Page 10 of Better Than Gelato
“And that is how we met Jake,” Diego says.
“That’s a great story,” I say laughing. “You’re a good guy, Jake.”
Jake shrugs and smiles at me. I smile back.
It’s a little past midnight as we head back to il Duomo and say our goodbyes. The piazza is nearly empty and feels even bigger without all the people.
“I will see you tomorrow,la mia Dolcetta,” Paolo says before kissing my cheeks. I hold my new nickname tightly in my heart like a happy child who’s just been given a balloon.
“Do you know which tram to take home?” Jake asks me.
“The 27.”
“Perfect, I’ll walk you to your stop.”
“You don’t have to.”
“It’s on my way. This way, I can walk you there like a gentleman instead of walking slightly behind you like a stalker.”
He offers me his arm and I take it, feeling like a character in a Jane Austen novel.Or a regular Italian, I guess.
“So, Carmen says you’re a doctor,” I say as we traverse the piazza, the cobblestones uneven under our feet.
“I’m not a doctor yet,” Jake says. “I just finished my undergrad. I’m doing an internship right now, and I’ll start med school next year.” We wait for a lone car to pass, then cross the street to my bus stop.
“What kind of work are you doing?” I ask, brushing one of my chunky braids out of my face.
“Almost all research,” he says. “And lucky for you, your tram is arriving, and you’ve just been spared a boring conversation about cancer cells in mice.”
“How do you know I would find it boring?” I ask, ignoring the squealing sound of the tram stopping next to us.
“Medical research is boring to pretty much everybody except the people researching it,” he says. “And you’ve already sat through two hours of opera tonight.”
“Fair enough,” I say. Jake leans in for two quick cheek kisses. Up close, I can see that he has three little freckles just below his bottom lip.
“Good night, Juliet,” he says. “Welcome to Italy.”
I climb onto the tram feeling all glowy from my first night with my new friends. My brain is trying to remind me of the crucial detail that will spoil tomorrow’s shopping trip, but I refuse to let it.Don’t ruin this for me,I tell my brain.I’ll figure something out tomorrow. Tonight, I just want to bask in the happiness of delicious pizza and new friends.
* * *
The next morning, I wake up, throw some clothes on, and zip to the kitchen. I’ve discovered that having Isa’s bowl, spoon, and cereal ready for her before she comes to the table puts her in a good mood. I think it makes her feel like she has a personal servant. I’m willing to let her think whatever she wants if it decreases the incidents of verbal assault and airborne cutlery.
The Rossis are still sleeping so I eat breakfast as quietly as possible, then sneak out the door. The sun is shining, the cobblestones are cobbling, it’s a perfect day to be in Italy.
Now, how to address the glaring obstacle to today’s shopping trip? I’m broke. I mean, I have my first week of nanny wages, but based on the three stores I walked through this week, that will buy me half of one sweater.
I start brainstorming plausible excuses for not buying any clothes. None of them are that believable since I’m wearing jeans again today.Stupid last-night Juliet. Why did she even make these plans?
When I arrive atil Duomo, Jake is waiting on the piazzasteps.
“Buon giorno!” he says.
“Buon giorno!” I say back. “How is your Italian so good?” I’ve been wondering since last night. Not that I was thinking about Jake much. Just wondering about his Italian.
“We spent a lot of summers in Italy when I was a kid,” Jake says. “How about you? Your Italian is great, but you mentioned that this is your first time in Italy.”
“My grandparents were Italian. I grew up hearing it. And I took classes in high school and college.” I cover my eyes with my hands. “But apparently, it’s still not good enough to distinguish an invitation to a rock concert from an invitation to the opera.”
