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“I just figured someone like him would be named Fabio or something.”
I want to be angry, I really do, but I can’t resist laughing. “That’s what I thought the first time I met him,” I admit.
Darren actually cracks a smile, and hope blooms inside my chest for an instant before it fizzles. I’m itching to tell Darren that he’s the one I want. But I don’t know how, or if I should. Keeping Darren at an emotionally safe distance might be the only way I make it through this summer unscathed. If that’s even possible at this point.
“Well, whatever his name is. I still don’t like him.” His voice is rough and his bright brown eyes pierce straight through me.
Tell me why you don’t like him. Tell me it’s because you’re jealous he kissed me and you haven’t. Tell me you want to. Want me.
“Gag,” Nina says with a groan. “Would you two just kiss and be done with it already?”
Darren and I gape at her. Fire creeps up my neck, and I press my body against the window, as far from Darren as possible.
“I thought you were asleep,” Darren says to her.
“With the both of you whining like children? Please,” she huffs. “I’m going to the little girl’s room.” She stands and her long legs step over Tate’s without waking him. “Fix this or we’re all going to be miserable,” she whispers to Darren loud enough for me to hear.”
― Wish You Were Italian
I want to be angry, I really do, but I can’t resist laughing. “That’s what I thought the first time I met him,” I admit.
Darren actually cracks a smile, and hope blooms inside my chest for an instant before it fizzles. I’m itching to tell Darren that he’s the one I want. But I don’t know how, or if I should. Keeping Darren at an emotionally safe distance might be the only way I make it through this summer unscathed. If that’s even possible at this point.
“Well, whatever his name is. I still don’t like him.” His voice is rough and his bright brown eyes pierce straight through me.
Tell me why you don’t like him. Tell me it’s because you’re jealous he kissed me and you haven’t. Tell me you want to. Want me.
“Gag,” Nina says with a groan. “Would you two just kiss and be done with it already?”
Darren and I gape at her. Fire creeps up my neck, and I press my body against the window, as far from Darren as possible.
“I thought you were asleep,” Darren says to her.
“With the both of you whining like children? Please,” she huffs. “I’m going to the little girl’s room.” She stands and her long legs step over Tate’s without waking him. “Fix this or we’re all going to be miserable,” she whispers to Darren loud enough for me to hear.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“Well, whatever his name is. I still don’t like him.” His voice is rough and his bright brown eyes pierce straight through me.
Tell me why you don’t like him. Tell me it’s because you’re jealous he kissed me and you haven’t. Tell me you want to. Want me.
“Gag,” Nina says with a groan. “Would you two just kiss and be done with it already?”
Darren and I gape at her. Fire creeps up my neck, and I press my body against the window, as far from Darren as possible.
“I thought you were asleep,” Darren says to her.
“With the both of you whining like children? Please,” she huffs.”
― Wish You Were Italian
Tell me why you don’t like him. Tell me it’s because you’re jealous he kissed me and you haven’t. Tell me you want to. Want me.
“Gag,” Nina says with a groan. “Would you two just kiss and be done with it already?”
Darren and I gape at her. Fire creeps up my neck, and I press my body against the window, as far from Darren as possible.
“I thought you were asleep,” Darren says to her.
“With the both of you whining like children? Please,” she huffs.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“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?”
“Si.” 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.”
― Wish You Were Italian
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?”
“Si.” 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.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“I stare at his relaxed face, pale in the dim light. Nearly asleep, he looks vulnerable. Like I could tell him anything I wanted and he wouldn’t remember it in the morning.
When I first met him, I thought he was attractive but not in an omg-he’s-the-most-gorgeous-thing-I’ve-ever-seen way. But somehow, now that I know him, how his light brown eyes can sear right through me, how the corner of his mouth turns up when he laughs, how he blushes when he’s caught wearing a headband, I can see that he really is beautiful.
His hand twitches and his breathing slows, deep and heavy. In an instant he’s fallen asleep, and I’ve fallen even harder for him.”
― Wish You Were Italian
When I first met him, I thought he was attractive but not in an omg-he’s-the-most-gorgeous-thing-I’ve-ever-seen way. But somehow, now that I know him, how his light brown eyes can sear right through me, how the corner of his mouth turns up when he laughs, how he blushes when he’s caught wearing a headband, I can see that he really is beautiful.
His hand twitches and his breathing slows, deep and heavy. In an instant he’s fallen asleep, and I’ve fallen even harder for him.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“Room here,” she says, proceeding to draw a line of the route. It doesn’t look too far.
I stand, taking the map from her, and manage to get out a comprehensible “Grazie,” which my Rick Steves’ Phrase Book says is actually pronounced graht-seeay. Who knew? She smiles again and everything seems to be perfect until I lose my mind and give her a slight bow. I’m in Europe, not Asia.”
― Wish You Were Italian
I stand, taking the map from her, and manage to get out a comprehensible “Grazie,” which my Rick Steves’ Phrase Book says is actually pronounced graht-seeay. Who knew? She smiles again and everything seems to be perfect until I lose my mind and give her a slight bow. I’m in Europe, not Asia.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“Did you already forget how to promise?” I worm my pinkie around his and squeeze.
He squeezes back and lowers our joined hands to the bed. My heartbeat is strong in my ears. Do I pull away first? Do I wait for him to? What if he doesn’t? What if we fall asleep like this?
“I promise I don’t write mushy, girly stuff,” he says. “I just like to keep track of what’s going on, you know? The places I go, the things I find. The people I meet.”
I could be imagining it, but the hold on my hand seems to be tighter.
“I know one day I’ll want to look back,” he continues, “and I don’t trust my memory alone to remember everything. What’s important to me right now might not be later, but that doesn’t mean I want to forget it.” He yawns and his eyes get watery, tired.
I fight the temptation to yawn myself. “I think you’ve just made an excellent case for diaries. Maybe I’ll start keeping one.”
He yawns again and his grip on my pinkie loosens, but we’re still mostly hooked together. “It looked like you already were,” he says in a fading whisper. His eyes drift closed.
I stare at his relaxed face, pale in the dim light. Nearly asleep, he looks vulnerable. Like I could tell him anything I wanted and he wouldn’t remember it in the morning.
When I first met him, I thought he was attractive but not in an omg-he’s-the-most-gorgeous-thing-I’ve-ever-seen way. But somehow, now that I know him, how his light brown eyes can sear right through me, how the corner of his mouth turns up when he laughs, how he blushes when he’s caught wearing a headband, I can see that he really is beautiful.
His hand twitches and his breathing slows, deep and heavy. In an instant he’s fallen asleep, and I’ve fallen even harder for him.”
― Wish You Were Italian
He squeezes back and lowers our joined hands to the bed. My heartbeat is strong in my ears. Do I pull away first? Do I wait for him to? What if he doesn’t? What if we fall asleep like this?
“I promise I don’t write mushy, girly stuff,” he says. “I just like to keep track of what’s going on, you know? The places I go, the things I find. The people I meet.”
I could be imagining it, but the hold on my hand seems to be tighter.
“I know one day I’ll want to look back,” he continues, “and I don’t trust my memory alone to remember everything. What’s important to me right now might not be later, but that doesn’t mean I want to forget it.” He yawns and his eyes get watery, tired.
I fight the temptation to yawn myself. “I think you’ve just made an excellent case for diaries. Maybe I’ll start keeping one.”
He yawns again and his grip on my pinkie loosens, but we’re still mostly hooked together. “It looked like you already were,” he says in a fading whisper. His eyes drift closed.
I stare at his relaxed face, pale in the dim light. Nearly asleep, he looks vulnerable. Like I could tell him anything I wanted and he wouldn’t remember it in the morning.
When I first met him, I thought he was attractive but not in an omg-he’s-the-most-gorgeous-thing-I’ve-ever-seen way. But somehow, now that I know him, how his light brown eyes can sear right through me, how the corner of his mouth turns up when he laughs, how he blushes when he’s caught wearing a headband, I can see that he really is beautiful.
His hand twitches and his breathing slows, deep and heavy. In an instant he’s fallen asleep, and I’ve fallen even harder for him.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“Gorgeous? Check. Italian? Check. Fall in love with and bring home to Mom and Dad? Not. Even. Close.”
― Wish You Were Italian
― Wish You Were Italian
“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?”
My face combusts, suddenly very aware of all the customers, especially the table of American hoochies not even five feet away. I steal a glance at them. The brunette’s mouth hangs open and the blond one looks me up and down, her expression simultaneously appalled and impressed. I’m mortified.
And slightly thrilled.
I run through the restaurant and into the kitchen without looking back. I blast the cold water into the sink, let it fill my cupped hands, and dip my face down into it again and again until I’m no longer on fire. When my eyes clear, I notice a hand towel dangling in front of me. Luca.
I take it and quickly pat my face dry. “I--”…have no idea what to say. “Your brother…”
Luca makes an understanding noise. “Bruno is”--he struggles for the world--“loud.”
I would have said something else, but his definition is accurate too. Luca wasn’t even outside but he obviously knows his brother well. Bruno barging in on me while I was changing should have told me everything I needed to know about him.”
― Wish You Were Italian
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?”
My face combusts, suddenly very aware of all the customers, especially the table of American hoochies not even five feet away. I steal a glance at them. The brunette’s mouth hangs open and the blond one looks me up and down, her expression simultaneously appalled and impressed. I’m mortified.
And slightly thrilled.
I run through the restaurant and into the kitchen without looking back. I blast the cold water into the sink, let it fill my cupped hands, and dip my face down into it again and again until I’m no longer on fire. When my eyes clear, I notice a hand towel dangling in front of me. Luca.
I take it and quickly pat my face dry. “I--”…have no idea what to say. “Your brother…”
Luca makes an understanding noise. “Bruno is”--he struggles for the world--“loud.”
I would have said something else, but his definition is accurate too. Luca wasn’t even outside but he obviously knows his brother well. Bruno barging in on me while I was changing should have told me everything I needed to know about him.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“The pen touches the paper again at the bottom of the page and I freeze as he draws a slow, thick line through “Fall in love with an Italian.”
I snatch the book from him and scan the list of my goals. “Why did you do that?”
He brings my face closer with a finger under my chin, diverting my attention to him, and gives me a swift but tender kiss.
“Because lucky for you,” he says, lips still brushing against mine, “I was born in Rome.”
I gasp and part my lips to respond, but he covers my mouth with his and slips his hands around my bare back. As I glide my hands into his thick hair, he pulls me up until I’m straddling his lap. He leans forward, holding me tight against him, and we crash into the pool, our lips never pulling apart.”
― Wish You Were Italian
I snatch the book from him and scan the list of my goals. “Why did you do that?”
He brings my face closer with a finger under my chin, diverting my attention to him, and gives me a swift but tender kiss.
“Because lucky for you,” he says, lips still brushing against mine, “I was born in Rome.”
I gasp and part my lips to respond, but he covers my mouth with his and slips his hands around my bare back. As I glide my hands into his thick hair, he pulls me up until I’m straddling his lap. He leans forward, holding me tight against him, and we crash into the pool, our lips never pulling apart.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“Contrary to popular belief, Texas is not all tumbleweeds, cacti, and horses. I haven't seen a desert yet, and the people in Houston mostly look the same as people from back home, but with the occasional set of cowboy boots.”
― What You Always Wanted
― What You Always Wanted
“Darren’s face comes to mind again, and I imagine his jaw dropping in reaction to my transformation. I shake my head to clear it and look back into the mirror. I catch eyes with Angelo and tear up again.
“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.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“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.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?”
He smirks, resting his hands on my waist. “Hoped.”
My cheeks ache from smiling, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything but Darren and him kissing me again. I trace the smooth skin around his mouth.
“You better be careful,” he says, kissing the tip of my finger with each word. “I’ve been known to bite.”
― Wish You Were Italian
He smirks, resting his hands on my waist. “Hoped.”
My cheeks ache from smiling, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything but Darren and him kissing me again. I trace the smooth skin around his mouth.
“You better be careful,” he says, kissing the tip of my finger with each word. “I’ve been known to bite.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“Our lips touch until the last possible moment when the doors of the train threaten to close at his stop in Manarola.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, a smile stretching ear to ear.
“Tomorrow,” I reply, beaming back at him. “Good night.”
“Good night, Pippa.”
He hops down onto the platform and the doors slap together. I look at him through the grimy window, reminded of the time I saw him across the metro station in Rome, when I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again. Now I know I will for sure.
And I also know there will be kissing.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, a smile stretching ear to ear.
“Tomorrow,” I reply, beaming back at him. “Good night.”
“Good night, Pippa.”
He hops down onto the platform and the doors slap together. I look at him through the grimy window, reminded of the time I saw him across the metro station in Rome, when I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again. Now I know I will for sure.
And I also know there will be kissing.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“Do you want me to get your back for you?”
Cringe. “No, I’m fine.”
“Okay, then could you get mine? I don’t really want the striped look you’re going for. A little too trendy for me.” He laughs, snapping the lid shut on his sunscreen bottle. He shakes it hard to force the lotion to the end, every muscle in his body tensing, releasing, tensing, releasing.
My jaw goes slack. He asked me a question. What was it? The cliché come to life? I hesitantly sit up and he’s already on his knees on the end of my mat, back to me.
“Oh. Okay, sure.” I take the bottle from him and smear the lotion on the middle of his back as fast as I can. Why isn’t it rubbing in? Too much, I took too much.
His body is solid under my fingertips. And tan. And solid. And sweaty. Overstimulation. Accelerated heart rate. Bad thoughts, Pippa. Stop.”
― Wish You Were Italian
Cringe. “No, I’m fine.”
“Okay, then could you get mine? I don’t really want the striped look you’re going for. A little too trendy for me.” He laughs, snapping the lid shut on his sunscreen bottle. He shakes it hard to force the lotion to the end, every muscle in his body tensing, releasing, tensing, releasing.
My jaw goes slack. He asked me a question. What was it? The cliché come to life? I hesitantly sit up and he’s already on his knees on the end of my mat, back to me.
“Oh. Okay, sure.” I take the bottle from him and smear the lotion on the middle of his back as fast as I can. Why isn’t it rubbing in? Too much, I took too much.
His body is solid under my fingertips. And tan. And solid. And sweaty. Overstimulation. Accelerated heart rate. Bad thoughts, Pippa. Stop.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“But then she might also point out that you never know what could happen unless you try. That each of our choices, no matter how small, has the potential to change the course of the rest of our life. And that trying and failing is better than not trying at all. Which…is basically saying it’s better to have loved and lost.”
― Wish You Were Italian
― Wish You Were Italian
“This Darren,” Chiara finally says as we approach Riomaggiore, still huddled under the bright umbrella. “Is he the same boy you told me about in Roma? The one you saw times two?”
“Two times,” I correct, “and yes. Same guy.”
She stops in her tracks. The rain’s still sheeting down, so I stop with her to keep as dry as possible. I slide my hand over my tote bag to check it. It’s just a little moist, not soaking wet. Yet. We really need to keep moving.
“And he happened to be there when you were hurt?” Her wide eyes stare back into mine. “And he left. And he came back.”
“Yes…”
She places her free hand on my shoulder, our skin clammy from the humidity. “Can you not see?”
I swallow hard. “You’re scaring me.”
Her tone is serious. “Pippa. This is why you are here. Why you knew you must come here.”
A shiver travels down my spine. Could that be? Did I feel the pull of Cinque Terre because I’d find Darren here again?
“I know things,” Chiara continues, still looking me in the eye. “And I know that Darren is for you.”
But there could be another reason I was led here. “Are you just saying that because you don’t want me with Bruno?”
“Run from the truth all that you want. It always has a way of finding you.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“Two times,” I correct, “and yes. Same guy.”
She stops in her tracks. The rain’s still sheeting down, so I stop with her to keep as dry as possible. I slide my hand over my tote bag to check it. It’s just a little moist, not soaking wet. Yet. We really need to keep moving.
“And he happened to be there when you were hurt?” Her wide eyes stare back into mine. “And he left. And he came back.”
“Yes…”
She places her free hand on my shoulder, our skin clammy from the humidity. “Can you not see?”
I swallow hard. “You’re scaring me.”
Her tone is serious. “Pippa. This is why you are here. Why you knew you must come here.”
A shiver travels down my spine. Could that be? Did I feel the pull of Cinque Terre because I’d find Darren here again?
“I know things,” Chiara continues, still looking me in the eye. “And I know that Darren is for you.”
But there could be another reason I was led here. “Are you just saying that because you don’t want me with Bruno?”
“Run from the truth all that you want. It always has a way of finding you.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“Giorno,” says one of the girls working behind the counter. She looks like she’s around my age, maybe a year or two older.
“Giorno.” My reply is timid, slow to dip my toes into the waters of Italian communication.
She smiles brightly. “What can I get you?”
I gape at her. “How did you know--?”
“It is a combination. Camera around your neck? Tourist. Fair skin and lighter hair? Rules out quite a few countries. Accent? Definitely American.”
“I only said one word, and it was Italian.”
She laughs. “I get a lot of practice.”
“Well, your English is perfect.” I’m amazed. And jealous.
“Thank you. My parents made sure that I learned from an early age. And my uncle’s family lives in New York, so I spend much time there. Most every summer.”
I have to force myself not to think about the Mafia.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“Giorno.” My reply is timid, slow to dip my toes into the waters of Italian communication.
She smiles brightly. “What can I get you?”
I gape at her. “How did you know--?”
“It is a combination. Camera around your neck? Tourist. Fair skin and lighter hair? Rules out quite a few countries. Accent? Definitely American.”
“I only said one word, and it was Italian.”
She laughs. “I get a lot of practice.”
“Well, your English is perfect.” I’m amazed. And jealous.
“Thank you. My parents made sure that I learned from an early age. And my uncle’s family lives in New York, so I spend much time there. Most every summer.”
I have to force myself not to think about the Mafia.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“Pippa,” Dad chimed in with the even tone of a mediator. “If you don’t want to go--”
“Oh, she’s going.” Mom straightened as tall as she could get, towering over him with her power. “Arrangements have been set.” She turned to me again, still in giantess form. “Do you have any idea what it took to make this happen?”
“Apparently your firstborn,” I muttered.
She heard me.
Yeah, it all went really well. I’d definitely be grounded right now if I weren’t in a foreign country.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“Oh, she’s going.” Mom straightened as tall as she could get, towering over him with her power. “Arrangements have been set.” She turned to me again, still in giantess form. “Do you have any idea what it took to make this happen?”
“Apparently your firstborn,” I muttered.
She heard me.
Yeah, it all went really well. I’d definitely be grounded right now if I weren’t in a foreign country.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“ASSIGNMENT NUMERO NOVE: THE PERFECT MAN
We talk about boys a lot. Especially who’s hot, who’s not, and why. But if the movie actors of old have taught us anything, it’s that good looks go away. The perfect man needs more than a cute face and big biceps, because even those muscles will one day shrivel. But good character, hopefully, will not.
List five attributes of the perfect man:
1. loyal
2. trustworthy
3. smart
4. funny
5. real”
― Wish You Were Italian
We talk about boys a lot. Especially who’s hot, who’s not, and why. But if the movie actors of old have taught us anything, it’s that good looks go away. The perfect man needs more than a cute face and big biceps, because even those muscles will one day shrivel. But good character, hopefully, will not.
List five attributes of the perfect man:
1. loyal
2. trustworthy
3. smart
4. funny
5. real”
― Wish You Were Italian
“I make a mental note to be more rebellious in the future. Clearly I haven’t been living up to my potential.”
― Wish You Were Italian
― Wish You Were Italian
“My eyes are sort of greenish,” I say through a nervous laugh. “Am I that scary?”
He looks at me and we both slow to a stop. A Vespa shoots past, swirling our hair in the wind. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t blink, so I don’t either. I get the impression he’s trying to subliminally relay his answer to me. That I’m supposed to know what he’s thinking. I don’t.
Suddenly he brushes my hair off my shoulder before continuing up the street.
“I mostly grew up in New Mexico,” he says. “Arizona and Nevada too, with brief stints in Italy, Ireland, and a few countries in South America. Now we’re in Texas.”
“Oh.” That sounds very, very, very far away from home.
“My parents both work at Texas A&M. So that’s where Tate and Nina go, and where I’ll start in the fall.”
“And you’re studying the same thing, following in their footsteps,” I say. “Do you want to be a professor too?”
He shrugs. “Maybe one day. I’d like to travel more first though, work on dig sites in places like Greece or Central America. Ancient civilizations are buried everywhere. It’s, like, no matter where you walk, you never know what could be under your feet. I want a job that lets me see all the things I want to see before I get stuck behind a desk.”
“I know what you mean. I can’t wait to see the world and document it, photojournalist style.” An image of the two of us traveling together pops into my mind: him digging up the world and me taking pictures of it. I squash those butterflies too.”
― Wish You Were Italian
He looks at me and we both slow to a stop. A Vespa shoots past, swirling our hair in the wind. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t blink, so I don’t either. I get the impression he’s trying to subliminally relay his answer to me. That I’m supposed to know what he’s thinking. I don’t.
Suddenly he brushes my hair off my shoulder before continuing up the street.
“I mostly grew up in New Mexico,” he says. “Arizona and Nevada too, with brief stints in Italy, Ireland, and a few countries in South America. Now we’re in Texas.”
“Oh.” That sounds very, very, very far away from home.
“My parents both work at Texas A&M. So that’s where Tate and Nina go, and where I’ll start in the fall.”
“And you’re studying the same thing, following in their footsteps,” I say. “Do you want to be a professor too?”
He shrugs. “Maybe one day. I’d like to travel more first though, work on dig sites in places like Greece or Central America. Ancient civilizations are buried everywhere. It’s, like, no matter where you walk, you never know what could be under your feet. I want a job that lets me see all the things I want to see before I get stuck behind a desk.”
“I know what you mean. I can’t wait to see the world and document it, photojournalist style.” An image of the two of us traveling together pops into my mind: him digging up the world and me taking pictures of it. I squash those butterflies too.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“Darren’s been quiet since we stripped down to our bathing suits and waded into the water, like his mind is somewhere else. I make small talk, but he gives a lot of halfhearted, one-word answers.
“Is something wrong?” I finally ask.
Darren cups a hand and repeatedly scoops at the water, letting it leak out between his fingers. “What do you see happening a few weeks from now?”
I try to meet his eyes, but he’s focused on the water. “What do you mean?”
“I mean at the end of summer, when you have to leave. What happens after that?”
I open my mouth to speak, but not a sound comes out. I want to say a million things. I want to say that watching him walk off that train, then realizing I had no way to get in touch with him, nearly killed me. That I can’t believe I’m expected to say goodbye to him again. That I think about him. A lot.
What comes out instead is, “I finish high school and you start college.”
“Right…right.” He nods and exhales, sinking into the water up to his neck and running a dripping hand through his still-dry hair.
Follow your heart, not your head. Regret nothing.
“Darren,” I begin, swallowing the lump in my throat and forcing myself to keep eye contact. I need answers. I can’t go back home without knowing exactly what there was or is between us. “Why did you come back here?”
No response.
“Why did you ask me to go to Pompeii with you guys? Why did you get so upset you couldn’t even talk to me when you saw Bruno kiss me good-bye? Why did you completely freak when Nina took our picture together? Why did you come back here? I need--” I groan and ball my hands into fists at my sides. “I need you to tell me what you want me to think, Darren. What am I supposed to take away from all this?”
“I don’t know, Pippa, okay?” He yanks at his hair. “I…needed to see you again. When I’m not with you, all I think about is you and your shy little smile and the two freckles on your right cheek. Your terrifying green eyes.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“Is something wrong?” I finally ask.
Darren cups a hand and repeatedly scoops at the water, letting it leak out between his fingers. “What do you see happening a few weeks from now?”
I try to meet his eyes, but he’s focused on the water. “What do you mean?”
“I mean at the end of summer, when you have to leave. What happens after that?”
I open my mouth to speak, but not a sound comes out. I want to say a million things. I want to say that watching him walk off that train, then realizing I had no way to get in touch with him, nearly killed me. That I can’t believe I’m expected to say goodbye to him again. That I think about him. A lot.
What comes out instead is, “I finish high school and you start college.”
“Right…right.” He nods and exhales, sinking into the water up to his neck and running a dripping hand through his still-dry hair.
Follow your heart, not your head. Regret nothing.
“Darren,” I begin, swallowing the lump in my throat and forcing myself to keep eye contact. I need answers. I can’t go back home without knowing exactly what there was or is between us. “Why did you come back here?”
No response.
“Why did you ask me to go to Pompeii with you guys? Why did you get so upset you couldn’t even talk to me when you saw Bruno kiss me good-bye? Why did you completely freak when Nina took our picture together? Why did you come back here? I need--” I groan and ball my hands into fists at my sides. “I need you to tell me what you want me to think, Darren. What am I supposed to take away from all this?”
“I don’t know, Pippa, okay?” He yanks at his hair. “I…needed to see you again. When I’m not with you, all I think about is you and your shy little smile and the two freckles on your right cheek. Your terrifying green eyes.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“A few carts down, we find the most luscious scarves I’ve ever seen. Darren helps me pick one that manages to make my eyes an intense shade of green, and we find some for Morgan, Gram, and my mother because it would be a nice gesture. She might actually wear this one too, because it’s not hot pink and it was made by professionals.”
― Wish You Were Italian
― Wish You Were Italian
“Don’t you have your suit on?” he asks, pulling off his shoes.
I nod and wait for him to get distracted again before shedding layers, turning my back on him as I pull out my sunscreen and work the cool lotion into my face, down my arms, stomach and legs. A grunt escapes my mouth, the hard to reach spot on my back mocking me.
No. The cliché Can you rub this on my back? is most definitely not happening.
Assuming the plan is to soak up some rays and chat, I lie down on my back, hiding the vulnerable strip of unprotected skin, determined not to ask for help. His eyes are on me. I can feel it.
I suck in, flattening out my stomach as much as possible, before turning my head and squinting at him. I was right. He’s staring.
“What?” I ask.
“Do you want me to get your back for you?”
Cringe. “No, I’m fine.”
“Okay, then could you get mine? I don’t really want the striped look you’re going for. A little too trendy for me.” He laughs, snapping the lid shut on his sunscreen bottle. He shakes it hard to force the lotion to the end, every muscle in his body tensing, releasing, tensing, releasing.
My jaw goes slack. He asked me a question. What was it? The cliché come to life? I hesitantly sit up and he’s already on his knees on the end of my mat, back to me.
“Oh. Okay, sure.” I take the bottle from him and smear the lotion on the middle of his back as fast as I can. Why isn’t it rubbing in? Too much, I took too much.
His body is solid under my fingertips. And tan. And solid. And sweaty. Overstimulation. Accelerated heart rate. Bad thoughts, Pippa. Stop.
The lotion finally blends into his skin and I wipe my hands on my towel.
“That wasn’t so terrible, was it?” Darren twists around and winks. “Now are you going to be stubborn or do you want me to finish your back for you?”
I give in for lack of a reasonable excuse and toss him my higher SPF. He kneels behind me and gently rubs even the places I know he saw me reach myself. When he nears the small of my back, I sit up straight as a board, goose bumps racing down my arms and legs, pulse loud in my ears.
I need a distraction, fast.”
― Wish You Were Italian
I nod and wait for him to get distracted again before shedding layers, turning my back on him as I pull out my sunscreen and work the cool lotion into my face, down my arms, stomach and legs. A grunt escapes my mouth, the hard to reach spot on my back mocking me.
No. The cliché Can you rub this on my back? is most definitely not happening.
Assuming the plan is to soak up some rays and chat, I lie down on my back, hiding the vulnerable strip of unprotected skin, determined not to ask for help. His eyes are on me. I can feel it.
I suck in, flattening out my stomach as much as possible, before turning my head and squinting at him. I was right. He’s staring.
“What?” I ask.
“Do you want me to get your back for you?”
Cringe. “No, I’m fine.”
“Okay, then could you get mine? I don’t really want the striped look you’re going for. A little too trendy for me.” He laughs, snapping the lid shut on his sunscreen bottle. He shakes it hard to force the lotion to the end, every muscle in his body tensing, releasing, tensing, releasing.
My jaw goes slack. He asked me a question. What was it? The cliché come to life? I hesitantly sit up and he’s already on his knees on the end of my mat, back to me.
“Oh. Okay, sure.” I take the bottle from him and smear the lotion on the middle of his back as fast as I can. Why isn’t it rubbing in? Too much, I took too much.
His body is solid under my fingertips. And tan. And solid. And sweaty. Overstimulation. Accelerated heart rate. Bad thoughts, Pippa. Stop.
The lotion finally blends into his skin and I wipe my hands on my towel.
“That wasn’t so terrible, was it?” Darren twists around and winks. “Now are you going to be stubborn or do you want me to finish your back for you?”
I give in for lack of a reasonable excuse and toss him my higher SPF. He kneels behind me and gently rubs even the places I know he saw me reach myself. When he nears the small of my back, I sit up straight as a board, goose bumps racing down my arms and legs, pulse loud in my ears.
I need a distraction, fast.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“Put this one on right now,” he says, switching back into exaggerated, giddy-girl mode.
“You better cut that out or you’re going to have me thinking things about you that you probably don’t want me to.” I giggle and tug the hat down on my head.
Darren adjusts it for me, off-centering the brim from my forehead. He takes me by the shoulders and turns me to the mirror, moving sections of my hair from behind so it lies on my chest. My eyes take in the hat--which I secretly think I adore and must have--before they meet his gaze.
Keeping his hands on my shoulders and his eyes locked on mine in the mirror, he tilts his head, leaning closer until his lips nearly brush against my ear. “What kind of things?”
My whole body quivers as I close my eyes, unable to look at him looking at me that way if he’s not going to do anything about it. I’m so far gone now, there’s no turning back.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“You better cut that out or you’re going to have me thinking things about you that you probably don’t want me to.” I giggle and tug the hat down on my head.
Darren adjusts it for me, off-centering the brim from my forehead. He takes me by the shoulders and turns me to the mirror, moving sections of my hair from behind so it lies on my chest. My eyes take in the hat--which I secretly think I adore and must have--before they meet his gaze.
Keeping his hands on my shoulders and his eyes locked on mine in the mirror, he tilts his head, leaning closer until his lips nearly brush against my ear. “What kind of things?”
My whole body quivers as I close my eyes, unable to look at him looking at me that way if he’s not going to do anything about it. I’m so far gone now, there’s no turning back.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“I have a few things I need to talk to you about today, honey,” she says. “First, I want an update on this guy you met.”
I’ve made a point to keep it vague with her. She knows that I’m crushing on someone, but not that I went on a little trip with him. Or that he hasn’t been back to see me since.
“I don’t know, Gram.” I sigh into the phone. “I don’t think he’s interested in me like that.”
“Impossible!”
“I mean, I thought so, maybe. But I haven’t seen him in, like, a week. I think I might need to just forget about it. I’m coming home soon anyway, right?”
“Well, that’s very logical of you,” she says. “All I can say is follow your heart, honey. Sometimes it’s best to ignore your head.”
“I think I’m the one being ignored, Gram.”
“Your Papa used to say that whatever happens is the way it was always going to happen, so live your life. Regret nothing.”
― Wish You Were Italian
I’ve made a point to keep it vague with her. She knows that I’m crushing on someone, but not that I went on a little trip with him. Or that he hasn’t been back to see me since.
“I don’t know, Gram.” I sigh into the phone. “I don’t think he’s interested in me like that.”
“Impossible!”
“I mean, I thought so, maybe. But I haven’t seen him in, like, a week. I think I might need to just forget about it. I’m coming home soon anyway, right?”
“Well, that’s very logical of you,” she says. “All I can say is follow your heart, honey. Sometimes it’s best to ignore your head.”
“I think I’m the one being ignored, Gram.”
“Your Papa used to say that whatever happens is the way it was always going to happen, so live your life. Regret nothing.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“You could belong here,” he says, his tone surprisingly serious.
I turn from him and look back at the cluster of buildings, one on top of the other. A beautiful and unique place to visit, but to live long term?
“I don’t know about that,” I say.
“This could be your life.” He spreads his arms out as if to encompass the whole of Cinque Terre. And him.
I let out an uncomfortable laugh, unsure if he’s joking. “I’m not just going to move to a foreign country. I haven’t even finished high school yet.”
“Si.” He slumps a little, but he’s still observing me closely, intently. “I would like things to be different.”
“What do you mean?”
“I like when you are here. Things feel, ah, bene. Good. Better.”
I open my mouth to speak, but I’m at a complete loss how to react.
Bruno stows the camera away again and moves to sit next to me, straddling the bench. The inside of his thigh brushes against my knee, his other leg dangerously close behind me, and I shift away so we’re not touching. He reaches for a section of my hair and twists it in his fingers.
“I like you,” he says quietly.”
― Wish You Were Italian
I turn from him and look back at the cluster of buildings, one on top of the other. A beautiful and unique place to visit, but to live long term?
“I don’t know about that,” I say.
“This could be your life.” He spreads his arms out as if to encompass the whole of Cinque Terre. And him.
I let out an uncomfortable laugh, unsure if he’s joking. “I’m not just going to move to a foreign country. I haven’t even finished high school yet.”
“Si.” He slumps a little, but he’s still observing me closely, intently. “I would like things to be different.”
“What do you mean?”
“I like when you are here. Things feel, ah, bene. Good. Better.”
I open my mouth to speak, but I’m at a complete loss how to react.
Bruno stows the camera away again and moves to sit next to me, straddling the bench. The inside of his thigh brushes against my knee, his other leg dangerously close behind me, and I shift away so we’re not touching. He reaches for a section of my hair and twists it in his fingers.
“I like you,” he says quietly.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“Pistachio?” Sure, this place doesn’t have as many options as Della Palma, but there are at least twenty, the rest of them all a better choice. “You can’t be serious.”
“Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”
“What are you? Eighty?”
He pushes his cup toward me. “Taste it.”
I scrunch my brows together and stare at the bright green mound.
“I haven’t licked it yet or anything,” he says. “Try it.”
Reluctantly, I scoop at it with my tiny spoon and my eyes widen as the flavor surprises my tongue. It tastes exactly like a creamy, cold, sweet pistachio nut. “Okay, you win. That’s actually really good.”
“Told you,” he says, taking a bite. “It’s always good to try new things. Especially if it scares you a little bit.”
I turn to look at him, expecting him to elaborate, but he keeps his eyes forward.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”
“What are you? Eighty?”
He pushes his cup toward me. “Taste it.”
I scrunch my brows together and stare at the bright green mound.
“I haven’t licked it yet or anything,” he says. “Try it.”
Reluctantly, I scoop at it with my tiny spoon and my eyes widen as the flavor surprises my tongue. It tastes exactly like a creamy, cold, sweet pistachio nut. “Okay, you win. That’s actually really good.”
“Told you,” he says, taking a bite. “It’s always good to try new things. Especially if it scares you a little bit.”
I turn to look at him, expecting him to elaborate, but he keeps his eyes forward.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“Here,” he says, removing my camera from its dry home and handing it to me to turn on. “I want to take a picture of you.”
I spin all the way around to fully face him, my back to the village, and smile. He takes way more than one, zooming in and out, aiming up and down, every possible angle and frame width.
He mumbles a few things in Italian between shots, and judging by the look on his face, he’s up to no good. Is this why he wanted me to wear my sundress? The temperature is suddenly roasting, my cheeks blazing. There’s a reason I like being on the other side of the camera.
Finally I put my hand out in front of my face. “Okay, okay. I think you got enough.”
He sets it down in his lap and cocks his head to the side, studying me. “You could belong here,” he says, his tone surprisingly serious.
I turn from him and look back at the cluster of buildings, one on top of the other. A beautiful and unique place to visit, but to live long term?
“I don’t know about that,” I say.
“This could be your life.” He spreads his arms out as if to encompass the whole of Cinque Terre. And him.”
― Wish You Were Italian
I spin all the way around to fully face him, my back to the village, and smile. He takes way more than one, zooming in and out, aiming up and down, every possible angle and frame width.
He mumbles a few things in Italian between shots, and judging by the look on his face, he’s up to no good. Is this why he wanted me to wear my sundress? The temperature is suddenly roasting, my cheeks blazing. There’s a reason I like being on the other side of the camera.
Finally I put my hand out in front of my face. “Okay, okay. I think you got enough.”
He sets it down in his lap and cocks his head to the side, studying me. “You could belong here,” he says, his tone surprisingly serious.
I turn from him and look back at the cluster of buildings, one on top of the other. A beautiful and unique place to visit, but to live long term?
“I don’t know about that,” I say.
“This could be your life.” He spreads his arms out as if to encompass the whole of Cinque Terre. And him.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“Remember when I told you about that list of goals Morgan had me write out at the beginning of my trip?”
“Yeah.”
“Ugh, this is going to seem so stupid to you.” I pause to get the last bit of laughter out, preparing myself for what I’m about to reveal to him. “One of my goals was to fall in love with an Italian.”
The dimples pop in his cheeks before he draws out, “Reaaally?”
“I was going to fall in love and bring him home with me when summer was over. But I just had to eat gelato before dinner, and there you were, throwing me off course on my first day in the country.”
Now he laughs. “So I foiled your master plan, huh?” he asks, and I nod with pouty lips. “Am I that hard to resist?” He straightens, smoothing out the front of his shirt.
“Well, you kept popping up everywhere! How was I supposed to fall in love with anyone else?” My hands are shaking so I slide them underneath me. “It was a silly game anyway.”
“I don’t--wait.” Color spreads through his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “Are you saying you’re in love with me?”
Is that what I was saying? Am I in love with him?
I’m mute. All I can do is stare at him, soak him up.
Darren gets a spacey look on his face as he pats at the surface of the water with his feet, mumbling something that sounds like, “Oh, my parents are gonna love this story.”
“What?”
He ignores me and looks behind us. “That’s the journal on your chair, right?” he holds out a hand, demanding to see it. “Show me this list.”
― Wish You Were Italian
“Yeah.”
“Ugh, this is going to seem so stupid to you.” I pause to get the last bit of laughter out, preparing myself for what I’m about to reveal to him. “One of my goals was to fall in love with an Italian.”
The dimples pop in his cheeks before he draws out, “Reaaally?”
“I was going to fall in love and bring him home with me when summer was over. But I just had to eat gelato before dinner, and there you were, throwing me off course on my first day in the country.”
Now he laughs. “So I foiled your master plan, huh?” he asks, and I nod with pouty lips. “Am I that hard to resist?” He straightens, smoothing out the front of his shirt.
“Well, you kept popping up everywhere! How was I supposed to fall in love with anyone else?” My hands are shaking so I slide them underneath me. “It was a silly game anyway.”
“I don’t--wait.” Color spreads through his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “Are you saying you’re in love with me?”
Is that what I was saying? Am I in love with him?
I’m mute. All I can do is stare at him, soak him up.
Darren gets a spacey look on his face as he pats at the surface of the water with his feet, mumbling something that sounds like, “Oh, my parents are gonna love this story.”
“What?”
He ignores me and looks behind us. “That’s the journal on your chair, right?” he holds out a hand, demanding to see it. “Show me this list.”
― Wish You Were Italian
