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Then he shrugs. “The truth, I’d like to be settled down, married, starting a family.” When I look alarmed, he adds. “In five years. Relax over there. Also, I think it’d be cool to get a dog. My landlord doesn’t allow pets.”
“Mine does,” I say, realizing how that sounds a moment after the words leave my mouth. Want a dog? Come live with me!
Noah smiles. “Good to know. But yeah, career-wise? I like teaching at Lindale. I don’t see myself doing anything else.”
I hold out my hand in a pseudo-handshake. “Well, Mr. Peterson, we still need to review your CV, but between you and me, I think you definitely got the job.”
He laughs. “What about you?”
I look down at my wine glass, running my finger along the stem. “Oh, yeah, same, actually. Kids are…something I want for sure. At least two.”
“At least two. Yeah.”
I smile playfully. “Three could be fun?”
“Definitely. Three.” He’s absolutely sure of this.
“Four?”
He looks unimpressed. “I don’t know…by then, you might as well shoot for five and get a full basketball team.”
“Hadn’t thought about that. Solid reasoning. Five for sure. Although…my mild OCD would never allow me to have an uneven number of kids.”
“Six it is.”
We’re still teasing each other when the waiter comes over to deliver our antipasto dish: crostini with strawberry and honey, topped with goat cheese. Everything is delicious but not overly pretentious. The restaurant Noah found is run by a husband-and-wife duo who’ve been operating the place for close to forty years. They go around to every table and greet diners as they eat. When they come over to us, they kiss our cheeks and go on and on in Italian about what a cute couple we are. We only know because we look it up on Google translate after they leave. Bella coppia! The food is fresh and in season, the prices are reasonable, and the wine is too tempting to pass up. We finish a bottle and the owners send over a second one on the house. We don’t let a single drop go to waste.
Noah and I are both mildly drunk by the time we leave.
For no reason whatsoever, neither one of us can stop laughing. We walk home hissing at each other to keep it down.
“Shh! It’s late. We’re going to wake up the neighborhood.”
We’re not in danger of that. Not even close. We’re in Rome on a Saturday night in July—the streets are flooded with people.
We’re almost back to the school when I think of a brilliant idea. I grab Noah’s hand and tug him back.
“Oh! Oh! Should we get another—”
I’m about to say a word when it completely evaporates from my head.
“Another what?” Noah asks.
“The dessert we had last night.” I snap my fingers. “What was that called?”
Noah acts completely confused. He likes seeing me flustered.
“It was the thing with the ricotta cheese! Oh my god! Are you kidding me? OH! CANNOLI!”
“Cannoli!” some dude on the street echoes back at me, like we’re playing a game.
Noah can’t quite remember where the bakery was located. We go down a multitude of wrong streets, laughing like it’s the most hilarious thing that’s ever happened to us, and by the time we find it, the place is closed.
I press my face and hands against the glass, looking for any signs of life inside the dark building.
“Are you crying?” Noah asks me.
I sniff. “No.”
He grabs my shoulders with his hands and reroutes me down the street.
“I’ve just never tasted something so good in my entire life.”
“That’s what you said about the lasagna at dinner.”
“And I meant it then too.”
What’s so hard to understand about that?
He laughs and keeps prodding me along, probably worried that if he lets go of me, I’ll turn back and run for the bakery. He’s not wrong. A part of me wants to camp out on their doorstep until sunrise. I’d get the first cannoli of the day.
When we finally make it to St. Cecilia’s, we’re drunker than skunks, thirsty, and tired. The whole place is dark, which doesn’t worry me all that much until Noah tries the gate and it’s locked.
Worst-case scenarios run wild in my alcohol-addled brain.
They’ve forgotten about us!
We’ll have to sleep on the street!
We’ll die!
I’m spiraling. Meanwhile, Noah buzzes a little intercom button half-hidden behind the overgrown bougainvillea. Apparently, it connects to a walkie talkie Enzo, the security guard, carries.
Noah follows my panicked “HELP US! PLEASE!” with a calm “Hey Enzo, it’s Noah and Audrey. Could you come unlock the gate for us please?”
When Enzo comes to let us in, we thank him profusely.
“Non c’è problema,” he assures us.
We tiptoe through the school so we don’t wake up the kids or the other chaperones. The lights are still on out in the halls, but it still takes me ten tries to fit my key into the lock on my door. Noah leans against the wall and gives commentary.
