by R.S. Grey
The small coffee shop is packed. Either locals flock here by the dozen or word has spread to tourists. We stand in line for a while to put in our order, and I take in all the people jammed in with us, catching stray pieces of conversation. No two accents are the same.
What few tables there are have all been claimed, leaving standing room only. We take our cappuccinos to the bar at the window and squeeze in between two groups.
“Is this okay?” Lorenzo asks me.
“It’s great,” I assure him.
“It’s not usually so busy. Before the sun is better. Tourists like to sleep in.”
A waiter comes around and deposits two heaping plates of zeppole in front of us. I realize immediately that they’re Italy’s take on donut holes. The fried dough balls are piled so high they threaten to topple. The ones on my plate are sprinkled with powdered sugar and practically melt in my mouth. Then Lorenzo gestures toward his plate, and I nearly pass out once I realize they’re filled with cannoli-style pastry cream.
“Good?” he asks.
“Amazing.”
They pair so well with my cappuccino and I’ve cleared my fair share of them in no time, much to my stomach’s dismay. The slight ache is well worth it though.
“How long have you been coming here?” I ask as I push my plate away.
“Since my early twenties. I went to school here in Rome.”
“But you didn’t grow up here?”
“No. I’m from a city to the northeast about two hours called L’Aquila.”
“Are your parents still there?”
“Yes, and my grandparents. Brother. Sister. My nieces and nephews.”
“Wow. No one ever moved away?”
He shakes his head. “They all work at the L’Aquila museum and at a small hotel nearby that my grandfather opened almost fifty years ago. The hotel is small and mainly caters to Italian tourists who come to tour the museum. It has a collection of Roman inscriptions and some illuminated service books. Outside of the town is the Fontana delle novantanove cannelle, a fountain that was constructed in 1272. Still today no one knows who built it. I spent my summers as a boy giving tours at the museum and the fountain.”
“Do you miss it?”
He shrugs. “I visit often.”
Two old women interrupt our conversation to say hi to Lorenzo. Their rapid-fire Italian is impossible to follow for someone who only knows a handful of words, but I listen and smile. Lorenzo gestures to me, and I hear my name sprinkled into the conversation. The women smile at me too, nodding hello before they take their coffee to go.
“Friends of yours?”
He blushes. “They know my family. They check up on me every now and then, report back. I’m sure my mom will be calling me in less than an hour, asking me about the bellissima woman I was having coffee with.”
My cheeks are two red flames.
“Then, she’ll lay into me with all the important questions. Is she Italian? Is she a good Catholic girl? Is she ready to settle down and give me grandchildren?”
I could choke.
Lorenzo chuckles and nudges my shoulder with his, a reminder to lighten up.
“You’ve got some powdered sugar on your lip,” he says, gesturing.
I lick it off and he watches me do it, his tongue practically lolling out of his mouth. He doesn’t bother hiding his true feelings. His thoughts are written right across his face, and it’s a heady thing to know I have this man’s full attention.
Now who needs to lighten up?
I realize how close we’re standing, almost hip to hip in the crowded café.
“Should we walk?” I ask, finishing off the last of my drink.
It’s suddenly stifling in here. I feel overheated from the coffee and the crowd.
What little breeze there was on our walk over to the café is gone now, melted away. Even with the sun still rising, the temperature creeps toward the triple digits. I pull my hair off my neck and tie it up in a high ponytail.
“Rome needs more swimming pools. I’m tempted to have you lead me back to the Trevi Fountain so I can pretend to fall into it and have myself a little dip to cool off.”
“We’re not far from the ocean. Next week, we’ll go to the beach.”
“I won’t survive a week in this.”
He laughs. “Here, let’s go in here and you can look for some gifts to send home.”
It’s a brilliant plan. The shop he leads me into is small but nearly empty, and more importantly, there’s a window unit pumping out cold A/C that I can stand right in front of. I close my eyes and put my face right up to it until I’m sure my nose has frostbite. After, I peruse the aisles, picking up little things for my family and friends. I get my parents some olive oil harvested from a farm near Rome, and for Kristen and Melissa, I pick up two small bottles of limoncello.
In the stationery section, I grab a handful of cheesy postcards I can use throughout the few weeks I’m here. The shop also has a whole display of cards with embossed initials for people who want a personalized touch. I see N and think of Noah.
It’s not the first time he’s made an appearance in my thoughts this morning. Not the second or third time, either.
Back near the limoncello, there were small chocolate bars lined up in neat rows. The one with almonds would have been too tempting for him to pass up. He’s a chocolate fiend. It’s the same reason I thought of him when I saw there were zeppoles dipped in a chocolate ganache back at the café. I have memories spliced together in my head of every time Noah’s walked past my classroom door with a treat from the teachers’ lounge in hand. He’s never once passed up a dessert. And if it’s chocolate? Fahgettaboutit.
On the street outside the souvenir shop, a group of boys were playing a pick-up game of soccer. I know Noah plays in a rec league back home. He was on scholarship in college, in fact, on track to go pro and everything, but he blew out his knee his junior year. I looked into his career one night when I’d had an extra glass of wine and my curiosity got the best of me. It’s wild what you can find on YouTube. There were highlight reels and recruitment videos all put up by his high school and college coaches and never taken down. I watched every video I could get my hands on, hyper-focused, mouth slightly agape, and then, realizing how far I’d gone into Stalkerville, I slapped my laptop shut and stuffed it underneath a couch pillow.
I wonder if Noah would have asked the boys outside the shop to let him kick the ball around for a bit. Or maybe I need to stop thinking about what Noah would or would not do if he were with me. Who. Cares.
I take the stationery with the embossed N and flip it around.
Lorenzo tells me the store can package and ship my souvenirs for me for a small fee. I pay it, glad to skip a trip to the post office.
“Should we walk some more?” Lorenzo asks as we head outside.
“For a bit, but then I should head back just to make sure everything is okay with the kids. They’ll be on lunch break soon.”
The morning plays out like no date I’ve been on before. Lorenzo isn’t a common love interest so much as an experienced tour guide. As someone who knows so little about history, especially European history, I soak in every word he says like a sponge.
We’re almost back to the school when he insists we stop over at a church. It’s not open to the public yet, but he pays a security guard to let us sneak in for a few minutes before the crowds descend. I know there have to be hundreds of churches in Rome, but when we walk into the dark chapel, I realize immediately why Lorenzo has brought me to this one. I’m struck by the most astounding sculpture. The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa by Bernini, he tells me. One of the most important examples of Baroque art in Rome.
The sculpture actually consists of two figures sculpted in white marble: a woman shown lying on a cloud, and an angel standing above her, holding a golden spear aimed at her heart.
“It depicts Teresa of Avila and her encounter with an angel,” Lorenzo explains. “Bernini captured the exact moment of her
religious ecstasy, the second before the angel pierces her heart and leaves her with a great love of God.”
The sculpture is dramatic and lifelike. Saint Teresa’s dress is made of draped silk, intricately carved by Bernini’s masterful hands.
“It’s a little controversial too. Art critics are divided about Teresa’s expression, whether she’s experiencing an intense state of divine joy, or…” Lorenzo clears his throat and wipes a hand across his lips, trying to stifle a smile. I suddenly get it. An orgasm. Teresa very nearly looks like she’s moaning with pleasure. Damn Bernini.
“Some devout Catholics expressed outrage that Bernini would debase such a holy experience by depicting it this way. Others argue that it’s merely a spiritual awakening.”
I study Saint Teresa’s face, trying to look for some hidden clue in the stone, but even then, I can’t make up my mind. “It’s beautiful either way. And I like to think Bernini knew exactly what he was doing. Look at us, talking about his work some three hundred years later.”
It’s hard to extricate my fledgling love for Rome from my fledgling interest in Lorenzo. The city has so much to offer someone who’s willing to look. Around every corner, there’s a piece of history, a public garden, a shop tempting you inside. At the same time, Lorenzo is so good at what he does. He’s clearly led a lot of tours around the city and knows his stuff. I’m inspired by him. Awestruck, really.
After we leave the church, we walk slowly back to the school, and he deposits me just outside the gate with an easygoing smile. He lifts my left hand, delicately clutching it so he can see the gold signet ring I bought off a street vendor a few minutes ago. It’s antique and a little tarnished, but it was too cheap to pass up.
“You enjoyed today?” he asks, dropping my hand and looking up at me.
“Loved it.”
“Good. We’ll do it again.”
I’m not even sure what I’ve agreed to—a date or another tour of the city?
I’m in a good mood as I head into the school. It’s getting close to lunch, so I head straight for the Latin classroom to check in on the students. I round the corner, unable to suppress my cheesy smile, and almost trip when I see Noah leaning against the wall, listening in on the class.
Chapter Eight
Noah’s wearing athletic clothes. Sweat stains the collar of his gray t-shirt. His hair is damp and curled at the ends. Dark brown tendrils as beautiful as Bernini’s sculpture.
He hears me approach and turns slowly to glance back over his shoulder.
His gaze sears.
I wobble on my next step, then recover, annoyed with myself for having any sort of reaction to Noah, let alone one like this.
I have my postcards in hand along with the chocolate bar I couldn’t pass up.
It’s the almond one I knew he’d like. The heat’s melted the edges, but I lift it up and show him.
He doesn’t look the least bit impressed with it or me.
His tone is acerbic when he asks, “How was your date?”
I almost tell him it wasn’t a date, not really, but then why bother? What does it matter if Noah knows the truth?
“It was fine.”
“Planning to leave your post at Lindale to move to Rome for good?”
“Why? Thinking of knocking down our connecting wall so you can take over my classroom?”
“It would be nice.” He acts like he’s mulling it over. “I’ll help you pack.”
“So quick to be rid of me? Who will you annoy when I’m gone?”
He turns and, in doing so, invades my space. “I don’t annoy you.”
The snort I produce is so loud it could wake the dead.
“So what’d you guys do?” he asks.
I shrug nonchalantly. “Stared into each other’s eyes. Played tonsil hockey.”
“What’d you really do?”
“He took me to get donuts.”
Noah groans like a wounded animal.
I inch closer, twisting the knife. “They were fresh out of the fryer. A heaping plate of them sprinkled with powdered sugar. Some were filled with cannoli cream that dripped out of the side. Are your pants tight yet?”
He lifts his fist to his mouth like he might need to bite down on it.
“Sounds filthy.”
Laughter wells up inside me to the point it hurts to stifle it. I look down at the floor, compose myself, then peer up at him from beneath my lashes.
“He asked me out again.”
“And?”
“I said yes. He’s such a gentleman. So handsome too, don’t you think?”
He shrugs. “Not my type.”
“True. It wouldn’t be your type without the devil horns and pointy tail. You’d be bored to death.”
“That’s not even close to what I’m looking for in a woman.”
I take another stab at guessing. “She kidnaps Dalmatian puppies. Has a fetish for fur.”
“My my…what an active imagination you have.”
I snap my fingers. “I’ve got it. Serpent hair and a bad personality. Her gaze turns men to stone. You like her to handcuff you in bed.”
His gaze catches mine when he replies, “Black hair. Fair skin. Big eyes. A mouth that never stops talking. She buys me chocolate when she misses me.”
My heart lurches in my chest as he steals the chocolate bar right out of my hand and tosses it deftly into the air, catching it again a moment later.
I recover quickly. It’s something I take pride in.
Noah doesn’t mean a word he says, I know that. He’s trying to goad me, and going by the flushed feeling on my cheeks and the little skip-hop rhythm of my heart, he’s succeeded.
“Hilarious,” I intone, sounding deeply unamused.
The power balance is off, and I want it back as it should be.
I step right to him, press my chest against his, and tilt my head back so I can look right into his eyes. I can smell his sweat, and I try my hardest to hate it. “Is that why you went for a run while I was gone? Had to burn off all that jealous rage?” I skate my finger down the center of his chest, pretending not to notice the hard muscle. “How sad.”
He catches my arm in a viselike grip to still my movement. I gulp. I’d forgotten about our size difference. His hand engulfs my wrist. I’m a twig he could snap right in two.
“Careful,” he warns.
Or what?
There’s commotion behind the closed door. Chairs screeching, backpacks zipping, students laughing and talking over one another. Latin is officially over and in a second, that door will fling open and students will flood out into the hall.
Still, Noah doesn’t release his grasp.
He’s doing this on purpose. Making me sweat.
I try to wrench my arm free, but he doesn’t let me.
He wants me to surrender, but I can’t bring myself to say it. Instead, I let my hand go limp.
There. Happy?
Noah squeezes my wrist gently and then drops it just as the door’s yanked open. We didn’t have a second to spare.
“Ms. Cohen, I know Latin!” Brandon proclaims. “Veni, vidi, vici!”
“I already forgot what that means,” Lee says, following after him. “Is that ‘seize the day’?”
“I came, I saw, I conquered,” Noah corrects, looking straight at me.
In the afternoon, we head out on another excursion. This time we go to the Pantheon.
The crowds at the Trevi Fountain were child’s play compared to this. Out in the piazza, it’s nearly shoulder-to-shoulder room only. We might as well be trying to get front row to see Beyoncé at Coachella. Vendors shout in English and Italian, trying to sell little miniatures of the Pantheon, art prints, and t-shirts. Tourists hold up their iPhones, trying in vain to get an unobstructed photo of the church. A slow-moving line curves around the building.
The chaperones are spread out around the group to ensure we all stay together. Lorenzo leads at the front, waving us into the church and past the line since we have a
reservation for our tour. Thank god.
The students follow tightly behind him. Noah and Gabriella take up the rear, watching for any stragglers, and I keep my distance from them, opting to hang near the front with some of the Lindale students.
Kylie and Millie edge closer to me with clear intent.
“So, Ms. Cohen, we were wondering…do you think Lorenzo is cute?” Kylie asks.
“You mean Mr. Ricci. And that’s an inappropriate question.”
Millie waves away my correction. “Yeah, yeah. Him—Mr. Ricci. He’s good-looking, no?”
They exchange a conspiratorial glance.
“You’re supposed to be paying attention.”
Lorenzo has already begun his lecture about the church. We stand in the center of the huge domed building. It looks like it’s been rendered by CGI. I look up at the oculus, marveling at the architectural feat ancient Romans were able to pull off. How did they—
“Well it’s too noisy in here, and besides, I already know all about the Pantheon,” Millie says before continuing on to prove her point. “I read about it in my Rome guidebook before we left the States. It was a former Roman temple that was converted to a Catholic Church sometime around the year 600. It’s one of the best-preserved buildings from Ancient Rome in large part because it’s been in continuous use throughout its history.”
“Yeah. A lot of the other pagan temples were ransacked,” Kylie says, picking up where Millie left off. “The building materials were used to construct new Christian churches. Now, do you find him attractive or do you prefer someone like Mr. Peterson?”
Before I can reply, Millie cuts in. “Objectively, Mr. Peterson is better looking. We’ve taken a class poll and it came out in his favor, which is no surprise. He has Mr. Ricci in both height and muscle definition.”
“What is that?” I ask, pointing to the paper she’s reading off of.
“Oh this? It’s a scoring system you can use to compare teachers. See, here’s a t-chart with a list of pros and cons for each of them.”
“You’re kidding me. Why do you have that?”
“Well first of all…there’s no good TV over here.”
Kylie nods. “Yeah, and we know Mr. Ricci asked you out. So anyway, we got to talking about if you should pick him or Mr. Peterson to be your husband. We’re not opposed to hosting a Bachelorette-style competition for you if you want. I do a pretty good Chris Harrison impersonation.”