by Gina Azzi
Now that I’m truly a local, the days seem to pass by in a flurry, blurring together as I adjust to my classes and everyday life in Italy. Finally, I’ve settled into a routine of sorts: morning run, classes, lunch at Angelina’s, studying, hanging out with Lexi, dinner with Paola and Gianluca.
Pete and I have met for lunch several times now and still, we haven’t made any decisions regarding our project. The uncertainty is making me anxious, but I can’t bring myself to say anything … mainly because whenever I am with Pete I’m way too distracted by his good lucks, charming personality, and hilarious stories to demand that we focus on our schoolwork. But as September draws to a close, I realize we really do need to buckle down and work on our assignment.
Me: Hey, Pete, I think we need to start working on this project for real. Thoughts?
Pete: Agreed, Mia. I’m heading to Scotland this weekend. Yeah! Let’s talk when I’m back in Rome.
I sigh. I forgot all about Pete’s trip to visit his family in Glasgow.
Me: Okay. Have fun!
Pete: Will do. Have a good weekend.
Moments later, Lexi bursts into my room. “Get your ass up.” She snaps her fingers at me. “We’re going shopping! We need to buy new dresses. Tomorrow, we party! Gianluca told me about a sick club. It’s even better than the last one we went to.” She takes a deep breath.
I raise my eyebrows at her. “You mean the one I barfed at?
She laughs. “That’s in the past. I’ve now learned you can’t drink tequila. Stick to prosecco. And maybe vodka?” She advises before clapping her hands, “Chop, chop. We need to find dresses for tomorrow night. I’m giving you five minutes to get ready. And that’s being generous.” She walks over to my laptop and logs into Spotify, choosing a playlist as I open my wardrobe to find a pair of jeans.
“Love this song,” she comments when the playlist begins with Justin Beiber’s “Love Yourself.” Lexi throws a long-sleeved tee at me. “I love it here.”
I laugh and nod my head because really, I do too.
Chapter Fifteen
Lorenzo
Jab, jab, one-two, hook. Jab, jab, one-two, hook.
My gloves pound out a steady rhythm against the pads Sandro holds as we get in a workout. Muscles in my shoulders and arms burn, and I welcome the sting; it’s been too long since I’ve hit the gym.
A techno beat pulses out of the speakers, the guys around us all focused on hitting the heavy bags, sparring, or shadowboxing in the mirrors that line the wall. A lone guy in the corner jumps rope. It’s been a long time since I’ve hit the boxing gym. I used to come here with Papa when I was home from university on summer holiday. He had one hell of a right hook. Even in the end.
“Pick up the pace,” Sandro comments as I throw a left jab.
I focus on the pads, weaving as he comes at me.
Come on, Enzo. Keep your elbows in. Tuck your chin. Gloves up. Don’t drop your hands.
Sandro swipes at me again, and I step back, faltering slightly. I swear loudly and a rare smile cracks Sandro’s face as he tries to knock me back farther. I throw a hard punch and wipe the grin off his face. He’s creepy as fuck when he smiles. Doesn’t do it often enough to be a welcoming sight.
Fifteen minutes later, sweat pours down my spine, pooling into the small of my back, dampening the fabric of my T-shirt. “Fuck,” I comment.
Sandro nods. “You need to get back in here. You’re lagging. Too slow.”
Frustration grips me as I clench my fists and glare at him.
Unaffected, Sandro shrugs. “It’s the truth.”
I give him a dirty look but don’t say anything because the fucker is right. I am lagging. It has been too long. I’ve been logging too many hours at Angelina’s; I’ve been too preoccupied with the messed up budget from the vineyards, the fudged ledgers Giuseppe keeps calling about. I’m spending too many nights drinking and trying to fuck a beautiful brunette out of my mind, not out of my system since I haven’t had so much as a kiss from that sweet mouth. And now I’ve put on weight.
And it’s definitely not muscle.
“Want to hit the club tomorrow tonight?” Sandro asks, taking a swig from his water bottle.
“I thought you had a date?”
He shrugs. “I’ll meet you afterward.”
“Really? Not getting any?” I scoff.
“I can’t take Caterina in large doses. It’s better if I pass by her place late at night when she’s already half-asleep. She won’t talk as much.” He drags the back of his hand across his mouth, wiping away water and sweat. Sandro bunches his shoulders and rolls them back, cracking his neck. “She’s got a fucking mouth on her.” He shakes his head. “It’s better to keep it occupied in activities other than talking.”
I snort. That’s the damn truth.
“So…” he fixes me with a look “…you in for tomorrow night?”
“Yeah, man. I’ll be there.”
And I’ll try not to go home with a random brunette.
Chapter Sixteen
Mia
Flo Rida’s “My House” is bumping through the travel speakers Lexi hooked up to my laptop as we get ready for tonight. Thank God for Spotify. And pre-gaming. I’ve never been one to indulge in alcohol, but I have to admit the whole getting ready for a night out with a girlfriend, drinking wine, listening to music, swapping clothes and makeup is a lot more fun than studying in the library and reading my Kindle. No wonder Lila and Emma were always trying to drag Maura and me along to frat parties and bars that never bothered to ID.
“Oh, I like,” Lexi comments, holding up a pale shimmery eye shadow I picked up last night at Galleria Alberto Sordi, the mall on Via del Corso.
“Thanks.” I close my eyes as Lexi walks over to me, the eye shadow clasped in her hand and the brush already poised to swipe across my eyelid. I’ve never been one for makeup; I got enough of it during my onstage performances, the ridiculously bright red lipstick and fake lashes required during recitals. But tonight, why not? I sit still as Lexi works her magic. It seems like I’m breaking all my rules these days.
Lexi sings under her breath as she paints my face with eye shadow, bronzer, blush, and two coats of mascara. Dear God, please don’t let me look like a clown.
“Okay. You’re done,” she says finally.
I open my eyes and turn toward the mirror. Wow! Although I was worried Lexi was literally coloring my face, she actually just enhanced my features in a very subtle way. I stare at my reflection. My eyes definitely look bigger, my cheekbones more slanted, my lips fuller. I smile at Lexi in the mirror’s reflection. “Thank you! This…” I point at my face in the mirror “…is a big improvement.”
She rolls her eyes. “Shut up. You know you’re a skinny bitch.” She dances over to my desk where our second bottle of wine sits. Popping out the cork expertly, she pours two glasses and hands one to me. “To dancing our asses off.”
I laugh, nodding in agreement. Lexi likes to cheers to absolutely anything. We clink glasses and I take a sip, remembering a night not that long ago when Maura, Emma, Lila, and I sat in my bedroom drinking wine. That night, we were toasting to a semester of new beginnings, new challenges, new expectations. And now, I’m toasting to live up to the pact we made.
Lexi and I dress quickly in the hot little numbers we purchased from Zara last night. She looks awesome in a deep red, short dress with a plunging neckline. Pairing it with strappy nude wedges and a slew of gold bangle bracelets, Lexi turns to me. “Thoughts?”
“You look insanely hot,” I tell her honestly.
She bows, walking over to her makeup bag to dig out a body shimmer. I laugh as she brushes shimmer across her breasts. “What’s that for?”
“So the guys focus right where I want ’em to,” she says seriously.
I roll my eyes. Only Lexi. And maybe Lila.
I pull on the simple white dress I bought. It’s short, hitting me mid-thigh with a halter neckline. It gives just the right amount of push to make it look
like I at least have boobs. Thank God for small miracles. I buckle my silver sandals and add chandelier earrings to complete my look.
“I’m ready.”
Lexi looks me up and down and smiles. “Yes, you are. Let’s do this!”
* * *
The strong scent of cigars and cologne assaults me when I walk through the front entrance of the club, once again clinging to Lexi’s arm. She had smiled wide at the bouncer at the door, fluttering her eyelashes, and twirling a piece of hair around her finger. He held the velvet rope open for us immediately. What is it with all the clubs here and their velvet ropes? Just open the freaking door.
“Come on! Let’s get a drink!” Lexi shouts to me over the music, dragging me to the bar. She leans over the top of the bar, perching on her tippy toes, allowing her boobs to practically fall out of her dress. Within a second, a bartender is doting on her, taking her order.
Lexi leans closer to the bartender, essentially whispering our order in his ear. I laugh to myself. I don’t know how she does it. She flips her hair over her shoulder expertly, taking a step back after placing our order. I slide my card across the bar before she has time to dig hers out of her purse.
“Thanks.” She smiles at me, teetering dangerously in her insanely high wedges. Under normal circumstance, I would worry that she would turn an ankle or fall flat on her face once she starts drinking, but I’ve seen Lexi in action over the past month; somehow, she walks better in heels, or wedges, or even in sandals the drunker she gets.
I look down at my own dress, smoothing my hands down the front, frowning at the bulge around my waist. At least I opted for simple sandals, ensuring I can dance without turning an ankle or face planting no matter how much I drink.
When Lexi passes me a glass of prosecco, I smile at her and take a sip. Turning to face the dance floor, I rest my back against the bar. I feel incredibly self-conscious being in a club like this; it’s nothing like the college bar scene from McShain University. Although the glasses of wine I downed before arriving here are definitely helping to loosen me up, I still feel incredibly out of place.
While I’m used to the jeans and hoodies and Greek letters that the athletes and frat guys’ sport, I’m unfamiliar with the tailored dress shirts, cufflinks, and leather loafers the Italians wear. While I understand the significance of red Solo cups and Marlboro Menthols, the sleek martini glasses and Cuban cigars confuse me. Definitely out of my comfort zone, I perch against the bar while Lexi chats up the hot guy standing next to her. To avoid looking like the third-wheel in this scenario, I immerse myself in active people watching, quickly transforming into the observer role I’m best at playing.
Tall, thin models dance before me, their designer dresses riding up their skinny, tanned thighs. Long, silky hair sways down their backs as they dance to the music, their arms graceful, their eyes partially closed and cloudy from alcohol. Or other substances. Tall, dark, and handsomes touch the girls’ hips invitingly and pull them closer as the music beats on. It’s like a scene from a movie, one where everyone is ridiculously gorgeous, stupidly tanned, and perfectly thin.
I scan the club, noting that the VIP booths and table service areas that are roped off with, wait for it, another velvet rope, are a platform higher than the dance floor. Guys pop champagne bottles and girls squeal delightfully as champagne showers erupt, small droplets glistening in their hair. And then, I stop short, my gaze halting and my heart simultaneously galloping and freezing in my chest.
Lorenzo.
Leaning over the railing of a private area, a Negroni casually resting between his fingers. He’s wearing a white dress shirt, rolled up on his forearms. His hair curls up around his collar, and he brushes a stray piece back from his forehead. He’s standing comfortably, his posture relaxed. Tapping a navy blue leather loafer in beat with the music, he smiles adoringly at the beautiful redhead standing beside him. His left dimple flashes as he leans in closer to the woman. Her green eyes shine like emeralds as she throws her head back and laughs at whatever Lorenzo whispers in her ear.
Pure sophistication and class. A woman from another world. She’s flawless.
She places her hand on his shoulder and leans into his side, running her nose against his strong jawline until she whispers in his ear.
An amused look flits across his face before he turns, pulling her into his arms and disappearing into the throng of bodies in his VIP booth.
And I can’t stop watching.
Lorenzo. VIP booth. Flirting with a goddess.
An unfamiliar sensation that feels like fire spreads through my stomach, and I feel my face grow warm. Why am I upset about this? I barely know him. He’s just the waiter I chat with in between classes. It’s not like there was ever anything between us, right? So why do I feel like he betrayed me?
I turn back to Lexi and nudge her in the side with my elbow. She looks at me and smiles, not missing a beat. “Mia, this is Pietro. Pietro, this is my friend Mia.”
I stifle a laugh. Really? Another Peter.
Pietro fits Lila’s description of Tall, Dark, and Handsome. The goal of the semester according to Lila: meet one, make out, have fun, repeat. The same could be said for Pietro’s friend, who just happens to sidle up to our group at that moment.
“Hi.” I smile tentatively, reaching out a hand to shake Pietro’s.
“Piacere.” He smiles back. “This is my friend Pepe.” He introduces his friend. “Lexi. Mia.” He nods at each of us.
“A pleasure,” Pepe says smoothly, taking my hand in his and rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. “Would you girls care for a drink?” He tilts his head toward Lexi’s empty flute.
“Sure.” She agrees easily. “What are we drinking?”
Pietro laughs, turning back to the bartender and ordering four drinks (I have no idea what) and four shots of vodka. Moments later, Pepe presses a shot glass into my hand and holds his shot up. “Cent’anni.”
“Cent’anni,” the three of us echo and toss back our shots. The straight vodka burns for a moment and then warms my chest and belly, erasing the flare of jealousy I previously felt over seeing Lorenzo with another woman.
I mean really, I’m at a bar in Italy, being waited on by two gorgeous men with charming personalities and delicious accents. Why can’t I just enjoy it, be present in this moment, have some fun? Embrace the experience.
I take a sip of the drink Pietro hands me and try not to grimace. Whatever it is, it’s strong. But tonight, I don’t want to be disciplined, strict Mia. Tonight, I’m all about the fun.
“Cheers.” I clink my glass against Lexi’s and take another sip. Living in the present.
* * *
Minutes turn into hours as I offer myself up to the moment. To the cadence of bodies swirling around me. To the sweet scent of fruity liquors and the overwhelming masculinity of Pepe’s cologne. To the crisp and smooth taste of too many glasses of prosecco. To the feel of my hair brushing against my shoulders as I shake my head to the music, dancing in Pepe’s embrace. To Lexi’s face blurring before my eyes as Pietro twirls her in complicated turns and dramatic dips. My body loosens up and for the first time in a very long time, I enjoy the music, the beat, the rhythm. I enjoy dancing.
For fun. For pleasure. For me.
I take Pepe’s hands in mine and squeeze lightly, sliding my hands up to his broad shoulders and stepping closer. My hips adapt to the music automatically, and I close my eyes, absorbed by the feel of his chest pressing against mine, the music thrumming in my eardrums, the deliciousness of dance pulsing through my blood.
“Woo! Get it girl!” I hear Lexi call out from somewhere. But I’m lost to the moment.
And when I open my eyes as the song fades into the next beat, I’m surprised to see a circle has formed around Pepe and me. The clapping hands and cheering faces of fellow partygoers as we dance in the center of the club. I laugh suddenly, allowing Pepe to pick me up and spin me around, his breath warm on my cheek, his kiss tender against my temple. When he sets
me back down, I twirl once more and he dips me low. Momentarily hanging upside down, I open my eyes and lock onto the deep blue gaze of Lorenzo.
He looks pissed.
Chapter Seventeen
Lorenzo
Fucking Mia.
At the club.
Dancing in the arms of another guy. A douchebag from what I can tell. Which isn’t much, but still.
I push past Sandro and make my way down to the dance floor. What the hell is she thinking coming to this club? Guys come here just to get laid and pry on the innocence and naivety of foreign girls, the study abroad and exchange types. When the song ends and she opens her eyes, I’m standing directly behind her. I’m about to punch the guy who runs his fingers down the curve of her neck.
I jostle Mia out of the douchebag’s arms and over to the bar. I give him a hard look and he backs down immediately. Cazzo! She’s worth fighting for I want to yell at him. But I stop myself because I’m getting what I want. Her. With me.
She turns over her shoulder holding up a finger at him to indicate that she’ll be one minute. A minute my ass. She stumbles suddenly, and I tighten my grip on her upper arm, steadying her.
When we reach the bar I briskly order a bottle of water for her and a shot of vodka for me. I uncap the bottle and hand it to her, beckoning for her to drink as I throw back the shot, enjoying the burn as the straight alcohol hits the back of my throat.
After slamming the glass down on the top of the bar, I fix Mia with a stare. She’s watching me quietly, her fingernails peeling back the label of the water bottle. Her face is confused, her eyes concerned, her shoulders hunching forward. I sigh, my moment of anger leaking out of me like water from a faucet. Suddenly, I’m just glad to see her, to have her next to me. I want her to stop looking at me with concern in her features and tension in her body. I want relaxed, happy, laughing Mia.