Page 108 of Better Than Gelato
We get a boring car, and I try my best to have a good attitude as we drive, boringly, to the other side of the island. But Jake still seems bothered.
Finally, I say, “It looks like something’s bothering you. Do you want to talk about it?”
And Jake sighs and says, “I’m just surprised that you weren’t concerned about driving a scooter for the first time in a foreign country.” The judgment in his voice is evident.
I don’t know what to tell him.You got your way. We’re driving the lame car. What do you want from me?I shrug my shoulders and say, “I wasn’t.”
And the deep disappointment in his eyes seems out of proportion to our situation. So I take a stab in the dark.
“You’re not just concerned about us on scooters today. You’re projecting things ten years down the road, the way you do, and you don’t trust me to drive our kids to school in a minivan.”
I know I’m correct by the look on his face. And then he says, staring straight ahead, “I just think you’re pretty reckless sometimes. Like you don’t understand or care about the consequences.”
My hands squeeze into fists in my lap and all the muscles in my neck tighten. I understand how consequences work. I understand that as a consequence of being the youngest of five kids, I’m on my own for college. So I worked hard to earn a scholarship to cover tuition. I understand that as a consequence of my parents paying for one sister’s rehab and another sister’s divorce, they don’t have money to help me with rent or groceries. So I got a part-time job to cover my expenses. I carefully crafted a plan to leave my hometown and make something of myself. Recklessness had nothing to do with it.
For a while, I’m too angry to say anything. I stare out the window of our stupid car and look at the trees whizzing past.
After a few minutes, Jake puts his hand on my leg and says, “I just think you could be more responsible.” I brush his hand off.
I’m a terrible singer. I don’t understand film noir. But I am responsible. I set goals and achieve them. I am self-disciplined and levelheaded. Apparently, Jake doesn’t know that about me, and that hurts. But I know that about myself.
I don’t turn to look at him, but I speak loudly so I can be sure he hears.
“I actually like being just the way I am.”
The rest of the drive is pretty awkward. We don’t talk. When we make it to the other side of the island, we find a steep trail to hike. It gives us something to focus on and a reason for not speaking. By the time we drive back to our condo, most of the weirdness has disappeared. We never talk about it again.
On our last night in Naxos, we participate in a traditional Greek dinner. Jake made friends with the guy at the snorkel shop—because of course he did—and scored us an invitation to his daughter’s engagement dinner. We eat home-cooked souvlaki, smash plates, and dance like hooligans under a bright moon. It’s one of those nights I’ll remember forever.
Then we’re off to Santorini. I think this might be my favorite place yet. White houses cling to rocky cliffs above water the color of sapphires. I want to photograph every square inch.
We spend our first day hiking the trail connecting Thira, where we’re staying, to Oia at the very tip of the island. It’s hot, but there’s a cool breeze blowing. The sea is a dark blue, like it contains all the mysteries of the world. As we hike, I think about Jake, and that feeling I had in the car that he didn’t really know me. I wonder what I don’t know about him.
“What’s your most embarrassing moment?” I ask.
Jake scoffs, “I’ve never had a single embarrassing—eighth grade basketball tryouts.”
I laugh. “You didn't make the team?”
“I did not. I took a shot, got hit in the face by the rebound, and broke my nose.” He kicks a rock off the trail, and it goes tumbling down the hillside into the ocean. “All in front of Sarah Flemming, who I’d been trying to impress.”
I burst out laughing. “I am so sorry.”
“It’s okay, that’s when I got into soccer. Turns out I’m better with my feet.”
“Once you were a star soccer star, did you ask Sarah out?”
“I did not.” Jake takes a swig from his water bottle. “She dated Brad Meyer, a basketball player, on and off through high school. And when she wasn’t dating Brad, I was dating other people, so it never worked out.”
“Who did you date in high school?” I ask without thinking. I stop to take a drink from my water bottle.
“Different girls,” he says. “I was in relationships through most of high school and college. What about you?”
“I was the opposite. I hung out with different boys. Maggie and I were both pretty boy-crazy in high school, but I never liked having a boyfriend. For the most part, I managed to avoid falling into that trap.”
“Okay, the first month of our relationship is starting to make more sense,” Jake says.
“So many girls at my school ‘fell in love,’ ditched all their friends and ended up heartbroken six months later,” I explain. “No thanks. Besides, the guys at my high school were idiots.”
