Expiration Dating Page 12

  After we got back to the apartment, I paced around the small hallway for about an hour before Emilia told me to go for a run so she could read in peace. I took her up on her suggestion, and as usual was able to escape into my thoughts while jogging the streets of Milan. I let myself day dream about the evening. Would we go to a fancy place? Would we go back to his house after? I felt my palms start to sweat. I was excited, I wanted him to ask me back to his apartment, but there was a part of me that hoped he didn’t ask. I wasn’t confident I could say no.

  Was he different than every Italian that had tried to pick me or my friends up so far? With no answer to these questions, I headed back to my apartment to change.

  As I dressed, I realized that I hadn’t heard from Andrew in a few days. I straightened the fabric of my new purchase, and then remembered his friend had been in town. I attempted to put on make-up like Emilia had shown me earlier, wondering if Andrew’s girl was still around, what their relationship was like. However, if I was honest with myself I was relieved he had a distraction. With him spending time with another girl, I was free to go out without having to explain where I was and why I had suddenly dropped out of the party scene.

  After Andrew’s recent, very clear actions, I knew I didn’t owe him any explanations, about my date with Roberto. But something wasn’t sitting right with me, and I didn’t know how to fix it. In Sardinia, we had talked freely about our ex’s, and I had even told him a few stories about my (unsuccessful-til-now) Italian dates. We had shared a nice laugh, and he encouraged me to keep the stories coming. For some reason, this time around felt different.

  Both Emilia and Megan walked me down to the metro station when it was time. My fingers tapped the railing, a give-away of my nerves.

  “Enjoy it, have fun, be safe,” Emilia gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “Text us if there’s any problem and we’ll come to the rescue. Well, I’ll send Megan.”

  “Right, which means don’t get in trouble because I don’t kick ass well with a bottle of wine and a block of cheese in my stomach. It always seems to slow me down a tad.” Megan pretended to ninja kick.

  “Ok, I’ve gotta go, I’m running late. Have fun at dinner,” I winked at my friends.

  “A bottle of wine and block of cheese gives me more pleasure than a boyfriend would these days, anyway,” Megan said, throwing her arm over Emilia.

  “Megan…” Emilia said, like a teacher warning a student to not give up on their math problem. However, she looked as though she agreed.

  “Ciao, ciao, ciao!” Their voices coursed over the stairs of the metro as I flashed my pass and spun through the gate.

  After a brief metro ride, I stood near the steps of the D’uomo, only a short distance away from where we’d first met. I looked around, twirling a curl that had fallen out of my lose bun, not sure where he’d be coming from. After about four point two minutes, not counting, I glanced at the brilliantly lit arch that signified the entrance to the world renowned shopping center. The blue and white lights twinkled, the atmosphere was festive. I watched couples holding hands, tourists taking pictures, Italians bustling home from a long day at work. Above the rush of the crowd, I saw a tall man approaching under all the lights. They looked built for him, for his entrance tonight.

  Roberto strode from underneath the magical looking arch. Dressed immaculately once again, he caught my eye and a bright smile lit his face. His white teeth glistened and his hair was combed back out of his eyes, falling freely around the sides of his face. The jacket and jeans once again looked as if they’d come with an autograph from Gucci himself. They probably had, actually.

  Before I knew it, he reached me. I stood frozen in my high heels, not realizing I hadn’t moved since I saw him under the twinkling display. I jumped back into action, and fell into his extended arms. He gave me a firm hug, lingering a second more than a friend. Without further ado, he gave me a big kiss on the lips.

  “Wow, that takes care of that,” I said.

  “What you mean?” he asked securing my hand in his.

  “That’s one way to get the formalities out of the way.” He nodded. His smile said he didn’t quite understand the English phrase, but got the gist regardless.

  “I have a very special place for you,” he said.

  “That sounds wonderful,” I said. I was comfortable, yet excited. He had a way of putting me at ease that I appreciated. He led me into a building not one hundred feet from where I had been standing. We rode up sixteen floors, the lights flickering in the elegant elevator, and as we reached the top he put his hands over my eyes, leading me around … somewhere.

  “Open, and see,” he said removing his hands. I tried to suck in some air. We were in a fancy restaurant that directly faced the D’uomo. The most incredible facet was the view. We were the same height as the top of the famous Cathedral. The backlighting gave the church the aura of an ice castle, a crystalline sculpture that wouldn’t look out of place in a snow globe. The sight gave me goose bumps. I walked to the window, pressing my hands against the glass.

  “Come, follow me,” he said and led me onto a balcony. He stood behind me, wrapping his arms around my body, holding me against the chill of the night breeze. I stared at the magnificent Cathedral, taking in as many details as possible. I looked at the square below; the people I had watched only moments ago from the ground were now as tiny as ants. We stood still, enjoying the sights, and I lost track of time.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked, breaking the pristine silence. I nodded, and we went inside and sat down at the bar. The restaurant was a sort of mozzarella salad bar; the ingredients were fresh, the chefs were authentic, and the smells were unbelievable. He guided me as I ordered prosciutto crudo, sliced as thin as a sheet of paper, with artichoke, cheese, and a small salad. He ordered a similar platter, and we chatted in a hybrid of Italian and English while waiting for the food to arrive. His English was much better than my Italian, yet he promised to help me practice. How can a girl refuse an offer like that?

  “After all, you will need it when I take you to meet my Mamma,” he said as we sipped post dinner coffees. He had instructed that only espresso is ordered after dinner, only tourists and uncivilized people drink cappuccinos after breakfast.

  I choked briefly, caught off guard, “Your mom?”

  “Yes,” he said smiling. “I already called her and told her about the girl that smiles. She wants to meet you, she says she is happy.”

  I wasn’t sure what to make of it. On one hand, I was flattered he thought our connection so strong. On the other hand, he had told his mom about me before our first date, which seemed a bit odd to me. My guard went up, until I reassured myself that things were different in Italy. Mammino’s, or mommy’s boys, often chatted daily with their mum’s and shared loads of information. It was over share in my opinion, but who was I to judge.

  “That’s… that’s very nice of you,” I managed. I was saved as the server approached and said something in Italian. I assumed he was asking about dessert; we had been procrastinating ordering, enjoying the conversation.

  However, Roberto stood up and snapped back in Italian, raising his voice. I sat, forced to watch, the conversation too fast for me to keep up. I thought I heard him say something about flying and something else about trees. That couldn’t be accurate.

  It turns out I was right about being wrong. After paying for the tab, we swept out of the restaurant making a scene. After we were out of the gaze of curious eyes, I turned to Roberto.

  “You understand what happened?” he asked.

  “Not really…Everything okay?”

  “Yes, everything is fine,” he said in a heavier than usual accent. “The, ehm, how do you say, server? He said something about you; he was giving us a hard time about taking too long to decide. I just tell him that I am showing you things, explaining things, that you are not from here. He is also not from here, so he iz the last person that should be talking.”

  The server could’ve fooled me, his
Italian seemed fine. I was shocked at the argument that had just occurred, which I wasn’t even aware was about me.

  “Thank you,” I told Roberto.

  “Yes, it is not your fault. He is ignorant,” Roberto seemed a little peeved still, but was making a valiant effort not to show it for my sake. I thought he may have overreacted a little, that some of it was just for show, but I wasn’t going to complain about a handsome Italian sticking up for me in a fight. This evening got more surreal by the moment.

  We walked around Milano afterwards, and I felt Roberto calming down beside me. We held hands, enjoying the sounds of music overflowing from several of the nearby restaurants. Out of the blue, as we were passing a dimly lit osteria, Roberto asked if I’d like to join him at his house for a drink. I hesitated, thinking this invite was slightly out of my comfort zone. Not only did I not know the man, but I had no intention of taking our relationship further physically tonight.

  “Sure.”

  Chapter Twenty One

  Roberto lived in a small, one bedroom flat in the middle of Via Venezia, the second busiest shopping street in all of Milan. His rent must have been expensive, which was another sign he was doing well in his career. Most Italian men lived with their mothers until well into their thirties. They’d move out only when getting married.

  He was quite a find.

  Roberto showed me around, apologizing for the nonexistent mess, and flicked on the TV. He asked out of courtesy if I minded leaving it on in the background, even though it was all in Italian.

  I shook my head no, and he reached to get glasses out of the cupboard, urging me to relax on the couch. I did so, and politely accepted the small glass of wine he poured. We sat watching an Italian game show, sipping the warming liquid while snuggling together on the couch. He put his arm around me during the first commercial. By the second break, he had leaned over and kissed me.

  It was a slow, sensual kiss, and his lips were as soft as they looked. His hands ran through my hair, and I felt myself getting warm. I set my glass on the table and shifted for better access. He leaned me backwards, his hand running down the side of my ribcage, causing me to shudder with excitement. I leaned into him, pressing his lips to my neck.

  Suddenly, he broke off and began pulling me towards the bedroom. I was jolted back to reality. I realized I was getting pulled into a stranger’s bedroom, and I didn’t even know the man’s last name. I felt my cheeks blush as I put my hand on his arm and apologized, saying that it was getting pretty late and I had class in the morning.

  He looked disappointed, but didn’t push the subject. He handed me my coat, which had been discarded on the sofa after commercial number one. He kissed me on the cheek and offered to let me stay over if I wanted to go straight to class in the morning. I shook my head no, and continued shaking my head when he offered to pay a cab to take me home. I claimed I’d be fine on the metro, but that I had to hurry as it was nearing the last run of the night. I said goodbye and exited the flat, pausing against the closed door to gather my wits. After a moment or two, I adjusted my hair, tied my coat tighter, and headed for home.

  Emilia’s light was on when I got back, and I slowly pushed her door open. I saw Emilia lying on her bed and Megan spread out on the couch in the corner of the room. They were both dozing peacefully, and I quietly shut the light off and closed the door. My story could wait until tomorrow.

  Over breakfast in the dining room the following morning, I dished out the details of the previous evening. They were great listeners, applauding at the appropriate times, “ahh-ing” at others and nodding here and there. By the time I finished, I was back in dreamland, having relived the date. Megan asked when I’d be seeing him again to ‘continue what we started,’ and I said I wasn’t sure.

  He’d told me he would follow up with me today. As I finished speaking, I looked down at my phone and saw an incoming message.

  I read to the girls in an overly sensual voice, “Ciao, Bella. See u soon. Today?”

  “Absolutely.” Megan took the word right from my mouth.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  In Italian class later that morning, Andrew and I partnered up as usual.

  We were supposed to be practicing, an exercise that often ended as a planning forum for our evening excursions.

  “God, I know. It has been awhile. Wanna grab drinks tonight, catch up a little?” he asked.

  “What, you want to hang now that your friend’s gone?” I tapped my foot against the chair leg. I was pleased to find that it didn’t bother me anymore. We were back to where we started, which is right where I wanted us to be.

  “Yeah, she left last night.” He pressed his knuckles to his forehead, as if to mask his sheepish expression.

  “I’m just messing with you,” I said.

  “So how about tonight? I’m free after eight.”

  “I actually can’t tonight,” I said.

  “Ah, hot date?” The question sounded innocent enough, but I couldn’t keep the corners of my mouth from twitching; he wasn’t used to me having plans.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  He let the subject stand, and we began practicing our Italian as the teacher came around. We were improving slowly but surely, and it was still fun to practice in public. Emilia joked I would be fluent by the end of the semester because of all the Italian men I was going out with. I’d always shrug and reply, can’t argue if it works.

  Andrew, Megan, and I climbed the stairs after class, and as we rounded the corner Andrew grabbed my wrist. I shooed Megan on and remained standing with Andrew while the rest of our class drained.

  “You free for lunch?” he asked.

  “Sorry, I should probably head home. I’m not ditching you. I have somewhere to be,” I said. I couldn’t tell him where, because technically, I didn’t know.

  Andrew looked into my eyes, “OK. Soon, though. Yeah?”

  I nodded, “Tomorrow is good.”

  I stood at the metro stop, impatient to head home when I got a follow up message from Roberto. He said to meet him near the high fashion shopping district in thirty minutes. It would take me at least twenty minutes to get home from where I stood. There was no time to change, so I figured my jeans and tank would have to do for today. I hiked my oversize purse higher onto my shoulder, wishing backpacks were more widely accepted here, and ran back up the stairs of the station. I got to our meeting point five minutes early and settled in to wait.

  Two minutes later, I spotted him a few blocks down, fixing his hair in a shop window. He had attempted to dress down today, but I was positive his plain brown tee shirt cost more than my entire ensemble put together. It matched his beautiful, deep brown skin tone and brought out those sea green eyes that were so mesmerizing. They were an unexpected pop of color in an otherwise tanned complexion.

  He caught my eye a few strides away, and I was reminded of the pull of his eyes; he had a way of looking at you that demanded your attention. When you spoke, it felt as if he was dissecting your words. Almost eerie, the intensity had made me uncomfortable at first. I was used to it by now and enjoyed the undivided attention. People stared as we walked down the streets – we were an unusually tall pair, and he was obviously quite good looking.

  He caught up to me, and after the formal exchange of cheek kisses and chit chat, he declared he wanted to show me the true side of the shopping center. It wasn’t clear what he meant, until we arrived at the door to the famous Gucci store. He pulled the door handle open.

  I was shocked. These were the stores you needed an appointment to get into.

  My mind was blown as he walked right up to the sales lady, and asked what she had for someone like me. Me. In Gucci! In Milan, to boot! I almost wanted to ask for a picture near the sign, but I realized before whipping out my camera, that would be considered pretty tacky, especially in front of someone who had once modeled the clothes. I refrained, memorizing the sights, sounds and smells of the brand while she pulled a few things off the rack. />
  The store smelled slightly lemony, very fresh. I walked around the outskirts of the store, careful where I set my feet, noticing that the thick, spongy carpet muted the sounds of the customers. When my phone clicked against the metal clasp of my purse, I paused, glancing over my shoulder to see how fast I’d get kicked out. No one so much as turned a head; the salespeople must have been good at reading who the big spenders were, and since I clearly wasn’t one of them they could care less about what I did, so long as I didn’t break anything. Meanwhile, they showered Roberto with glasses of champagne and trays of mints.

  Next thing I knew, he pointed at me, and the saleslady walked over with outstretched hands, entrusting me with a few articles of clothing. I was unsure what was expected of me. First, I couldn’t afford them. No way in heck. I’d have to sell my plane ticket back to America to cover that Visa bill… not that it’d be all bad, now that I thought about it.

  And second, I spilled on everything. I was afraid to even touch the clothes, let alone put them on. With encouragement, however I agreed. My arm twisted mighty fast.

  I walked out of the dressing room, and when I looked in the mirror I didn’t recognize the leggy girl in well fitting clothes. Roberto had outstanding taste; navy blue shorts sat perfectly on my hips in a way that would make them appropriate for work or play, and the fitted button down shirt was not only pristine, but lightweight and comfortable as well. Paired with flats, this outfit was perfect.

  I almost cried knowing I couldn’t afford it. I basked in the material for a few more moments before forfeiting the urge to run out of the store far, far away until they gave up trying to catch me and let me keep the clothes.

  My mind wandered to the hopelessness of the plan; who in their right mind would want to get armpit-stains on their brand new Gucci white button down? Not me. But maybe if I ran, let them catch me, got arrested, managed to keep the clothes on until I got to jail… I sighed.

  There was no way I would get out of the store with these clothes. I changed back, thanked the lady, and headed out of the store, seeing Roberto standing near the entrance.