Love & Gelato (11 page)

I explained to them that I will pay for the entire thing. I thanked them for their contributions to my education. I assured them that I'll keep up on my normal grooming routines. And then I went up to my room and bawled my eyes out for at least an hour because I am SO SCARED. But what choice do I have? The second I had that art-school acceptance letter in my hand I knew I wanted it more than I've ever wanted anything. I'm going because it feels scarier not to!

I set the journal down. A straight-up monsoon was happening in the general vicinity of my face, and the words kept running together in a big, blurry mess.
This
was why I couldn't read her journals. They made me feel like I was overhearing her talking on the phone to a friend and then when I looked up from the page and she wasn't there . . .

Pull it together.
I rubbed my eyes ferociously. She'd sent me this journal for a reason, and I had to find out what it was.

JUNE 13

It seems like a bad omen to be leaving on the thirteenth, but here I am. Chilly good-bye from Mom, then Dad dropped me off at the airport. Hello, unknown.

JUNE 20

I'M HERE. I could write fifty pages about my first week in Florence, but suffice it to say, I am
here
. FAAF is exactly what I pictured: tiny, cluttered, overflowing with talent. My apartment is right above a noisy bakery and my mattress might be made of cardboard, but who cares when the world's most gorgeous city is right outside my window?

My roommate is named Francesca, and she's a fashion photography student from northern Italy. She wears all black, switches effortlessly in and out of Italian, French, and English, and has been chain-smoking out our window since she the moment she arrived. I adore her.

JUNE 23

First free day in Italy. I was looking forward to a lazy morning involving a fresh jar of Nutella and some bread from the bakery downstairs, but Francesca had other plans. When I came out of my room she instructed me to get dressed, then spent the next thirty minutes arguing enthusiastically with someone on the phone while I sat waiting for her. When she finally hung up she insisted I had to change my shoes. “No sandals. It's after eleven o'clock.” She made me change twice more. (“No dark denim after April.” “Never match your shoes to your handbag.”) It was exhausting.

Finally we were out on the street and Francesca started giving me a speed-dating version of Florence's history. “Florence is the birthplace of the Renaissance. You
do
know what the Renaissance is, don't you?” I assured her that everyone knows what the Renaissance is, but she explained it anyway. “A third of the population died in the bubonic plague in the 1300s, and afterward Europe experienced a cultural rebirth. Suddenly there was an explosion of artistic work. It all started here before trickling out to the rest of Europe. Painting, sculpture, architecture—this was the art capital of the world. Florence was one of the wealthiest cities in history . . .” and on and on and
on
.

She was weaving in and out of the streets, not even taking a second to make sure I was following, and then suddenly I saw it. THE DUOMO. Intricate, colorful, Gothic Duomo. I was completely winded, but even if I hadn't been, it would have taken my breath away.

Francesca put out her cigarette, then led me to the Duomo's side entryway and told me that we were climbing to the top. And we did. Four hundred and sixty-three steep stone stairs, with Francesca pogoing up the steps like her stilettos had springs. When we finally got to the top I couldn't stop taking pictures. Florence spreads out like an orange-tinted maze, towers and buildings jutting up here and there, but nothing as tall as the Duomo. There were green hills in the distance, and the sky was the most perfect shade of blue. Francesca finally stopped talking when she saw how in awe I was. She didn't even get mad when I reached my arms out wide, feeling the wind and this new feeling—this freedom. Before we headed back down I gave Francesca a giant hug, but she just peeled me off her and said, “All right, all right. You got yourself here. I just took you to see the Duomo. Now let's go shopping. I've never seen a sadder pair of jeans. Really, Hadley, they make me want to weep.”

“No way,” I whispered to myself. What were the chances that I'd read this entry on the day
I'd
seen the Duomo for the first time? I ran my fingers over the words, imagining my twenty-something-year-old mom running to keep up with tyrannical, springy Francesca. Was this part of the reason my mom had sent her journal? So we could experience Florence together?

I marked my place and switched off the light, my chest heavy. Yes, hearing her voice was the emotional equivalent of a damaged ship taking on water. But it felt good, too. She'd
loved
Florence. Maybe reading her journal would be like seeing it with her.

I'd just have to take it in small doses.

I HAVE TO TELL ADDIE
about the journal.
The next morning I tumbled down the stairs without even changing out of my pajamas. Ren had been totally wrong about the jet-lag thing. Once I'd finished reading the diary entries, I'd tucked the journal under the covers with me and then slept a solid thirteen hours. I felt like a well-rested hummingbird.

Right before I escaped up to my room, Howard had told me he'd leave his cell phone out for me, and I was ridiculously grateful that I didn't have to ask him for it. If last night's drive home were a book, it would have been titled something like
The Longest, Quietest, Most Miserable Ride Ever,
and I really wasn't looking forward to a sequel. The less interacting, the better.

Back in my room I closed the door, then powered up the phone. Country code first? Area code? Where were my instructions? After three tries, the phone finally started ringing. Ian answered.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Ian. It's Lina.”

A video game blared in the background.

“You know . . . the one who lived with you for five months?” I prompted.

“Oh, yeah. Hi, Lina. Where are you again? France?”

“Italy. Is Addie there?”

“No. I don't know where she is.”

“Isn't it like two a.m. there?”

“Yeah. I think she stayed over at someone's house. We're sharing a phone now.”

“I heard. Could you tell her I called?”

“Sure. Don't eat snails.”
Click.

I groaned. Ian's track record meant that my message had a less-than-zero chance of ever getting to Addie. And I
really
needed to talk to her—about the journal, about what Howard had told me, about . . . everything. I paced around my bedroom like my grandma's OCD cat. I really didn't feel ready to go back to the journal again, but I also
really
couldn't just sit around thinking. I quickly changed into my running clothes, then went outside.

“Hi, Lina. How'd you sleep?”

I jumped. Howard was sitting on the porch swing with a stack of papers on his lap and dark circles under his eyes. I'd been ambushed.

“Fine. I just woke up.” I propped my foot up on the banister and gave my shoelaces total and complete concentration.

“Ah, to be a teenager again. I don't think I saw the morning side of a sunrise until I was in my late twenties.” He stopped swinging and sort of stumbled into his next sentence. “How are you feeling about what we talked about last night? I wonder if I could have told you that in a better way.”

“I'm not upset,” I said quickly.

“I'd really like to talk to you more about your mother and me. There are some things she didn't tell you that—”

I yanked my foot off the banister like I was a Rockette. “Maybe another time? I'd really like to start my run.”
And I want to hear my mom's side first.

He hesitated. “Okay, sure.” He tried to meet my gaze. “We'll take it at your pace. Just tell me when you're ready.”

I hurried down the steps.

“You got a phone call at the visitors' center this morning.”

I whipped around. “Was it Addie?”
Please be Addie.

“No. It was a local call. His name was strange. Red? Rem? An American. He said he met you yesterday while you were out running.”

A handful of confetti rained down on me.
He called?
“Ren. It's short for ‘Lorenzo.' ”

“That makes more sense. He said you're going to a party with him tonight?”

“Oh, yeah. Maybe.” The whole Howard/journal thing had done an awesome job at crowding everything else out of my brain. Was I feeling gutsy enough to go?

Howard's forehead creased. “Well, who is he?”

“He lives nearby. His mom's American and he goes to the international school. I think he's my age.”

His face lit up. “That's great. Except . . . Oh, no.”

“What?”

“I started grilling him because I thought he was one of the guys who chased you when you were out running. I think I might have scared him.”

“I met Ren behind the cemetery. He was playing soccer on the hill.”