Far From Over Page 2

  “Please don’t tell me you’re going back to New Jersey.” Nello knows my whole story, how angry my Dad was when I left for Europe, how my parents have been expecting all along for me to run out of money and come crawling home. “It’s too soon to give up.”

  “No way. I’m not going back anytime soon,” I say. “Whenever I do go home, it’s not going to be as a failure.” Nello looks so relieved it hurts me to say the next part. “But I’m thinking about moving on to some other city, getting a fresh start.”

  “No,” Nello says. “Really?” His blue-framed glasses have slipped down his nose; he pushes them back into place.

  “Thing is, my guitar playing doesn’t seem to be taking Naples by storm.”

  “Listen, my man, I can get you a job like mine. No more dishwashing, I promise. Some of the hotels around here must be hiring porters. I’ll ask around. You’ll save up, and then you can travel in style.”

  This isn’t the first time he’s offered to help me find real work to supplement my music habit. If I’m going to turn down his help, I at least owe him the truth. “It’s not just the money. It just feels lately like… I don’t know.” The words aren’t coming easily. “Like I’ve fallen into a pit.”

  His face clouds over.

  “I don’t mean Naples,” I say in a hurry. “I love it here. I just mean in my own head.”

  “A pit in your head?” He looks confused, and still a little hurt.

  “Even busking has started to feel like work,” I say.

  He broods for a while, then his eyes light up. “I know what! We could start up another band.” Our band back in Florence had been pretty decent, at least until the rhythm guitarist followed his girlfriend to Scotland. Before that, we had a great time playing in piazzas around the city, and even in the occasional underground club.

  But now the idea just makes me feel tired. I shake my head.

  “Is this about Lucy?” he asks.

  “Of course not,” I say. “It’s been weeks. I’m over her.” My mantra.

  But Nello isn’t buying. “Dude. This is about that e-mail.”

  Maybe I shouldn’t have told him about Lucy’s last e-mail. Talking about it now sure isn’t going to make my mood any better.

  “Naples is full of beautiful girls,” Nello adds. “I can introduce you to as many as you want.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Nello is the only boy in a family of seven, and a constant stream of his sisters’ pretty friends runs through his family’s living room. But it’s not like I can’t meet girls on my own, if that’s what I want. “Don’t you need to get back to work?”

  Nello finishes off his bottle of water and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Here’s what I want you to do, my man,” he says. “Find a reason to stay.”

  It’s rush hour and the train back to Torre Annunziata is packed. Angelina and I hang on to the overhead pole, and she tells me about her day—the slimy boss who she suspects is embezzling from the hotel, and some mishap involving a small kitchen fire. I try to listen, but find myself paying more attention to the manicured hand that gestures as she speaks, and to her hair. Now that the workday is done, she’s let it down, and it’s wilder than usual, a little bit staticky.

  Thanks to the crowd, we’re standing pretty close, and it gets awkward whenever the train lurches to a stop and our bodies smash into each other. It’s been a while since I’ve been this close to a girl, and as my mind wanders, I realize I’m having thoughts a guy shouldn’t be having about his best friend’s sister. I wedge my guitar case more firmly between us and try to distract myself, stealing glances out the window at the apartment buildings rushing past.

  Angelina says my name, and I snap back to attention. She laughs and fiddles with her hair. “So the landscape is more interesting than my story?”

  “That’s not it,” I say, feeling like I can’t win.

  “Tell me about your day, then. I promise to actually listen.”

  It’s a dig, but a playful one. Of course the last thing I feel like talking about is the day I’ve just had. “Not much to report.”

  “Tell me something else, then. Your life story.”

  “You already know it.” When I arrived at the Zamparellis’ apartment, the whole family interrogated me about my life back in the States. I’d answered as well as I could manage in Italian, which means I stuck to the surface facts: Mom’s a teacher, Dad’s a city planner, I have two younger brothers, I live near the ocean not far from Manhattan. The basics.

  Angelina raises her perfectly arched eyebrows. “Not really,” she says. “We hardly ever talk.”

  That’s not true. Almost every day I commute into Naples with Angelina and Nello; she rides shotgun and I wedge myself into the back of Nello’s Fiat. We make small talk over cappuccino in the morning, over five-course dinners at night, through commercial breaks during the family’s nightly TV hour, and sometimes even while we’re waiting in the hallway for the upstairs bathroom to free up.

  “I mean, never like this,” she says. “Just the two of us.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Right.” Come to think of it, this is the first time she and I have been alone together. If being on a crowded regional rail car counts as being alone. “What should we talk about?”

  A smile flits across her lips. “Things that matter,” she says.

  But that still doesn’t give me much to go on. She plays with her hair again, and her perfume reaches me, a little bit smoky, a little bit spicy. I open my mouth to speak, but the best I can seem to do is parrot her words. “Things that matter?”

  “For instance, why you haven’t found a girlfriend here in Naples,” she says.

  Is she going to try to fix me up with one of her friends? I’m not sure how I would feel about that. “What makes you think I haven’t?” I ask.

  “We’d see a lot less of you, I think. If there was a girl.”

  “You’re probably right.” Lucy, I think, then brush the thought away. “Anyway, there’s no girl.”

  “But you do like girls?” Angelina twinkles up in my direction, and I realize she’s flirting with me. I’ll admit it: I’m a little bit pleased. If Lucy’s already started dating again, the least I can do is start flirting.

  Not that it means anything. Angelina flirts with everyone—guys, girls, old ladies, little children. I’ve seen her charm policemen and shopkeepers and the pimply teenager who sells newspapers at his parents’ kiosk on the corner. “Yes, I like girls.” I try for a wry smile of my own, but I’ve never been much of a flirt, and now I’m so rusty it just dies on my lips.

  The train has come to a stop between stations, giving me a reason to look away, out the window, for a landmark. I’m guessing we’ve got a long way to go till home.

  “What about that one over there?” Angelina asks. “She’s been staring at you the whole ride.” I follow her gaze to the front of the car, and I see the blond girl from earlier today. Her face lights up, and she waves at me.

  I wave back, and suddenly it seems like everyone on the train is watching me.

  “You know her?” Angelina sounds surprised, and not completely pleased.

  “I’ve seen her around,” I say. The other passengers go back to minding their own business—except for two men standing near the blond girl. They’re full-on glaring at me. One nudges the other, then whispers something in his ear. Are they friends of hers? They don’t exactly look friendly.

  “So that’s the type of girl you like?” Angelina asks.

  “I don’t have a type.” Lucy pops into my head again—petite but curvy, full pink lips, a tumble of light brown curls. I shake my head to dislodge her.

  But Angelina won’t back off. “So then why don’t you go over and talk to her? Ask her out on a date?” She gives my chest a little push, but her eyes say she doesn’t mean it.

  “I hardly know her,” I say. Those two glowering guys are on the scary side—one bulky and muscular, the other shorter and aggressively tattooed. They’re eyeing the blo
nd girl now, hanging over her. One says something in the girl’s direction, and I see her frown and inch a little bit away from him. “Do you think those two are bothering her?” I ask.

  Angelina wrinkles her nose. “She’s asking for trouble, dressing like that on the Circumvesuviana.”

  “That’s not very PC of you,” I say. It comes out snarky, and she looks confused. “Politically correct,” I explain. “Some people would say it doesn’t matter what a girl wears. She shouldn’t get harassed.”

  Angelina gives a little snort. “I say those people don’t live in the real world.” Then she lowers her chin and looks up at me through her long, dark lashes. “Some girls know how to cover up and still be sexy.”

  There’s no more doubt: She’s flirting with me for real. I think of Nello’s advice: Find a reason to stay. But this—getting involved with his sister—can’t be what he means. Can it?

  Not sure what to say, I glance down the train, and the blond girl catches my eye again. She’s looking away, trying to ignore her admirers. The bigger one is still talking to her. She’s got a determined look on her face, like she’s afraid and trying not to show it. I can’t blame her; the guy looks like he’s 98 percent muscle.

  “I think that one’s threatening her,” I say.

  “He’s flirting,” Angelina says, with the absolute certainty of a world-class flirt. “Besides, he’s not bad-looking.”

  Really? I wonder. With his shaved head, the guy looks kind of like a knuckle to me. “Maybe we should work our way a little closer. That way, if she needs help, we can do something.” Not that I have any idea what something is.

  “Better to mind our business.” Angelina squeezes my arm—gentle pressure, a signal that it’s time to change the subject. “I was thinking, after this terrible day I’ve had, I can’t go home to a noisy house. I feel like having dinner out tonight, maybe on the Lido.”

  I nod, a bit absently.

  “You’ll come with me?” she says.

  Is she asking me on a date? I can’t help thinking of Nello. If I went out for dinner with his sister, he might be happy for us both. Or he might want to punch me in the face. At the moment, both seem equally likely.

  “But I see you’re more interested in that tourist girl.” Angelina sounds miffed.

  Now both guys are talking to the blond, and she’s staring down at her knees, still trying desperately to ignore them. It’s clear Muscles is the Alpha Male; he’s leaning over her, doing most of the talking, while Tattoo Sleeves chimes in every so often for good measure.

  “I just don’t like to see anyone get picked on,” I say.

  “We should stay out of it,” Angelina says. “Unless you want to fight.”

  I’ve never been a fighter. If I step in, it’s a sure bet I’ll get my ass whipped in front of Angelina, not to mention a whole train car of commuters. All of them have gone back to minding their own business. They read their papers, chat with their neighbors, or stare vacantly ahead, saying nothing.

  Muscles and Tattoo Sleeves are laughing now, loudly enough for me to hear. I take a step toward them just as we pull into Leopardi station. Whooping and catcalling, they push through the crowd and exit the train, still laughing. “Ci vediamo, bellezza!” Muscles yells. See you, beautiful.

  Relieved, I turn back to Angelina. “You see?” she says. “She didn’t need your help.” Her hand revisits my arm, gives it another playful squeeze. “So, what do you think about dinner?”

  I should be enjoying myself. I’m eating lasagna on a patio at Ristorante Federici with a hot Italian girl. With its leather-bound wine list and its penguin-suited waiters, this is the fanciest restaurant I’ve set foot in for as long as I’ve been in Italy. But my mind can’t stop whirring. For one thing, my wallet’s all but empty.

  “Do you think this place will accept my debit card?” I asked before we went in, trying not to think of my dwindling bank account.

  She waved my words away. “My idea, my treat.”

  But it doesn’t feel right, letting her pay for us both. Another thing: Our table’s too small for two. Though we’re sitting across from each other, our knees and hands can’t help but sometimes brush. As I accept her offer to get a bottle of wine for the table, I’m wondering how she expects me to play this. It’s not officially a date, after all, and since she’s paying, I wouldn’t feel right acting as though it is one. And at the very least I should ask for Nello’s blessing before putting an arm around his twin sister or leaning in for a kiss. If that’s even what I want to do.

  But why wouldn’t I? She’s hot, whip smart, and vivacious, and unless I’m very mistaken, she’s into me. Her eyes never leave my face, and when she laughs at my lame jokes, she throws her whole body into it. She asks me if I want to taste her gnocchi al pesto, and when I say yes, she feeds a bit to me on the tip of her fork and watches me chew. “You like it?” she asks.

  “Molto delicioso,” I say.

  As we leave Ristorante Federici, the sun is just on the verge of setting, wispy hot-pink clouds gathering at the horizon. We stand awhile in front of the restaurant, admiring the sky. “Where to?” I finally ask.

  “Not home. I’m not ready yet. Are you?” she asks.

  Truth is, it’s been a long day. I’m tired of lugging my guitar around, and we’ll both have to get up early tomorrow and do it all over again. But saying so feels like it would be rude.

  “Let’s keep walking,” I say instead. We cross over to the beach, and as soon as we hit sand, she steps out of her heels. With its black volcanic sand, palm trees, and calm sapphire-blue sea, the Lido here doesn’t have much in common with the Jersey Shore. Still, that smell of salt air and seaweed brings me instantly back to the summer afternoons of my childhood—building sand castles with my little brothers, goofing with my friends, trying to catch a wave on my dad’s hand-me-down surfboard.

  That feeling—the one I refuse to call homesickness—rises in me again.

  Angelina must read my expression, because she asks me why I look so sad.

  “The beach reminds me of my home,” I admit.

  “You must miss your family sometimes,” she says.

  “Hardly ever.”

  “No? You’re lucky, to be so…” She struggles for the right word, then gives up. “Sometimes I think I’ll never go anywhere.”

  This isn’t the first hint I’ve gotten that she’d like to leave Naples in her rearview mirror. Her cell-phone ringtone is “Empire State of Mind,” and the pajamas she sometimes wears around the apartment are printed with little Eiffel Towers. “You’ve never traveled?” I ask.

  “I sometimes stay in Rimini on vacation with my girlfriends. And once or twice a year I take the train to Rome. But I’ve never been out of Italy.” She takes cautious little steps in the sand, somehow less confident walking barefoot than in heels. “Someday, though, I hope I get to really travel. I’d like to work for an international hotel chain, maybe get a transfer someplace more exciting.” She sweeps an arm to indicate Torre Annunziata. To me, it’s still exotic, Vesuvius looming blue and dangerous over the city, but to her, it’s just the beautiful but broken-down suburb of Naples she was born into. “Can’t you imagine me someplace like New York City?” She flashes a smile that’s self-mocking and dazzling at the same time.

  I can, actually. She’d fit right in among the girls I see whenever I take the PATH train into the city—girls from everywhere who move to Manhattan to break into acting, architecture, fashion design, whatever. “Sure,” I say. “You should give New York a try.”

  “Easy for you to say.” She captures a flyaway lock of hair, tucks it behind her ear. “I don’t know anybody there. Only you, if you go back. But you might never go back.”

  “I never said never. Just not soon.”

  For a while, we don’t speak. We just keep walking up the beach. The backs of our hands brush once by accident—at least I think it’s by accident. A few steps later it happens again. I look over and find her watching for my reaction. A f
aint breeze off the bay lifts her hair, and I think how easy it would be to pull her in for a kiss.

  But she’s my best friend’s sister. Even worse: his twin. Walking along with her like this, it’s hard to wrap my head around that fact. For one thing, they don’t look much alike. And they’re different in other ways, too—Nello with his baby face, his halo of curls and easy smile, is so open and easy to read. Angelina is edgier, more guarded. I’ve caught her watching me sometimes, over dinner or on our drives into the city, and it seemed like she was judging me, maybe wondering why I was bumming around the world playing music instead of working a real job like she does.

  Now I think maybe I’ve been misreading those looks. We wander closer to the water’s edge. She breaks the silence just before it gets awkward. “Tell me about America.”

  “That’s a big subject,” I say.

  “Your hometown, then. What’s it like?”

  I start, haltingly, but once the floodgates are open, I find myself describing all the things I’ve been missing lately. The orchard where my family picks apples every fall. The music store downtown where I took my first guitar lessons at thirteen. Chips, who is getting on in years, and who I’m worried might not last until I finally do get home. Neptune’s Fourth of July celebration, where I had my first kiss with a French girl who was visiting her cousins. Which, come to think of it, may be where I caught the European travel bug in the first place.

  “You do sound homesick,” Angelina says.

  “But I’m not,” I say. “Not really.”

  She shoots me a look I can’t quite read, and drops her shoes to the sand. Without warning, she darts off down the beach, and I set down my guitar and give chase. Catching up with her isn’t easy; when I finally do, momentum gets the best of me, and I tumble forward onto the sand. She falls beside me, and we catch our breath, laughing.

  Then we’re kissing. I guess I started it, though I can’t say for sure. Both her hands are on my neck, pulling me in, and for quite a long time I forget my reservations, forget everything except how it feels to be kissing someone. She presses against me, and it feels good. My body responds while my mind struggles to catch up. Better stop. Nello will want to kill you. Besides, I’m only just getting to know Angelina. This kiss isn’t something I planned. I have no idea where it might lead, where I want it to lead.