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And yes, while the Vatican was like nothing I’ve ever experienced before—art and architecture on a scale that’s hard to comprehend even when it’s staring you in the face—it’s not like I could truly step back and appreciate it all. I was too scared one of my students was going to somehow irrevocably tarnish ancient history. Oops, I spilled my Gatorade on this PRICELESS FRESCO.
I was on edge the whole time.
Friday evening, after I make sure the kids are settled for the night, I take a ridiculously long shower, wash my hair, and soap off all the sweat. Wanting to treat myself, I put on my best pair of pajamas, the shorts and tank top someone gifted to Kristen at her bridal shower that didn’t fit her so she passed them on to me. They’re decadent and expensive. 100% silk. I let my hair out of my towel and lather up my skin with moisturizer to try to combat the sun I’ve been getting since we arrived in Rome.
Out in the hall, I peer under Noah’s door, but the light’s off. He’s gone off somewhere without me. Oh well.
I go into my room and plop down on my bed. I swear to god, there’s never been a better feeling. Never.
I’m reading there for half an hour or so before Noah lets himself in and closes the door behind him.
He’s freshly showered too. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that make me want to bite down on my bottom lip and a white t-shirt that stretches over his muscles. He shouldn’t look as hot as he does. It’s criminal.
I drop my book onto my lap. “So comfortable with each other we’re not even knocking now? I could have been naked.”
He unfurls a slow-spreading smile like I’ve just put a deliciously detailed image into his head. One he’ll want to hang on to for later. Then he holds up a nondescript white paper bag and dangles it between his fingers.
“I got us a little somethin’ to take the edge off. Figured we needed it after what we went through the last two days.”
“Oh really?”
He pushes off the door and walks right up to the side of my bed. I sit up, curious, as he opens the bag and tilts it for me to peer inside.
Oh my god.
I stare up at him like he’s crazy. “Where did you get this?!”
He plays it off with a cheesy Italian gangster accent. “Down the street. I know a guy.”
“Are you kidding? Noah. You could have been caught! How’d you sneak this past the kids? They could have smelled it and then we’d be in deep shit.”
“Yeah well, can you keep a secret or not?”
I motion for him to show me what’s inside the bag again, just so I can get a second whiff to be sure he’s procured what I think he has.
“Is it street legal?”
“Probably not. You’d never find this back home in the States. At least not this quality.”
“Okay quick. Go make sure my door’s locked.”
Meanwhile, I rearrange my pillows so we can sit side by side on my bed with our backs to the wall. He kicks off his shoes and climbs up beside me. We’re hip to hip when he looks at me, waiting for the cue. I nod to let him know to go ahead. No time like the present.
The bag crinkles as he dips his hand inside, then slowly, slowly, he draws out an authentic Italian cannoli with the careful precision of a surgeon delicately lifting a donor kidney from a patient. We’re talking fried, crispy pastry stuffed with a creamy filling of ricotta cheese, sugar, and chocolate chips. Noah cradles it gently in his hand and holds it out toward me, gifting me the first taste. I greedily accept a bite from one end, close my eyes, and savor every last morsel.
My groan is sexual.
I’ve never tasted anything sweeter in my life.
I peer over at Noah as he takes his bite. He’s having an out-of-body experience too.
“Good, right?” he asks with hooded eyes.
“So good. Let me have another bite.”
“Easy! You almost took off the tip of my finger.”
Then it’s his turn again.
“Hey!” I grab his bicep. “C’mon! You just devoured like half of it.”
We’re done with the dessert in seconds. I don’t even think we chew. I check the bag just to confirm we sucked up every last crumb then Noah crinkles it up into a tight ball and shoots it like a basketball into the trashcan by my desk.
We stay on my bed, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. Noah, me, and my little blue bunny. Neither of us says a word. The air turns thick with tension. It seems we haven’t totally sated our appetites with that dessert, and now we’re both thinking about having another.
I have specks of ricotta and sugar smeared on my fingers and lips, and I lick it off while Noah watches. I could get a napkin, of course, but why waste the opportunity?
