Authors: G.T. Marie
Chapter
Twenty Eight
“That certainly started break with a bang!” I said feeling a little better, but still very weak after my
display
of thankfulness towards Andrew.
It hadn't been sex, but it was still pretty darn fun.
“It’ll be even bett
er after we have some breakfast.” He rolled on his side to face me.
“Ugh, don’t talk about eating.”
“It’ll settle your stomach! Have a piece of toast.”
“Okay
, in a minute, I just want to lay here for a second.” I let my head meld into the pillow.
Andrew
ran his fingers up and down my back, the pads tracing ambiguous designs on my skin. I couldn’t move. I was afraid if I got up, the tingling sensations would stop, and I wanted it to last forever.
“What are you doing for th
e rest of break?” I stalled. “Your parents are coming for the first part?”
“
They’re coming tomorrow. We’re going to Rome to see all the expensive, touristy things I’d never do. It’ll be fun to stay in a nice hotel and eat good food that I don’t have to pay for.”
I marveled at
the difference in our family backgrounds. My mom’s salary came from scrubbing floors, and driving down to Chicago for the weekend was considered a big to-do.
“That’ll be fun, with your family
and all,” I said, missing my own.
“Yours coming?”
“No.”
There was a pause and I could sense Andrew wondering if he had stumbled upon a touchy question.
“It’s okay,” I said before he could feel bad. “I didn’t expect them to.”
“At least you’ll have fun with Emilia and Megan.”
“Absolutely!” I grinned. “What are your plans for the second half of break?”
“I really only will have a couple days after.”
“Yeah, but you gotta make the most of them.”
“A friend is coming; I’m going to meet her in Morocco for a few days.”
“Nice! Someone from school?”
“Actually, yes.” Andrew said. I raised my eyebrows in encouragement. “Anna.”
My eyes felt like they grew three sizes larger. I thought he was over her. He hadn’t spoken about
her
for some time now.
Granted
, I hadn’t been prying.
I finally managed to
close the space between my lips, which had dropped open without my knowledge.
“I’m sorry; I meant to tell you…” He scratched his neck. “She’s visiting her best girlfriend in Germany, and she asked if she could stop by on her way home. I didn’t think… I couldn’t…”
“That’s crazy, isn’t it?” I laughed, forcing myself to appear light hearted.
“I still can’t get o
ver people saying they want to
swing by
Italy on their way home from Germany. That’s Europe.” I felt as awkward as I sounded.
“Right,” Andrew said. He was probably wondering if I was crazy. I bit my lip, telling myself it wasn’t my place to intrude on his relationships.
“That will be fun.” I slid out of bed.
“Where are you going?”
“I just figured, I’m feeling better and should go home and pack.”
“Dana, it’s not like that.”
“Like what? I’m happy for you. This is what you wanted
so
badly,” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm from creeping into my voice.
“Can’t you stay at least for lunch?”
“I really should go,” I said. I smiled, weaker than normal.
I needed to leave.
Now.
I stumbled on my way out of the room. “Thank you, Andrew. For everything. Megan is very lucky. I appreciate you taking care of me last night.”
I scurried down the stairs
, breezing past a confused Vince, and shut the door behind me. I took the stairs to the ground floor, not bothering to wait for the elevator. I needed fresh air, I needed to breathe. I got outside and sat down on the curb, pulse racing, trying not to hyperventilate. My head seemed light, detached from my heaving shoulders.
I sat
for a full five minutes, oblivious to the world. The only sound I noticed was the heartbeat inside my head. A group of Italians whistled and cat called as they swaggered by, and I forced myself to come down to earth. I still had on my clothing from the night before, and I hadn’t bothered to take out my dangling earrings or comb my ratted hair.
Hello, walk of ultimate shame.
I’d had my share of them, but this topped them a
ll; I had finally made a move on a guy I liked, after swearing I’d never fall for him in the first place, only to find out the ex he so desperately missed would be in town in a week. Not to mention, they’d be embarking on a beautiful, romantic vacation to Morocco
.
I could visualize it now, Andrew behind
her
on a camel, trudging through a scenic desert. They’d enjoy the sunset, eat dinner at exotic restaurants, sip tea with the locals and imbibe high quality wine by night. Then, they’d retire to their cozy little tent lit by candles, where they’d catch up on old times and reignite the passion Andrew had so frequently talked about.
She
certainly wouldn’t hold anything back in the sex department.
Images of me donning a belly dancer outfit and showing Anna up in a dance off flooded my brain. Andrew would be forced to send Anna home, realizing he couldn’t deny his feelings for me anymore…
I was going off the deep end with my imagination. Trying to put my finger on my emotions was an elusive task, like trying to decipher a challenging optical illusion. You could stare and stare for hours without seeing the true picture.
Was it regret?
For the first time, I
doubted myself. Was I making my choices because of my morals or because I was trying to prove something to Andrew? Or was I trying to prove something to myself? And the bigger question, had I missed my chance? After all, what guy waits around for a girl that is afraid of commitment but doesn’t want a physical fling?
Another group of catcalls and a honk from a car nearly running over my toes drew me out of my reverie.
What
did
I want?
Chapter
Twenty Nine
“Wheee!” I squealed, grasping Emilia’s hand. We were taking off! My excitement felt falsified, shallow in lieu of the morning I’d had with Andrew.
I looked over at Emilia and
made a decision to change my tune, told myself to grow up. I was powerless to stop whatever would occur between the two of
them
, so I wouldn’t let that ruin my own vacation. I was kidding myself saying that it didn’t bother me they would be spending time together, but I would deal with that later.
The second I stepped off the plane, my thoughts of
them
blew away in the salty ocean air. I was swept away by the beauty and charm of southern Italy. In no way did it resemble Milan. It could have been another country entirely.
Unlike the hustle and bustle of Milan, the south lived by its own clock. I whipped out my camera to document everything.
“Emilia, look.”
I snapped a picture of a wrinkled, elderly Italian woman from a distance. Her home didn’t have a door; instead there were decorative beads streaming over the entryway, the bright colors creating the effect of a kaleidoscope in the beaming sunlight.
“Stop being creepy,” she said.
The woman swept the sand off the steps which led into the interior of her home. She had few teeth, if any, but when she smiled she gave of a radiance that came from somewhere other than her missing teeth. She glanced up right as I snapped the button, and her eyes reflected a contentedness I envied. Her eyes twinkled like a child’s and her wrinkles were a testament to a long life.
I wandered down towards the water and couldn’t resist another photo op. I captured an image of an old Sicilian man under a palm tree. He was perched in a precarious fashion on the edge of a narrow wall, seeking out the only shaded spot on the beach. His rickety old sailboat lay not more than five feet from his place of relaxation.
“Okay, Picasso.” Emilia pulled me away from the beach. “Can we
please
find our hostel before my arms fall off?”
“Sounds like you need to start working out.” I followed Emilia as she consulted her map.
Our week in Sicily was spent exploring the countryside, admiring the ocean, and eating fresh fruit purchased right off the street. We scouted out the local markets of Palermo, rumored to be some of the biggest markets in the world. The markets used to be heavily run by the Mafia, used as a location for their various
activities
. Today, it was just a place for Emilia and me to try on Italia jackets, examine necklaces and jewelry, and purchase scarves and purses to take home.
We bought our meals fresh from the farmer’s market every day.
The first day, Emilia spotted some blood oranges, her favorite.
“Dana, stop. I want some oranges.” She
handed over two Euros to the vendor. The buff Italian tilted his head, as if waiting for the punch line.
“Please?” Emilia looked at me, confused at the delay. The vendor
pulled out two huge plastic bags and filled them to the top with the citrus fruits. He handed both sacks over to Emilia.
I laughed at
Emilia’s shocked expression.
“How was I supposed to know? Two Euros, jeez. This could feed me for a week. I need to get rid of some of these.”
“Yeah, wouldn’t want those arms to fall off… again.”
She
rolled her eyes and started handing out oranges to strangers walking through the marketplace.
I stocked up on juicy pl
ums, painfully sweet fragolini,
tiny strawberries
, as well as olives, cheeses and hot dishes prepared on the spot. We feasted. One of our favorite afternoon activities was to take all of the food we had purchased that morning and take it to our hostel where we’d set up a picnic on the outdoor patio. We’d eat everything raw – the food was so naturally delicious it needed no additives or preparation. Olives and carrots, eaten together, was our new invention. The salt of the olives made a great accompaniment to the sweet of the carrot, and Emilia and I perfected the art of biting out just the right amount of each.
We took buses around the city, rode in cabs to restaurants too far to reach by foot, and rode trains to get to other Sicilian towns. We learned that every city in Italy has “zee beegest and zee best theater of all time.” On our last night in Palermo, we listened to guitarists play the same song on repeat, hour after hour, their puppies cuddling inside the discarded guitar case on the sidewalk.
After Palermo, we decided to spend a day in Catania before the week was up. Catania, a more southern city, was a beautiful relief after the grimy streets of Palermo. Catania had manicured gardens with magnificent palm trees towering above the city. The city square was alive and full of the Sicilian people out early to enjoy the evening.
“
You ready?” Emilia fiddled with her backpack. Her Patagonia jacket looked crisp and unworn.
“Yeah…” I adjusted my old YMCA tee-shirt as we climbed onto a loaded bus, full of Italians and tourists alike.
Forty-five minutes later our bus rolled to the side of the road and came to a complete stop.
“I thought it was only an hour and a half bus ride, why are we stopping?” I asked.
We had decided to take a one day trip from Catania to climb Mount Etna, an active volcano.
“The bus driver said something about a bathroom stop, but I don’t see…” Emilia craned her neck, looking for restrooms.
“Aha,” I said. “Bathroom break equals a smoke break.”
A cloud of black smoke floated past our window, a few wisps creeping in along the seal.
“Ironic we stop for smoke breaks on our way to a mountainous hike.” Emilia plugged her nose.
Our bus stopped at the final destination, and I was astounded to see a snow covered trek ahead of me.
“I think I’ll need a sweatshirt,” I said, walking into the souvenir shop before she could comment.
We reached the top of the slippery path.
It was a cloudy day, but the views were stunning. The mouth of the volcano steamed and smoked, and the lava rock was hot to the touch. I wished for a second that Andrew could be here, looking down on the world from the clouds. In my wildest dreams I hadn’t imagined that coming to Italy would involve me falling in love with someone I couldn’t keep, while attracting a love from an Italian that I couldn’t reciprocate. I exhaled the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and squeezed Emilia’s hand.
She started at my touch.
Raising a finger, she pointed to a hut on the hill.
Shivering, I dragged her towards the building.
Please be warm.
We nearly broke down the door, starving for warmth.
The men inside looked surprised at our enthusiasm.
I gestured with my hands, speaking in an odd collection of Italian phrases and English words.
“Okay, okay.” The Italian in charge gestured for us to take a seat on the bench. “Eat.”
Emilia and I exchanged a look.
Why not?
I don’
t know whether it was the warmth or the taste, but the food was so good I ate three plates. The pasta was fresh, the buttery noodles steaming as they touched my tongue. The oil was homemade. My body felt replenished after simply smelling the delicious aromas. I was sad when the espressos appeared on a tray, signaling the end of the meal.
I could tell the Italians weren’t sure whether to be impressed or disgusted by the quantities I had eaten, but after I continued to enthuse over how delicious the cooking was, they forgave my American behavior
.
“I can’t move,” I moaned.
“Maybe they won’t notice if we just sit here for awhile.” Emilia propped her feet on a stool, a content expression on her face.
We didn’t move all afternoon. Around dusk, a
burst of dialect Italian broke out. It was time to head down the mountain.
“I’m not getting in that thing.” I looked at Emilia. The jeep was white and
rickety; it didn’t look like it could handle a flat freeway, not to mention a mountainous slope.
“Oh, gosh.” Emilia seemed like she couldn’t control the shiver that shook her shoulders. “We can’t expect to walk down, I suppose.”
“No!” I latched onto the seatbelt, the strap, anything I could grasp. The Italians
laughed at our expressions, our fear egging them on faster. My head bounced off the ceiling. In response, one of the men reached over to try and hold me down. I tried to smile, but I couldn’t spare the extra energy.
After eight minute of pure torture, I could feel the van skidding to a stop.
“Land!” I called, tumbling to the ground. I had never been so happy to have my feet on firm ground. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Sure.” Emilia sounded more hesitant than I expected. I followed her gaze. She was eying one of the cute red-jacketed men.
“Go talk to him,” I said.
“No, no.” I heard her suck in her breath as he approached.
“A drink?” he asked.
“Yes,” I responded in the wake of Emilia’s awkward silence.
As we finished the liquid warmth, I looked to Emilia. “We have a bus to catch.”
“I suppose,” she said, her gaze fixed on
her new friend. He requested her information. Emilia – being Emilia – was hesitant to even accept his number.
I pulled her aside and convinced her it might be nice to actually have a Sicilian tou
r guide. She scribbled her number on a napkin, and the poor guy grinned like he’d won the lottery. H
HHH
e promised to send her a message. We splattered our gear onto the bus seat, warm from our potent drinks. We slept the entire way home, smoke breaks and all.
We only had
two nights left in Sicily, so when Nino called the next day, I forced Emilia to take him up on his offer of dinner and a tour. The one catch was that Nino didn’t understand a word of English. I could have said
hello,
and he would have stared back completely clueless. I had a better grip on Italian than Emilia, so I figured I’d have to do a little translating, which secured my third wheel position on their date.
A
true gentleman, he picked us up in a compact car and took us to a quaint restaurant with patio seating outdoors. I was glad to see he drove smoothly when he wasn’t in a jeep on a mountain. The server started us with appetizers, and we enjoyed local cheeses and meats, drizzled with decadent honey. The food was so rich we only needed a few bites each before we were satisfied. We had a glass of wine, sat and chatted, and it turned out he was as nervous as we were about the language barrier.
After dinner
came the real surprise. He took Emilia by the hand, me trailing behind, and escorted us through a back door of the restaurant. He murmured something I couldn’t understand to the owner, who stepped aside and let Nino lead us down a back flight of rocky stairs. It looked more like a tunnel than part of a restaurant. I figured maybe he was showing us the bathroom.
As we rounded the corner, I saw light. It was natural light, not the fluorescent stuff of the kitchen. We continued, followed the beam
, and soon emerged into an underground cave. The silver glow was the moonlight reflecting off an underground stream. We had been sitting directly above the haunting view. Had he not shown us around, we could’ve eaten there and never known. It seemed illicit, enjoying this site when I knew mere feet above us people were dining without a clue. I winked at Emilia, and it seemed she understood. She shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes in agreement.
We got in his car
and I thought he’d take us home, but a short time later he pulled onto a dark side street mumbling something about a surprise. He parked and we emerged, walking towards an unknown destination. At this hour, everything was closed and unlit, and Emilia looked at me with an uneasy stare. I waved off her fear; he didn’t radiate
creep vibes.
A
few minutes later, we stepped out into moonlit clearing. The ocean stretched far in front of us, and the waves crashed against the rocks with a force like nothing I’d ever seen before. It was a private cove, and we were the only ones around. There was no sound except for the violent clash of water against stone. I signaled for Emilia and Nino to head off and get a view from the dock. It was about time they got a moment alone.
Emilia looked unsure, but I told her I wasn’t going anywhere, he was my ride after all. They walked off to a private spot along the shore, and I climbed up some of the massive rocks along the coast, perching so close to the ocean I could feel the spray. The rocks were
huge
. They looked like giant dice, much taller than my frame standing ramrod straight. I looked out into the darkness, letting my mind wander. My eyes traced the shoreline.
I saw Nino and
Emilia chatting quietly a way off, oblivious to the giant arms of water a stone’s throw away. They stood sheltered by the very rocks on which I sat. I watched the moon gleam against the smoothness of the ocean a ways out. I shifted and glanced at the rocks nearest me. I wasn’t sure how I had missed it before, but the rock in front of me was beautifully spray painted with an Italian phrase.