by Gina Azzi
Before I join Lexi on her “friendly neighborhood walk,” which she informed me is code for “scoping out the hot guys that live near us,” I send Pete a text message.
Me: Hey, Pete. It’s Mia from Italian class. Just wanted to get a jumpstart on the partner project. Are you free to meet up next week?
I’m pleasantly surprised when he responds minutes later.
Pete: Hi, Mia. Sure, how about Wednesday? We could get lunch after class.
Me: Okay, sounds good.
Pete: Cool, see you then.
Lunch? Is that a date? Or a friendly invitation to eat together while we work? Or nothing at all? Oh jeez, who cares?
Chapter Thirteen
Lorenzo
My eyes close as Francesca bobs her mouth up and down, up and down, over my dick. I run my fingers through her hair, clenching it tightly in my fists. She’s a fucking pro. Should have done this months ago. But Sandro was still fucking her in July and it seemed best to wait a few weeks, make sure he didn’t catch anything before I messed around with her.
Not that I’ll fuck her. I’ve never been into sloppy seconds, but if she wants to swing by to get me off, who am I to stop her? She groans loudly, her palms gliding up my thighs, her right hand fisting in the hem of my T-shirt. She moans again. I roll my eyes. Stop with the fucking show and just suck, sweetheart.
Francesca’s downright slamming, even though she’s nearing thirty. She’s got a great set of tits and a tight ass. Too bad she’s got such a reputation; despite her many talents, no one in my circle would ever take her seriously. Too much drama, too much baggage, too many stories.
The one thing she’s really got going for her today is she’s a brunette, which beckons a flood of unintended, yet always welcomed thoughts of another brunette. Mia. She was so sweet at Angelina’s last week. The way she murmurs words to herself when she reads, the intensity in her eyes as she loses herself in Dante’s Canti, her furious scribbles in her notebook. I shake my head, a smile forming on my lips just from thinking of her.
I look down at the top of Francesca’s head. Placing my hand at the back of her neck, I encourage her to move faster. Ah, that’s it. I close my eyes and pretend she’s Mia. That the noises falling from her lips are the sounds Mia would make. That the scrape of her nails against my inner thighs are Mia’s nails. That the hair tangled around my knuckles is Mia’s hair.
And I come.
Hard and fast.
Mia’s name on my lips.
* * *
“You’re sick.” Claudia tells me as she watches Francesca sashay out of our home a little while later.
I crane my neck to watch Francesca’s ass as she walks down the steps leading from the main entrance of our home to her car. “Why?”
Claudia rolls her eyes. “That…” she waves her palm in circles, gesturing to the front door, to Francesca “…is gross. That girl has slept with every guy I know.”
I laugh. “I didn’t bang her.” I shake my head. “Not after Sandro.”
Claudia makes a choking sound in her throat and coughs loudly.
“You okay?” I smack her on the back.
She nods after several seconds, her cheeks red and her eyes watering. “You guys are disgusting.” She grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator and disappears from the kitchen.
I laugh. “Claudia, don’t judge,” I call after her.
Her bedroom door slams in response.
Ah, well, what to do now? I pick up my car keys and dial Sandro’s number as I walk out of the house to my car.
“Yeah?” he answers.
“Want to go grab a few beers? There’s a game on tonight.” I mention, knowing Sandro prefers to watch the AS Roma games at bars with people instead of alone at his home. He likes the atmosphere better.
“Sure. But first I’ve got a better idea.”
“What is it?”
“Come get me. I’ll explain on the way.”
“See you in a few.” I end the call and slide behind the wheel of my car, pulling onto the main street and turning right to take a shortcut to Sandro’s place.
When I pull up to Sandro’s, he’s already waiting outside.
“Hey,” he says, opening the car door and sliding onto the seat. “Heard you hooked up with Francesca.”
I nod. “Kind of.”
He chuckles, slapping me on the shoulder. “Che bella gnocca.”
I snort in agreement. “Where are we going?”
“Take a right here, then hang a left at the light.”
I follow his directions, looking straight ahead for any clues as to where we’re headed. A huge grin splits my face when I see the cars lining up.
“Good call,” I nod at Sandro.
He punches my arm. “Knew you’d be up for it.”
“Hell yeah.”
I roll down my window. “I’m in,” I tell a hot, scantily-clad girl with long blond hair. Reaching into my wallet, I pull out a stack of bills and hand them to her. She blows me a kiss.
“Man…” I look at Sandro “…I haven’t done a dig in ages.”
He nods. “I know. You’ve been working too much.”
I roll closer to the line, anticipation building, adrenaline beginning to churn. I fucking love racing.
Especially street racing.
* * *
“I knew you’d kill it, Enzo,” Sandro says, bending down to lean his upper body through my car window. He bangs his palm flat against the top of the car door. “Solid run.”
I fan a large stack of bills at him. I picked up two grand in that dig. Easy as fuck. “Get in.”
He sits in the passenger seat, shutting the door and grabbing the cash from my hand. He shoves it into the center console.
“Want to go watch the game?” I ask, checking the time. If we hurry, we can still watch the second half and have a few beers. And maybe a steak. My stomach growls and I realize I’m hungry.
“Want to hit some casinos in Sanremo instead?” Sandro asks, looking bored.
I laugh good-naturedly. Sanremo is hours away; we’ll definitely have to crash there for the night. Sandro always knows how to have a good time, how to party. And how to keep his mouth shut. That’s why he’s my best friend.
“Fuck yeah. Let’s go. But I need to eat something first.” I make a hard right, shifting gears as I coast onto the Autostrade.
“Yeah, okay. There’s a good steak place my papa likes on the way there.”
“You’re reading my mind,” I tell him, thinking about the T-bone I’m going to order.
He shrugs, changing the music to some house beats and increasing the volume.
Changing lanes quickly, I pop into the fast lane and open my baby up, adrenaline coursing through my veins once more.
Chapter Fourteen
Mia
The weekend passes in a blur, with Lexi dragging me to museums, cafes, and bars. On Sunday night, I FaceTime with my dad.
“Hi, Mia.” He grins at me from the screen of my laptop. “How are classes going?”
“Hi, Dad. Great, thanks. I really like this one class I have on Italian Literature. We’re reading the classics, starting with Dante.”
He nods. “That sounds interesting.”
“Yeah. How are you?”
“Good. Not too much happening over here. Claire and I are going to a Broadway play next weekend. The Book of Mormon.”
“That’s cool. I heard it’s amazing; it got rave reviews.”
“Hi, Mia.” Claire’s face pops onto the screen. “How’s Rome? Did you go to Villa Borghese yet?” She smiles pleasantly enough, tucking a piece of her golden hair behind her ear.
Why can’t I warm up to her? Even after all these years, I still feel like she’s a stranger.
“Hi, Claire. No, not yet. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“It’s a wonderful museum. I think you’ll enjoy it.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
“Okay, well, here’s Dad.” She smiles tightly before Dad’s fac
e comes back on screen.
“Glad to hear that everything is going well, Mia. You really like your roommate and the Franchettis, huh? They sound like wonderful people.”
I nod enthusiastically. “They’re really awesome. Anyway, I have to get going now. Paola and Gianluca are taking Lexi and me out.”
“Oh, okay.” Is that a flash of disappointment in his eyes? Ugh, why can’t I ever do anything right? “I’ll talk to you soon then. Have fun, honey. Be careful.”
“Thanks, Dad. Enjoy the play.”
He nods. “I love you.”
“Love you too. Talk to you soon.”
“Okay, Mia. Take care now.”
“’Bye.” I end the call.
Why does it always seem like talking to him requires effort? Why can’t it just be easy, natural, like it used to be?
“Mia?” Lexi knocks on my door. “You ready?”
“Yeah, I’m coming,” I tell her, slipping on some sandals and opening my bedroom door.
Paola and Gianluca take us to a classy, upscale wine bar. We sit around in the dim glow of candles and clap as a singer and pianist conclude their set.
I’ve always loved live music. There’s just something about the performers, a glimpse of vulnerability in their courage, the way they expose themselves fully to a sea of strangers, the passion they have for their art, which I admire and respect. Clapping for the performance, I’m reminded of my own days up on stage, performing, dancing, enjoying the appreciative cheers from the crowd. A sharp pang of longing fills my chest and for a moment, it hurts to breathe. In many ways, losing dance was like losing my identity. And now, in Rome, I’m just starting to learn how to be me without dance. How to be just Mia. Not Mia, the ballerina, the dancer.
“This is awesome.” Lexi smiles, taking a sip of her wine. She swirls the glass expertly. “The limpidity of this wine is perfect,” she says in a posh accent, turning up her nose snootily.
Paola, Gianluca, and I laugh, enjoying Lexi’s impersonations. Pretending to be wine connoisseurs, we polish off several bottles before calling it a night. It’s strange to me, in a good way, experiencing this type of familial normality, having this easygoing, stress-free atmosphere in our home. My Italian transplant family has offered me more support, more balance, and a lot more laughs than Dad and Claire have in recent years. This realization causes an unexpected wave of sadness. I was always so close to Dad. Is the connection we shared for so many years, strengthened by mom’s passing, weakened by Claire’s presence, completely gone now? Or is our bond something that can be revived?
As I sink into my fluffy pillow for bed, all I can think of is how much has changed in such a short amount of time. Just three weeks ago, I was in New York panicking about coming to Rome. Would I make friends? Would I get lost on the way to school every day? Would I know how to interact with guys? And now, I’m tipsy on a school night! I laugh to myself, my hands splayed over my stomach. I wince at the roll I feel there when I pinch my fingers together. Although I did consume too many glasses of wine tonight, I did do a stellar job at skipping dinner completely—and still holding my alcohol.
I shake my head.
Tomorrow I’ll do better.
* * *
After the conclusion of class on Wednesday, Pete trails me out of the classroom.
“Ciao, Professoressa,” he calls over his shoulder.
“Ciao, Pietro.” She waves back.
Pete places his hand on the small of my back, his fingers lightly working up the back of my shirt to touch the small strip of exposed skin between my long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans. I stand up straighter. His touch guides me into the hallway, down the stairs to the main entrance, and outside into the sunshine. Once we’re on the street, he takes my hand lightly in his own, walking briskly down meandering side streets.
“Ready for lunch?” he asks.
I nod.
“Hope you like Italian,” he jokes.
I walk faster, trying to match his pace. “You know you’re way around really well.”
“I’m not living too far from school. You’re going to love this restaurant; it’s got awesome pizza. But I guess most places here do, at least compared to home.” He smiles at me warmly when he says home and a little flicker of anticipation shoots through my stomach.
I suppose home is practically the same for both of us. Here we are, amongst a ton of study abroad students from all over the world, and Pete and I are the only two in our program from the tristate area. It’s shocking really. But then again, most study abroad students from the U.S. study at the University of Rome, not the small private university Pete and I attend.
“Hey…” I swat a hand at his arm “…our home has got some pretty decent pizza!”
“True.” He laughs. “Yours more than mine.”
I nod in agreement. New York does have the best pizza in the U.S. Hands down.
“Here we are.” Pete tugs my hand as we arrive at our destination. Quattro Gusti. Four Flavors. Sounds more like a gelateria, but whatever. I’m glad it’s not. A green awning with white trim hangs over the outdoor seating, providing a stretch of shade.
“Looks good,” I tell him.
“It is.” He nods seriously. “Here, take a seat.” He pulls out a chair for me on the patio, and I settle back into it.
Pete walks around to the other side of the table, running a hand through his sandy-brown hair. He’s cute. Really cute actually. He wears his hair short, cut close to his scalp. His eyes are hazel, a dreamy swirl of blue and green and grey. Although he’s not very tall, I’d say about 5’9, he’s broad. The muscles of his upper arms strain slightly against the fabric of his button-down shirt. He dresses differently than any of the college guys I know, more presentable. No sweatpants and hoodies for Pete.
He sits down across from me and smiles broadly at the waitress when she arrives to take our order. I’m so caught up in watching Pete, the way his whole face brightens when he speaks with someone, the lopsided grin that casually spreads across his lips, the amusement that flickers in his eyes, I don’t even realize that he and the waitress are staring at me until the waitress clears her throat.
I jump and want to smack myself. Good God, Mia, get it together. “Vorrei un caffé con latte scremato,” I say, happy I remember the Italian word for skim milk.
“And for lunch?” Pete prompts me.
Ugh. Lunch.
“Insalata verde.” I point to the salad listed on the menu.
“That’s all?” Pete asks, furrowing his brows. “You sure?”
“Oh yeah. I’m not too hungry.”
He shrugs. “Okay. Thanks.” He turns, handing our menus back to the waitress.
She repeats our order and walks back into the restaurant.
“So…” I start “…for the project …”
Pete leans forward, snaking his arm across the table and placing his hand over mine. “Relax, Mia. I promise, we’ll get to the project. But for now, let’s just take a minute and hang out. Enjoy all of this…” He gestures around him “…We’re in Italy.” His voice is laced with excitement.
I laugh, his enthusiasm contagious. “Yeah, you’re right.”
His hands rest on the tabletop. “Do you miss home at all?”
I tilt my head to the side, thinking over his question seriously. Do I miss home at all? “Not really,” I answer honestly and then blush. “Does that make me terrible?”
“Not at all. I don’t miss it either.”
I laugh. “I miss my friends a lot.”
He nods. “Yeah, I miss some of the guys from my baseball team. And my brother.” He laughs. “My sisters, not so much.”
I smile. “You play baseball?”
“Yeah, that’s why I had to study abroad in the fall. No way could I miss the season, especially senior year.”
“I bet that’s tough to balance.”
He shrugs.
“What position do you play?”
“Short-stop.”
“That’s c
ool.”
“Do you play any sports?”
I groan inwardly and consider telling him about dance. But really, what’s the point. I shake my head. “Not anymore.”
His brow furrows again, and I can tell he’s going to ask a follow-up question so I lean forward and latch onto his gaze. “When are you heading to Scotland?”
He smiles back, his face warming and opening immediately. Wow, he has an incredible smile. His parents must have spent a fortune on braces. I mentally slap myself. Get a grip. If Lila were here she would be hysterical at the turn of my thoughts.
I scoot my chair closer into the table and listen to Pete as he shares his plans to travel to Scotland soon to visit his family in Glasgow. He also plans to see a friend in Germany. He gestures broadly as he speaks, his excitement palpable.
And before I know it, we’ve enjoyed an entire lunch and not once did we discuss anything for our partner project.
Fail.
* * *
My classes are in full swing and the semester is officially underway as the heat of summer dissipates into cool autumn breezes. Each day, my Italian grows stronger as I converse with Paola and Gianluca. And of course, with Lorenzo.
I see him nearly three times this week when I stop by Angelina’s for a caffé latte and a study session. Through my conversations with him, I even pick up some Roman dialect to add to my Italian notebook.
Lorenzo is kind and sweet and funny. Behind that handsome face and deep blue eyes is a bona fide player. I can tell by the way other girls react to him, how they giggle when he approaches their table to take an order, the flip of their hair, the smack of their lips, the wide-eyed gaze of their eyes. It’s obvious by the way that he swaggers, how he flashes his dimple and winks casually, how he addresses everyone—from the staff at Angelina’s to random customers—with a general familiarity that he has no problem getting girls to fall at his feet. He’s intoxicating, and I look forward to my afternoon breaks at Angelina’s more than I should. I tell myself it’s for the caffé latte, but mainly it’s to see Lorenzo’s face light up when he sees me, always greeting me with an endearment: bella, bellezza, carina. The list goes on. Lila would already be engaged.
