Page 56 of Better Than Gelato
Carmen looks at me a moment, then bursts out laughing. There’s a note of bitterness to her laughter.
“You think I feel bad because everyone in the group is dating someone and I’m not?”
“I did…until exactly this moment.”
“Julieta, I’m married.”
There’s no sound except my jaw hitting the floor.
“I’m married to a lunatic. That’s why I left Peru.”
I can’t make any words come out of my mouth.
Carmen flops onto the bed. “Our divorce was supposed to be final this weekend, but apparently some of the paperwork was filed incorrectly.”
“I had no idea.”
“Yeah, no one does. It’s a part of my past I’d like to keep in the past.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” She smiles a little. “It’s sweet of you to be concerned, but I’ve spent the last two years trying to undo the last romantic mistake I made. I’m not trying to make new ones.”
“Can I…are you…is there anything I can do?”
Another faintly bitter smile. “Nope.”
She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “But thanks for asking.”
“Sure,” I reply lamely. “Enjoy your night in.”
I head to the back patio, still trying to process this news.Carmen married? Boy did I misread that one!
We spend a couple of hours by the fire. Diego tells ghost stories, and in the firelight, his face looks eerily pale. But the stories aren’t scary because he keeps mixing up the endings and forgetting parts. Paolo plays the guitar, and he’s very good at it.
Sometime after midnight we call it a night. Instead of following me upstairs to the rooms Jake takes my hand and leads me back to the library.
He pulls me onto his lap. His lips meet mine and everything around us disappears.
ChapterThirteen
Christmas hits hard in Milan. There are lights strung up across every narrow street. Wreaths on every signpost. There’s cutthroat competition among the shops around il Duomo to see who can create the most over-the-top Christmas display. Gorgeous evening gowns for holiday parties compete against festive place settings for family gatherings and elaborate gingerbread houses with candy reindeer and Babbo Natale, the Italian Santa Claus.
I take pictures of everything. I’ve been watching YouTube tutorials and trying out some new settings. Jake is incredibly patient as I stop every few feet to take “one more shot.”
“You’re really talented,” he says one night as I edit some photos on my laptop.
We’re curled up on the couch in the Rossis’ living room. The Rossis are spending two weeks in Egypt at a spa with special dead sea mud. Isa is the only six-year-old I know who gets spa treatments.
“Thanks,” I tell Jake.
I close my laptop and snuggle into his lap.
“I’ve been thinking about your grandpa,” Jake says.
“Weird way to set the mood, but okay.”
“I’ve been thinking about him as an artist,” Jake continues. He rubs a hand down my arm. “Just because he neglected his family to pursue his own dream doesn’t mean that following your dream is selfish or bad.”
