Page 28 of Better Than Gelato
“You don’t drink,” Jake says to me. It’s not a question, but he does seem to be asking for an explanation.
“Nope, not for me.”
Jake nods his head, and we leave it at that.
We sample gelato, nuts, and honey, devour olives and cheeses of every kind and try pesto sauces, alfredo sauces and marinara sauces. And after every region, Jake says, “We should definitely visit this place.” And every time, it makes me laugh more, and after two hours, we’re food drunk and giggly.
“I didn’t plan anything else for this evening,” Jake says after we’ve taken the tram back to il Duomo. “But it seems early to call it a night. Are you up for a walk?”
Yes, I want to keep hanging out with you too.
Out loud I say, “A walk sounds wonderful.”
It’s dark and the night air is cold, but my body warms up as we go. We stroll through a neighborhood filled with restaurants and lit by strands of lights strung between balconies. We wander into the art district where the streets are lined with galleries and the stone walls of the buildings are painted with murals.
We walk for hours through wide avenues filled with stores and lined with Vespas. We stroll down winding cobblestone streets that end in piazzas and through narrow alleys that lead to nothing but a dead end.
And while we walk we talk. We’ve already had the main conversations about school and family and friends. So we tell each other the small things that don’t matter at all. Like why Jake doesn’t like coleslaw—soggy cabbage is gross—or how crickets creep me out.
He tells me about the time in fifth grade when a bully punched him in the face, and he went home and cried. And how the next day, he went back to school and punched the bully in the face and then went home and cried.
“Since then, I’ve tried to avoid getting punched in the face or punching anyone in the face.”
I tell him about a camping trip my family took when I was twelve, and how proud I felt catching a fish that my dad cooked for dinner that night.
It’s easy to talk when your body is in motion. You can share things in the dark while you’re moving that you wouldn’t say in the light as you’re looking someone in the eyes. You can let there be silences in the conversation as you look at the city. With every street and every step and every word, we share another detail of who we are. All those small things, hundreds of them, take the shape of a young woman and a young man.
In a narrow alley, Jake takes my hand and doesn’t let go. His skin is warm and smooth. I can feel the warmth spread through me, to my fingers and toes and ear lobes.
We make it to my bus stop just as the 27 is pulling away, and I’m not disappointed I missed it. We sit on a low stone wall and wait for the next tram.
“You know how some people don’t like putting labels on things?” Jake says. He’s running his thumb along the inside of my wrist. Who knew that could be such a lovely place to be touched? It takes some effort to focus on what he’s saying.
“I’m not that way,” he continues. “I like to have labels. Like if there’s a box with an eggplant in it, and the box has a label that says eggplant. I know what it is, and the person next to me knows. And we are on the same page.” He turns to me. “All this is to say, will you be my girlfriend?”
My body freezes.
Don’t do it!my mind yells.It’s a trap!
I take a breath. I’m not really girlfriend material. And I definitely didn’t expect to be in a relationship with an American boy two weeks into my big year in Italy. But Jake is wonderful. If I ignore my panicked brain and just go by my feelings, I’m 70% delighted to be Jake’s girlfriend and 30% reluctant. Or is that reversed?
You’re out of time! Just say something!
“Yes,” I say. “I’d be delighted to be your girlfriend.” Which is 70 percent true.Or is it 30 percent?
Jake’s whole body physically relaxes. “I’m so glad.” He gives my hand a squeeze. “Also, are you part Irish?”
I shake my head and try to will my nerves away.
“I have another question,” Jake says, looking at me with shy eyes. “Can I kiss you?”
There’s something sweet and old-fashioned about him asking first instead of just going for it. I can’t help but smile.
I manage to reply in a normal American accent, “I would like that very much.”
He leans in and slides a soft hand to the base of my neck and gently pulls me closer. I can feel his breath on my lips and all the nerves in my body start singing. His lips meet mine, softly and tenderly, and I’m done for. He puts a hand on my lower back, pulling me closer, and I’m lost in his woodsy scent and the sound of blood pulsing in my ears. When he pulls away, I feel tipsy.
Whoa.
