Expiration Dating (13 page)

             
We walked away from each other, and I looked back to catch him still watching me. I sauntered the rest of the way home, still on cloud nine.
Was this a sign? Had I met my Italian?

I plopped on the couch, feet up, dreaming of the castle we’d own together. Maybe I’d get my own shoe closet. I wasn’t a fashionista, but hey, I wouldn’t turn them down.

Emilia unlocked the door and paused before setting her book bag on the floor. She disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared holding a blood orange from her stash on the kitchen table. She started reading her book, but when I didn’t say anything, she seemed to get impatient. I’d enjoy my moment in the spotlight as much as I could.

“So?” She asked.

I glanced up at the scent of citrus.

             
“Emilia you will not believe who I met today.”

“I haven’t seen you this excited since you discovered whipped gelato,” she said. “This is gonna be good.”

I gave her my version of a stern
look
.

“Tell me,
oh please tell me.
”

“You’re being rude,” I said. “But I’m going to tell you anyway, you’re welcome
.” I filled Emilia in on the full story. I especially emphasized the parts where he I looked nice (she looked skeptical) and the part about being a shoe designer (she drooled).

             
“
And
, he wants to go out again tomorrow,” I finished.

             
“Go, go, go!
Go
for all of us and then tell us how it is so we can live vicariously through you. How do you meet these people? You’re so lucky.”

             
“No, Emilia, what did I tell you? It’s all about the smile.”

             
I grabbed her proffered slice of blood orange, and smiled a huge, cheesy grin.

             
“You’ve got salad in your teeth,” she said.

             
“Damn.”

Chapter
Twenty

             
The next day passed in a flurry of activity. I skipped lunch with my classmates again. Instead, Emilia and I headed out on a mission. I stood in the dressing room at Terra Nova, an Italian store that housed beautiful clothing at a more affordable rate than the designer labels. My rack of clothes to try on was overflowing, and Emilia kept refilling it before it could get empty.

             
“Dana, the belt is backwards,” she said. She passed me another outfit.

             
“I can’t breathe in this,” I gasped.

             
“Yes, you can.”

             
I tried the next piece on. It was a black dress that touched my ankles and had long sleeves. “Emilia, I’m not a nun. My mom will not be there.”

             
“You want to look classy, right? Otherwise why did you take me shopping? You could have used something from your own closet.”

             
“Hey,” I said. “Sparkles do not
necessarily
equal trashy.”

             
Emilia remained silent as she added another plain black dress to the pile. Finally, after what seemed like hours, but in reality was forty minutes, we had a winner. As soon as I put it on, I knew I would buy it whether Emilia approved or not. I crossed my fingers as I stepped out of the dressing room.

She eyed the dress; it was strapless, made of a beautiful, light tan material that form fitted to my body without making me look like a prostitute. The best part
of all was that it was dotted here and there with gems and sequins in a captivating pattern. The dress said simple with a touch of fun.

             
“With a shawl, I think that could work,” Emilia said. That was as close to a compliment as I’d ever get out of her. I did a three sixty spin in the mirror and went back into the dressing room to change back into my street clothes.

             
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.”