Page 26 of Better Than Gelato
She looks so appalled I nearly start giggling, but I keep a straight face and shake my head.
“You can’t wear that,” she says.
I shrug like it doesn’t matter to me either way. “Okay, what should I wear?”
With some exasperation, Isa stomps back to my closet and puts together an outfit for me. Black stiletto boots, slim black pants and a deep blue fitted blouse.
She grumbles about grown-ups so stupid they need a child to dress them, but her rage has lessened, and she seems to have forgotten about the unicorn toy, so I’ll call that a win. As I walk back into the living room, Marco gives me a smile and taps his finger to the side of his nose, the Italian gesture forclever. I smile back at him and slip out the door to Calypso.
I arrive at the club just as Carmen gets there and we claim a big round booth near the door. Paolo and Valentina arrive shortly after. Paolo whispers in my ear, “She smells so good I hate myself,” then wanders off to buy a drink.
“So!” Carmen says excitedly once he leaves. The rainbow chandelier showers her dark hair in blue and green and pink. “You had an amazing time with Paolo on Saturday? Tell me everything!” A slow song is playing and Carmen’s voice feels especially loud. “I saw him whispering in your ear just now. There’s definitely a spark. I’m dying to know what made it the best date you’ve ever been on!”
“Well, there is a lot to tell,” I say, looking at Valentina. I need to gauge her interest in Paolo. And do I tell them about my date with Jake? Probably not. I don’t want to give them the wrong idea. We’re just friends. “Why don’t we get together later, just the three of us, and I promise I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Okay, but I want every detail,” Carmen says.
“Hey, there’s Jake,” Valentina says.
My heart speeds up at the mention of his name and I turn to see him standing near the door. His hair looks freshly cut and he’s wearing a blue button-down shirt that fits him just right. I remind myself that my goal for tonight is to make it clear that we’re just friends.
I give him a smile and he waves then heads toward Paolo at the bar. I was hoping he would come over here, but that’s okay. I’ll get plenty of chances to talk with him tonight.
I don’t. I’m not sure what it is, but once the dancing gets underway, Jake never comes over to me. And when I try to make my way over to him, he disappears.
I know it’s not in my head. When Jake comes back from the bathroom—yes, I am tracking his movements—we’re all sitting in the booth. Instead of sitting next to me, where there is plenty of room, he goes to the other side and sits on half of Diego’s left thigh. I pretend not to notice, but it hurts. We’re just friends anyway, I remind myself.
After a few hours, my feet are killing me. My new market boots are gorgeous but seem to be cursed by an angry witch who I wronged in some former life. I can think of no other explanation for the excruciating pain spreading through my feet. The pinky toes on each foot have gone numb. They’re the lucky ones.
I’m ready to call it a night. I don’t know what I expected from Jake, but I feel disappointed. Okay, I do know what I expected. I expected talking and dancing and laughing and Jake looking at me like he did on Monday.
When the bus drops us off at Piazza Duomo Jake calls out “Ciao ragazzi!” and leaps off like he can’t get away fast enough. And suddenly I feel angry.You don’t want to go out again, fine! But why ignore me?I say quick goodbyes to the others, then sprint to catch up with Jake. It’s the same direction as my bus stop, after all.
I’m walking so fast to catch him I accidentally bump into him. I would feel embarrassed if I wasn’t so irritated.
“What’s up?” I say.
“Nothing,” he says. “Heading home.” He doesn’t meet my eyes.
I shake my head. “I’m not asking ‘what are you up to?’ I’m asking what is up with you?”
My voice is calm, but I can tell my eyes are fiery. “Why haven’t you said two words to me tonight?”
It comes out more aggressive than I meant it to. Or maybe exactly as aggressive as I meant it to. Because now that I’ve said it out loud, I’m even more mad.
“Sorry, it was pretty crowded in there,” he says. And for some reason, this is what hurts the most. Not that he’s ignored me for the last three hours but that he thinks I’m stupid enough to buy that lame excuse.
“Nope,” I say, my voice like steel. “Try again.”
He looks me in the eyes this time. I see embarrassment and disappointment and a sliver of anger.
“I heard Carmen when I came into the club tonight,” he says. “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I heard her. If you have something going on with Paolo, I’m not trying to get in the way of that.”
My stomach drops.
“There’s nothing going on with me and Paolo.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Then why did you tell Carmen it was the best date you’d ever been on? And that you had an amazing night?”
