Wish You Were Italian (10 page)

“
Grazie
, Angelo.”

He reaches for my hand and kisses it, muttering a string of phrases in Italian.

“What’s he saying?” I ask Chiara.

“He says you are beautiful.” She smiles, her eyes glistening too. “And that there will be a line.”

“For what, the salon?” I laugh.

“For you.”

I love Italian men.

Chapter Fourteen

Get a makeover

Trains are not a new thing for me. Having grown up in Chicago, I’ve ridden them plenty. But this is a
real
train. One that travels across a whole country, complete with semicomfortable seats clumped together in groups of four with a table between, outlets for computer and phone chargers, overhead compartments for luggage. It’s more spacious than I thought it would be, and much more tolerable than a plane.

Chiara and I sit across from each other at the window. I try to take photos of the rolling hills and villas as we pass by, but all the shots come out blurred and my reflection shows in the window.

“So tell me about your family we’re staying with.”

She settles deeper into her seat. “
Zia
Matilde, my aunt, is my
mother’s sister. She married a fisherman,
Zio
Sandro, and moved to live with him in Riomaggiore. She worked in a little restaurant and eventually took it over, so now she owns it. My uncle died a year ago in an accident.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. How awful. What happened?”

“I am not certain. They never found him, just his boat. My aunt believes he went straight up into heaven.”

I’m unsure how to react.

“She is the only one that thinks this way,” Chiara says with a small but knowing smile. “My cousins, Bruno and Luca, live with her and they help out. After the next school year, Bruno was to go away to university, but I am not certain he will be ready even then. His father was his world. He has, ah, what you call issues now.”

“What sort of issues?”

“Wrong crowd, bad choices. I am worried for him. He has great promise, though I feel he will waste it.” She stares out the window.

“You’re close to him,” I guess, handing her a stray napkin from my backpack for her tears about to spill over.

She still doesn’t look at me. “We were closer once. We spent many summers together in New York. But things are different now. We are different. My parents are alive, both of them. I am happy, planning to go away to university. He is … stuck.”

“Is this trip going to be good? I mean, are you excited we’re visiting them?” I ask.

Her eyes widen. “Oh, for certain! I love my family—
amo la mia famiglia
. And it truly is my favorite place on earth, though I have not seen many places yet.” She covers a yawn with the
back of her hand and peers out the window again. “This is my first summer not to go to New York in several years, so that will be strange.”

I fight back a yawn too, but they’re contagious. “You said you’re going to school there soon, right?”

“
Sì!
Can you imagine? Me, going to university in
gli Stati Uniti!
”

It seems crazy that people back home dream of going to places like Italy, and people in Italy dream of going to the United States. Is no one happy where they live?

We finally step onto the platform in Riomaggiore as the sun starts its descent. Pulling my bag behind me, I walk over to a low brick wall and look out at the water. I’ve never seen a color quite like it. It’s the most delicious mixture of blues and greens, shimmering in the bright sunshine.

“Clear and bright,” I whisper.

“The Ligurian Sea!” Chiara exclaims, linking an arm through mine and snapping a picture of us with her cell phone.

After dragging our luggage through a crowded tunnel that cuts through a hill, we have to practically hike up the steep street—Via Colombo—toward her aunt’s building. As I struggle to keep up with her fast pace, I have to remind myself I’m going to be living here for a while, and resist the urge to get out my camera to document every single market and patio restaurant we pass.

We stop at a gated entrance, and I sit on top of my rolling bag, huffing and puffing. I gulp down half a bottle of water, looking up in wonder at the apartment building.

“It’s pink.”

Chiara giggles. “Look around you.”

I stand and turn, taking in my surroundings now that I’m done being a pack mule. Boxy buildings hulk over us on both sides of the street, nearly every third one not quite Pepto-Bismol pink, but close. Some are white, mint green, orange, bright yellow. Most of the windows have dark-green shutters, open to the world outside despite the heat. Lines of laundry stretch in front of them and across balconies. It’s like I’ve been transported to a simpler time.

“I’ve never seen anyplace like this.”

“Wait until you see it from the sea,” Chiara says, dialing a number on her phone.

Less than a minute later, a busty woman I assume is
Zia
Matilde opens the gate and pulls Chiara close to her, tears in both of their eyes. Matilde places a hand on the back of Chiara’s head and strokes her hair.

“
Zia
, this is my friend Pippa.”

“
Sì!
Happy you are here!” Matilde reaches out and hugs me tight, smashing my face into her overflowing chest. “Come! I have prepared the room.”

She leads us up a gazillion flights of narrow concrete steps to the very last landing. I collapse on my suitcase again and down the rest of my water. Chiara and Matilde snicker to each other, neither of them winded.

“You will get used to it soon,” Chiara says, helping me stand.

The air inside is only about ten degrees cooler, but it’s something. The living room consists of a cushy blue couch, several
chairs, a shockingly large flat-screen television on the wall, a compact spiral staircase leading up to a mystery door, a dining table, and a small kitchenette.

Matilde leads us into one of the apartment’s two bedrooms, obviously belonging to Bruno and Luca. Bunk beds are stacked in the corner and the walls are covered in soccer posters.

“You can have the bottom bed, Pippa,” Chiara says. “You seem to have a problem with steps.”

I snatch a pillow and whip it at her, but she ducks in time, the pillow knocking over a stack of sports magazines.

“Girls same as boys.” Matilde laughs as she turns back to the living area.

We pull fresh clothes out of our luggage and Chiara heads to the bathroom—the only one in the apartment—closing the door behind her and leaving me to change. I shed my shirt and freshen my deodorant, then fan my skin trying to cool off. I feel wet everywhere. I can still hear Chiara shuffling around in the bathroom, so I quickly change my shorts into ones that are more breathable, and then decide to sprinkle some baby powder down my bra.

Just as a little cloud of powder hits my chest, a voice that is neither Chiara’s nor her aunt’s announces its presence in the now open doorway.

“You are the American girl who is taking my bed.”

Chapter Fifteen

As I scramble for my shirt to cover my chest—thank God I’d decided against changing bras—I grumble, “Don’t you knock?”

He crosses his arms and rests against the door frame. “It
is
my room.”

My heart pounds in my ears. I should yell, kick him out, slam the door, but I can’t take my eyes off him. Russet skin, solid jaw line, caramel eyes, perfectly messy black hair. Shoulders and arm muscles stretching his baby-blue shirt tight. Is this Bruno or Luca?

I adjust the shirt hiding me, equal parts embarrassed and flattered that someone so hot is checking me out. He brushes a hand over the tips of his hair before resting it up high on the doorjamb. I’m not sure I can feel my legs. I can’t believe I’m sharing an apartment with him for the whole summer.

Chiara pushes past him into the room and stops, first looking me over, then frowning at him. “You did not knock?”

He smirks. “It is my room.”

Chiara spouts off in Italian, waving her hands around, and soon they’re pretty much yelling at each other. Then they erupt into laughter and he shoves her shoulder before pulling her in for a hug.

“Bruno, this is my friend Pippa. Pippa, my cousin Bruno.”

Bruno. The in-with-the-wrong-crowd Bruno. Divinely and supernaturally gorgeous Bruno.

And he just winked at me. Not good.

He closes the distance between us in two long strides of his tight white pants and says “
Piacere!
”—which I remember from my phrase book means “pleased to meet you”—before taking ahold of my shoulders and kissing each of my cheeks. His lips are
on
my cheeks.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and want to die. It’s physically impossible for a face to be any redder.

I try to say “
Piacere!
” back but only a squeaky noise escapes my lips. I raise my shirt just enough to hide behind and fake a coughing fit, waving with the other hand for him to leave the room. He laughs and mutters something in Italian as he walks off. Chiara closes the door.

Way to make a great first impression on the sexy Italian.

“What did you say to him?” I ask when I’ve recovered the ability to speak.

“I told him that he should knock on doors that are closed. That you are American and do not lie on the beach with
le tette
out. You are private.”

“
Le tette?
What’s that?” My face pinks again. “My boobs?”

“
Sì
.” She sprawls across the bottom bunk. “I think it is sweet. Leaves room for the imagination.”

“Um … thanks.” I finish getting dressed. “What did he say?”

She laughs. “He said, ‘She will one day.’”

My nose scrunches at the thought of baring it all on a beach towel in a foreign country, with Bruno and other guys who look like Bruno watching. I shudder. “Doubtful. There are some parts of me the sun just wasn’t meant to see.”

Chiara rolls to her side and looks at me. “So you have never been swimming without clothes on?”

“Skinny-dipping?” I smile as I stow my dirty clothes into my suitcase. “Well, the moon can handle those parts of me just fine.”

The next day, Chiara and I start helping out at the restaurant, recently renamed Trattoria da Sandro in honor of Chiara’s uncle. Since I’m not Italian, which is what tourists
want
from a waitress in Italy, my job is to bus tables, refill drinks, throw salads together, slice bread, and do anything else that doesn’t involve much customer interaction. But I can’t complain about being a glorified busgirl. I get to eat and sleep for free. I’ve basically won the tourist jackpot, suddenly part of the “in” crowd. I get an extended peek behind Italy’s curtain.

And I like watching the pros up close. Chiara and Bruno both have super heavy Italian accents when dealing with English-speaking tourists, and I’ve noticed Bruno’s is especially adorable when the table consists primarily of women.

Mostly I work alongside Luca. He’s shy—the complete opposite of his brother in that category—and absolutely precious for a fourteen-year-old. I can’t tell if his English is poor or if he just doesn’t talk much. But it’s not an uncomfortable silence and we easily fall into step together.

Bruno, on the other hand, talks constantly. It’s still my first day on the job and I’m already “the best slicer of bread on the planet of earth.” And apparently I don’t sweat; I glisten in the sunshine, which he finds sexy. The attention is quickly making me the best eye-roller on the planet of earth too.

As I grab a water pitcher to make the rounds in the shaded outdoor section, Bruno rushes past me and beats Chiara to a table of two giggling American college girls. They’re both either naturally trashy, or totally wasted. Seriously? It’s only lunchtime.

I refill the water glasses at the table next to them, but I can hardly pay attention to what I’m doing. The blond girl sporting a bikini top and tight jean shorts is flirting shamelessly with Bruno. She leans toward him, elbow propped up on the table, head resting in her hand as she bats her eyelashes. The brunette holds her menu out to him and insists that she just can’t make out what any of it says, and would he be so kind as to help her decide.

The blonde pulls down her friend’s menu and brings the attention back to her. “So what time do you get off work?” She talks slow, overpronouncing every word as if he’s a hard-of-hearing child.

I’d kind of like to pour this water over her head, but I doubt it would even cool her down.

Laughter purrs in Bruno’s throat and he smiles, revealing shockingly white teeth against his tan skin. He looks right at me, eyebrows raised. What is he waiting for, my reaction?

Well, he’s not going to get one.

I turn to head toward the door, but just as I pass Bruno, my arm bumps into his. The condensation is slick under my fingers and my grip on the pitcher weakens. The scene morphs into slow motion as the pitcher falls to the ground and clangs near my feet. Water sprays all around us, soaking the hem of a woman’s skirt.

“Oh, no! I am
so
sorry!” Then feeling like I ripped part of the magic Italian curtain for her, I start repeating a poorly pronounced version of “
Mi dispiace!
” as I rush to hand her spare napkins from an empty table.

She glares at me as she snatches them and attends to her skirt, waving me away. Hopefully I didn’t just ruin someone’s chances for a tip.

I squat to retrieve the pitcher but Bruno’s faster. He offers it to me and I make the mistake of looking him in the eye. My balance is thrown and I start to fall back. Bruno drops the pitcher and takes hold of both of my wrists to keep my butt from slamming into the ground. He uses my momentum, and in one swift movement, we’re both standing again, face-to-face. Too close.
Way
too close.

He smells of wine. And basil.

Bruno picks up the pitcher, slowly this time, and loops my fingers through the handle.

“All right?” he asks, his smile big and hypnotizing. I nod. “You should wash this.” I nod again. “And refill it.” Nod. “You
agree with everything I say?” Nod. “You like sleeping in my bed last night?”