Page 41 of Better Than Gelato
Or is it?I think, two hours later, folding laundry. I mean, what harm would it do if I go on one date? Jake isn’t even in the country!
By two o’clock, I still haven’t texted Lorenzo back. I think about calling Maggie again. Or even running it by Paolo.He can be discreet. He’s mafia.But then I remember I’m twenty years old. I can make my own decisions.
Which is how I end up at a cozy table in the back of a restaurant with Lorenzo that night. There’s a large fireplace in one corner and oversized photographs of trees and mountains on the walls.
“This place is really cool,” I tell Lorenzo. He looks gorgeous in a leather jacket and dark pants.
“Thanks,” he says. “It’s one of my favorites.”
“So Lorenzo, what do you do?”
“I design restaurants actually.” He gives me a smile. “This was my first.”
My mouth falls open a little. “You designed this?”
“Yes.”
Lorenzo tells me about the company he started a few years out of college and how he’s hustled to build a name for himself.
“How about you?” he says. “Are you working? In school?”
I did the math while he was talking, and it’s clear that he’s much older than me. Admitting that I’ve completed two years of college and have resigned myself to running a dry-cleaning business my whole life seems pathetic.
“I work as a nanny,” I say. “And I’ll go back to school in the fall. But in the meantime, I’m enjoying every second in your amazing country.”
Our first plate arrives, fresh tomatoes topped with mozzarella and basil. I cut myself a small triangle, balancing the red, white, and green in a little stack on my fork. The first bite is juicy and savory and zingy. I take two more bites, then breathe and say, “This is really good.”
“The food in America is terrible, yes?”
“It’s not that bad.”
“I heard that they have cans of cooked pasta already mixed with the sauce and you just heat it in the microwave.”
“Okay, it’s pretty terrible.”
The next course is a wild mushroom risotto with a strong, earthy flavor. Then the main course arrives, some kind of herb-crusted white fish. It’s flaky and flavorful. I eat until there’s not a crumb left on my plate.
“You liked the cod?” Lorenzo asks with a smile, and I nod.
I feel embarrassed, but if people don’t want me to eat every last bite, they shouldn’t serve me such delicious food.
Lorenzo tells me a story about one of his restaurant clients, and I have a hard time concentrating on his words while looking at his face.What is wrong with me?
The waiter brings out two small dishes of crème brûlée. I pick up my spoon and gently crack the golden-brown sugar crust on top. The crème underneath is smooth and thick and sweet. When I’ve eaten the last bite, I’m sorely tempted to lick my bowl but manage to resist.
“I thought we could check out a pub nearby,” Lorenzo says. “It’s just a short walk from here.”
As we leave the restaurant, Lorenzo takes my hand in his. He does it easily, like we’re… hand holders. I remember how uncomfortable I felt showing up to Diego’s party holding Jake’s hand.
As though reading my mind, Lorenzo asks, “Does it bother you if I hold your hand?”
“Not at all,” I say honestly.
What does it say about me that I’m uneasy walking into a room full of friends holding my boyfriend’s hand, but fine walking into a pub full of strangers, holding a stranger’s hand?
I don’t know what pubs in America smell like. I’ve never been to one since I’m under the drinking age. But in my head, they smell like beer, bad pickup lines, and vomit. This place smells like an Italian grandmother’s house; fresh bread and sauteed garlic.
Lorenzo introduces me to the bartender, and it sounds like they’re old friends.
