Say Yes (Nostalgic Summer Romance)

I sighed, plopping down next to her. “I know we don’t get grades until the end of the summer, but if today is any indication, I’m leaving here with a big fat F,” I said, pausing to take a sip of wine before I pointed at her with my pinky. “And I don’t mean F for Florence.”

“Then you must mean F for fantastic!”

I tried to smile but fell short, settling on a huff of annoyance, instead. “He hated it. I worked all week long on that painting and he hated it. He called it… ugh, what was the word.” I strained to remember. “Prevedibile?”

Angela winced. “Ouch.”

“You know what that means?”

She nodded with a grimace that told me she didn’t want to translate, but reluctantly she said, “Predictable.”

I sighed, letting my head hit the back of the musty orange couch. “Sounds about right. He went on to lecture me on how he didn’t feel anything when he looked at it. Just what every artist wants to hear.” I shook my head, heart kicking in my chest with the next part of my memory. “And then this stupid boy across the room from me practically moves him to tears. And he didn’t even start his painting until last night!”

“Hey, I told you procrastination pays off,” Angela said, tilting her glass toward me before she took a drink.

“It’s infuriating. I walk the halls of the Uffizi every day. I’ve been studying Michelangelo and Botticelli and Angelico since I was too young to even pronounce their names correctly. I know for a fact that I worked three times as hard on my painting, but this guy just waltzes in eight hours before the assignment is due and blows me out of the water.” I huffed. “Sexism.”

Angela laughed at that. “Okay, you know I’m the first to call out patriarchy, but I don’t think that’s what this is.” She shrugged. “Maybe he got lucky. Or, maybe he’s really talented. Did you see the painting?”

I grumbled. “No.”

“See?” Angela took another sip and waved me off. “So what. The professor liked that guy’s painting and not yours. That’s bound to happen. You’re not going to be everyone’s cup of tea.”

“But I need to be his, or I’m going to fail out of this program and be stuck behind a desk crunching numbers for the rest of my life.”

“It was one assignment,” Angela insisted, reaching over into my lap and covering my small hand, which made me flinch a little, the instinct to pull away automatic. But Angela just gave my hand a gentle squeeze as her smile spread. “You’ll have plenty more to prove him wrong. For now, take whatever lesson you can from his critique and forge ahead.”

“Forge ahead,” I repeated on a mumble when Angela pulled away. “Right off the edge of a cliff.”

“You’re so dramatic,” she said with a laugh. Then, she downed what was left of her wine and popped off the couch. “Come on. Let’s go out.”

I shook my head. “I just want a shower and my bed.”

“Too bad. We’re going out for dinner and more of this,” she said, shaking her now-empty glass.

“It’s a school night.”

“It’s a school night,” she mocked. “Come on, Harley. You’re twenty-two years old. Your body is in its prime and you’ve still got youthful, wrinkle-free skin and the ability to bounce back from a night out without a raging hangover. And you’re in Florence, Italy, for Pete’s sake.” She reached down for my hand, wiggling her fingers. “Come on. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

I looked at her hand, then at the wine left in my glass, and then up at her bright, expectant, honey eyes.

She was right.

I hated it, but she was right.

So, I followed her lead, knocking back the rest of my wine before I let her peel me off the couch and drag me out into the bustling Florence streets.

The Art of Seduction

After stuffing our bellies with delicious white truffle ravioli from a small restaurant down the street from our dorm, Angela and I found ourselves in the back corner of a wine bar called Vino di Fiume.

I wasn’t sure if it was always where the younger crowd gathered, or if the students in our program had just taken over since we arrived in Florence two weeks ago, but this seemed to be the place for everyone studying abroad. Students lined every inch of the bar and took up every seated table, too.

The lights were low, a combination of candles and dimly lit chandeliers, and the wall behind the bar was lined with more wine than I had seen in my entire life. Soft Italian music played from a boombox behind the bar, too, but you could only hear it if you were ordering a drink. Otherwise, it was the steady hum of conversation and laughter, which I loved just as much.