Page 38 of Better Than Gelato
I smile.He really is adorable.
“Jake, I also really like spending time with you. You’re one of the coolest people I’ve met. I’m sorry if I seem freaked out. I appreciate your honesty. It just threw me off a little.”
The date ends pretty quickly after that. As we walk to the bus stop, I can tell he wants to say more, and I pray to the gods of freaked-out girlfriends that he won’t. It works. We settle onto the stone wall by the bus stop bench, and he tentatively takes my hand.
I lean over and kiss him and it’s so much better than talking that I just keep kissing him until my bus comes.
“Good luck,” I tell him just before I get on. “You’re going to punch those interviews right in the face.”
His brow creases in confusion, so I add, “It's a good thing.”
And then I hop on the bus and it’s moving away from him and a wave of relief washes over me.
* * *
“That looks like diarrhea,” Isa says. “I’m not eating that.”
It’s a mean thing to say. Unfortunately, it’s also accurate. I tried to cook chicken marsala, like Sofia showed me, but my head is a mess from how I left things with Jake last night. I clearly missed some crucial steps because the mushrooms shriveled up and the wine sauce turned into brown sludge.
“I have a new plan for dinner,” I tell Isa, and she looks relieved. Marco is in Barcelona and Sofia had a late meeting, so it’s just the two of us this evening.
I whip up some toasted PB&J and present it with a flourish. She’s skeptical at first but gives it a try and eats most of it.
After dinner, I suggest seventeen different things we could do, and each one gets shot down with a “No.”
“Well, I’m going to go read a book,” I say. I hop up and head to my room.
Isa looks alarmed that nobody is going to entertain her, but I pretend I don’t notice. I grabHarry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stonefrom under my bed and bring it out to the living room. My grandma ordered me a copy in Italian a few years back, but I never made it very far through it. I open it to chapter one.
I can hear Isa moping around the kitchen, and eventually she sulks into the living room.
“Your book looks boring,” she says.
“Yeah, it probably does look that way to a Muggle.”
“What’s a Muggle?”
“A non-magical person. This book is about magical people. Witches, wizards, that sort. There are potions and spells. And flying broomsticks. You probably wouldn’t like it.”
“Fine, you can read it to me if you want,” she says, flopping onto the couch next to me.
By the end of the first chapter, she’s hooked. After I help her get on her PJs and brush her teeth, I read chapter two to her and the forty-seven stuffed animals that live on her bed.
Once I’m sure she’s down, I head to my room and call Maggie.
“Mags! It’s me! I’m in dire need of romantic advice.”
I can hear her laughing. We've been using that phrase since we were twelve. We read it in a book somewhere and thought it was wildly funny.
“I’m so glad you’re calling me!” she says. “I’ve been missing you like crazy. I have a thousand things to tell you, but none of it’s important. Tell me about your love life. Is this about the American?”
“Yes,” I say with a sigh. “He said he’s falling in love with me.”
“Whoa. It’s been, what, three weeks? What did you say?”
“I gave him a perfectly reasonable response. Like any normal girl would.” I climb under the covers.
“I want your exact words, please.”
