Page 116 of Better Than Gelato
Ed Sheeran sings “Perfect,” and we look at photos of me with a bowl of pasta, me perched in a tree, me dancing and laughing and eating.
The song ends, and we stare at the last photo of me smiling like I’m the happiest girl in the world.
“Wow,” Maggie says finally. “No wonder you fell in love with him.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I think you can see I had no choice.”
I take the flash drive out and put it back in my underwear drawer. Watching the video has me feeling all the things. And questioning all my decisions.
* * *
My heart is pounding as I follow the signs toward curbside pickup at La Guardia. There’s a crowd of people, and I scan the faces for his. Then I hear a yell from behind.
“Juliet!”
I turn and Jake is coming toward me. My brain registers that he has a bouquet of flowers while my body leaps into his arms. Then he’s kissing me, and I’m kissing him, and my thoughts are slipping out of my head.
I’d forgotten how good this feels. Or maybe I was ignoring the memory until I could have it again. He smells just the way I remember, pine trees and cold water. I stay in his arms a long time, until all the muscles in my shoulders finally relax.
“It’s so good to see you,” Jake says, but it’s more like a groan. “I’ve been dreaming about this moment for years.”
I smile. “We saw each other last month.”
He shakes his head. “It feels like ages.”
It really does. But now that I’m back here, and he’s holding me, it’s like no time has passed at all.
I pick up the flowers that got dropped on the sidewalk.
“These are beautiful,” I say.
“I got them for you.”
“I assumed you got them for the bald guy I sat next to on my flight,” I say. “Glad I was wrong. This is my first time getting picked up at the airport with flowers. I feel like one of those girls in one of those movies.”
I see something flicker across Jake’s face. I wonder if he’s thinking of all the girls he’s picked up at the airport with flowers. I squash that thought.It doesn't matter.
“I would really like to stand here and kiss you for a few more hours, but I’m going to try to be a good host. Would you like to get something to eat?”
“Always,” I say, and it’s like we’re back in Italy.
We take a cab to a restaurant Jake likes. It’s weird eating American food together. Afterward, we walk five blocks to his apartment. It’s my first time in New York City, and I’m a little overwhelmed by the lights and the buildings and the smells. The number of people we see on our walk home is greater than the population of my hometown.
Jake’s apartment is a third-floor walkup. I meet his roommate Gilbert, a first-year med student with flaming red hair. I say hello and he gives me a wave and disappears into his room.
“He’s pretty shy,” Jake says. “We’re working on that.”
He takes my hand and leads me down the hall to his room. There’s a bed and a desk. There are no decorations except the framed picture I gave him for Christmas. I look at us, partly obscured by the mementos we collected. It seems like a long time ago.
“Come here,” he says and pulls me onto the bed with him. And that’s where we spend the next three hours. Kissing. Holding each other. Talking about stuff that doesn’t matter. We speak in Italian some. He sings to me some. We reconnect second by second and minute by minute until it feels like we’ve erased all the time we spent apart.
I wake up the next morning, and my heart feels happy before I even remember why. I’m at Jake’s house. I creep from his room and snuggle next to him on the couch. I don’t even remember him leaving last night, but here he is, curled up with a blanket.
“Buon giorno, bella,” he whispers, eyes still closed.
“Buon giorno,” I say back. His hair is messy and there’s a wrinkle from the pillowcase on his cheek. He looks gorgeous. I snuggle in next to him and close my eyes and listen to his heart beat.
“Do we have to do stuff today?” I ask. “Or can we stay here like this?”
