait for her to close her eyes as she throws coins over her left shoulder and makes three wishes. Then I drop my gelato cone on the ground and feign frustration over my own clumsiness.
Lexi licks her fingers clean.
* * *
At night I can’t sleep. I can barely breathe. The food I ate during the day runs through my mind on an endless loop.
Cornetto. Gelato. Salad. Piece of bread. Apple. Pasta e fagioli soup.
After an hour of restless tossing and turning, I finally get up and make my way to the bathroom. I leave the light off so I don’t have to see my reflection in the mirror. I don’t want to witness the shame, guilt, and disgust in my eyes. I don’t want to acknowledge the fullness of my cheeks or the second chin protruding behind my first one. My once slender nose has spread considerably; the graceful curve of my neck has disappeared; my ballerina body has morphed into the build of a linebacker.
I’m fat.
Disgusting.
Obese.
Kneeling in front of the toilet, I pull my hair up into a messy bun and stare at the porcelain. Then, I press two fingers of my right hand to the back of my throat and heave.
Again.
The contents of my stomach spill into the toilet.
Again.
Liquid gushes down my chin and slowly dribbles onto the toilet seat.
To
o messy, Mia. Get it together.
Again.
My throat feels rough—raw—but my mind is quiet. Relief courses through me, and I feel lighter, cleaner.
Finally.
I brush my teeth and use extra mouthwash, enjoying the sting in my mouth, the pain a reminder of my purity.
Emptiness is its own kind of delicious.
Climbing back into bed, sleep finally beckons and I drift into a peaceful slumber.
Chapter Nine
Lorenzo
The next time I see her, the brunette I mean, is at Angelina’s. She comes into the restaurant midday, a backpack slung over her shoulder. Ah, so classes have started. One earbud dangles from her ear as she drops her backpack on a chair and occupies the same table she previously ate at with her friend.
“Ciao,” I greet her warmly.
“Ciao.” She smiles, her face changing from unsure to beautiful in an instant. “Un caffé latte, per favore. Con … skim milk?”
I nod. “Va bene. Latte scremato.”
“Oh, okay. Grazie.” She nods, pulling out a tiny notebook, writing the translation down.
I stifle a chuckle. She’s cute. Clearly smart and really trying to use her Italian while she’s in Rome. Might as well help her out.
“And something sweet to enjoy with your caffé?” I ask, pronouncing my Italian slowly so she can grasp it.
“No grazie.” She shakes her head.
I retreat back into the restaurant, quickly making her a caffé latte. At the last moment, I add a leftover cornetto from breakfast. Mama hates throwing away food and all girls love sweets, right?
She’s hunched forward, elbows resting on the table, her palms propping up her forehead, reading a textbook. Her eyes scan the pages quickly, her lips make hushed murmurs as she mouths the words she’s reading. Lost in thought, she barely glances up as I approach her table.