Page 64 of Better Than Gelato
“30, 29, 28, 27, 26…”
The crowd yells along with him.
“…25, 24, 23, 22, 21…”
Jake is telling me something, but I can’t make it out over the yelling.
“…20, 19, 18, 17, 16…”
He leans in close. “Thanks for making this the best year of my life.”
“…15, 14, 13, 12, 11…”
“Just wait until next year,” I tell him with a smile.
And then the volume level goes up to an impossible pitch as we all count down together.
“…10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2…”
Before we make it to one, Jake has me in his arms. I can hear shouting and yelling and people popping champagne, but all of it is background noise as Jake’s lips find mine. People bump into us, but I hardly register it. Happiness is zipping through my body like an electric current. If I live a thousand years, there will never be a moment as perfect as this one right now.
There are fireworks and cheering, and we kiss. There’s yelling and singing, and we kiss. Someone nearby is spraying champagne everywhere, and we continue to kiss. When we break apart, I can see that the piazza is a sea of chaos and celebration. I’m soaked head to toe in beer, wine, and champagne. Jake’s face is flushed, and his hair is wet. His smile could light a city block.
“Happy New Year!” he yells.
“Happy New Year!” I yell back.
We stay in the piazza a few minutes longer, soaking up the intoxicating energy from the crowd.
“Are you as covered in beer as I am?” I ask Jake.
“Yes. I can’t wait to shower once we get back to the hostel. Are you ready to call it a night?”
“Ready.”
Jake consults the map and leads us to a bus stop a few blocks away. We’ve been waiting five minutes when a group of teenagers walks by and one of them yells in English, “No buses.”
“Hmm.” Jake looks at the schedule posted at the bus stop. Sure enough, the buses stop running at 11 p.m. on New Year’s Eve.
“What about taxis?” Jake yells to the group of teens. The same kid turns around and smirks. “No taxis.”
“Well. That’s not great news,” Jake says.
“Who doesn't love a three-mile stroll at midnight?" I reply.
Jake takes my sticky hand, and we start walking. I’m exhausted, but I also feel like I could walk next to Jake, holding his hand, for miles. The last stretch is the hardest because the villa is at the top of a hill, but finally we make it back.
The smell of my own sweat is mixing with the beer and wine soaking my clothes. I’ve never been more ready for a shower. One of the staff unlocks the door for us and crushes all my hopes.
“The amenities are closed for the evening, and all guests are asked to go directly to their sleeping quarters.”
“But the showers are still open, right?” Jake asks.
“All the amenities are closed for the evening,” he repeats in a maddening monotone.
“But we’re covered in beer!” I say. He says nothing, but his expression makes it clear he feels that’s a problem of our own making. I think about trying to explain that it’s not our beer, but I give up before I start. It’s obvious he’s not changing his mind.
Jake walks me to the women’s wing, and we share a very pungent kiss. Once in my tiny closet room, I strip down to my underwear and fall into bed.
