Say Yes (Nostalgic Summer Romance)

“I don’t know what we are,” I admitted quietly. “Other than a couple of people who spent a night together.”

“Well, you need to get some clarity on that. Because trust me when I say nothing good comes from undefined relationships.”

“It was one night of hanging out,” I said, hoping I sounded as casual as I was aiming for. “I don’t think I need him to sign a marriage contract.”

“Look,” Angela said, popping off the edge of my bed. “You can act all cool and unaffected with him, but I see right through it. You like him. And you want him to like you. And I think you need to ask him what page he’s on before you just assume it’s the same one as you.”

“It’s not like I have his number or anything,” I shot back defensively. “If I see him around this weekend, I’ll talk to him. If not, then I’ll see him Monday. Okay?” I shrugged. “I don’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

“Fine,” Angela said with a huff on her way out of my room, but she stopped at the doorframe. “But wipe that lovestruck smile off your face if you’re so cool about things.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not lovestruck. I’m just tired.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Goodbye, Angela.”

“Let’s get dinner tonight,” she said as I grabbed my purse and headed for the front door.

“Maybe,” I said. “I might have plans.”

“With Liam Benson?” she asked in a sing-song voice, clutching her hands to her chest and batting her lashes.

“No,” I said on a laugh, pausing at the front door. “With my canvas.”

“Now that’s a date night I can get behind.”

I waved goodbye, trotting down the stairs two at a time until I pushed through the building door and out into the warm afternoon sunshine.

I counted down the hours until I could get back home to paint.

And then I pulled another all-nighter doing just that.

“Don’t grumble at me. You have to eat. And if you have to eat, you might as well have a glass of wine with your roommate while you’re at it,” Angela said the next evening after quite literally dragging me away from my painting.

I’d been holed up in my room all night working on my assignment, slept most of the morning and afternoon, and then awakened to spend the rest of the day and evening working again. This was my favorite part of the artistic process, when everything was all-consuming, when creation bled into obsession. I was content to stay there all weekend, especially now that I felt like I had a fresh view on the project.

But she was right, I did need to eat.

And some fresh air probably wouldn’t hurt either.

“I was just in the groove,” I explained. “It’s hard to leave when it’s all flowing like that.”

“I get it. I’m the same way when I’m locked in. But breaks are important. You can thank me later when you’re tipsy and inspired again.”

I chuckled as we sidestepped a group of students walking the other way on the narrow sidewalk, careful to avoid the taxi driving by on the cobblestone road. Florence was even busier than usual, the energy of a young summer Saturday night buzzing through the air.

Angela was ready for a night out, and I knew without asking that when I went home after dinner, she wouldn’t be coming with me. Her braids were pulled up in a high ponytail that swished and swayed as she walked, her makeup dark and edgy, complete with a maroon lipstick that brought out the warmth in her eyes. She wore a bright yellow tube top, and light baggy jeans ripped up at the knees, and the hem of her Tommy Hilfiger underwear peeking out above the belt. She looked like Sporty Spice and Posh Spice combined, and she turned more than a few heads as we walked through Florence to our favorite wine bar.

Vino di Fiume was already bursting at the seams when we squeezed in, but Angela managed to find us two barstools at the back corner of the bar. We ordered a bottle of chianti to share, along with a board of meats and cheeses and breads, half of which we devoured within five minutes of the waitress placing it in front of us.

“How did it go with her, by the way?” I asked between a mouthful of sausage and cheddar.

“Who?”

“The bartender,” I said, nodding toward the same girl Angela had stayed behind with last time we were here.

As if on cue, she looked our way from her section of the bar, flushing a little before tucking her hair behind her ear and turning back to her customer.

Angela sighed. “She’s straight, sadly. And has a boyfriend. But she did hook me up with free drinks the rest of the night.”

“Does that happen a lot?”

“Hitting on a woman only to find out she’s straight? Of course.” Angela shrugged. “But you never know if you don’t put yourself out there. It’s not like lesbians are proudly flaunting their sexuality on their t-shirts.”