Enemies Abroad(20)

This, Noah, is how normal humans behave. Watch and learn.

“So Lorenzo, where are we headed?” I ask, dropping my hand to his forearm to give it a little squeeze.

“There’s a little coffee shop right on the river. I want to take you there and get you a proper drink. Much better than the sludge they serve in the dining hall.”

“That sounds lovely.”

See, Noah? When two adults converse in a normal manner, there’s an exchange of positive feedback, a smile, a nod, a touch or two. Lorenzo will gesture toward the gate and place his hand on the small of my back and I’ll think of something witty to say. His reply will be charming and we’ll both think to ourselves, Wow, this is going well. We’re really hitting it off.

We’ll want a second date as soon as the first one is over.

Noah isn’t paying attention to my lesson though. He’s too busy coming up with questions to delay our departure.

With his eyes narrowed shrewdly on Lorenzo, he asks, “So is this coffee date program sanctioned? Do I get to look forward to a one-on-one with the director as well?”

I know immediately where his brain is headed, but Lorenzo doesn’t.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Noah,” I hiss under my breath.

“I’m just curious if you’re going to ask Gabriella and Ashley out for coffee too. If this is official study abroad business or…”

Lorenzo takes no offense to Noah’s third degree.

He merely shrugs. “I hadn’t thought about asking either of them for coffee, no.”

“So Audrey’s just special?”

I grab Lorenzo’s arm. “Ignore him. His hard drive is short-circuiting.”

Lorenzo’s expression remains open and guileless. “It’s just a cup of coffee. You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”

I immediately contradict him. “No. No he may not.”

There’s a long tense moment of silence, a cowboy standoff sans pistols, then finally, Lorenzo smiles and claps Noah on the shoulder. “I’ll have your dear Audrey back here in one piece before lunch. You have my word.”

I shoot daggers at Noah. Happy now?

His harsh expression doesn’t ease. Whatever his objective was with that little tirade, he didn’t achieve it. He’s as grumpy as ever as Lorenzo leads me through the courtyard gate and out onto the street.

Our date has officially commenced.

Let the good times roll.

The happy jitters should be starting up any moment now.

Hey, butterflies, where ya at?

“You’re walking pretty fast,” Lorenzo tells me.

“Oh, am I?”

He laughs. “Yeah, and we missed our turn back there. Here, let’s double back.”

Right. Crap.

I force a laugh. “Sorry. Just…antsy to get to the coffee shop.”

In truth, I need to burn off some energy. I feel like I could go three rounds in the ring with Stone Cold Steve Austin and still be hungry for blood.

As we walk, Lorenzo talks to me about Julius Caesar and the fall of the Roman Republic, and my impersonation of Girl Listening could get me short-listed for a spot on SNL.

I wish I could march right back to St. Cecilia’s and give Noah a piece of my mind. Who does he think he is embarrassing me like that? I don’t need a minder or a babysitter or a big brother. I’m an adult woman with a stellar track record when it comes to steering clear of creeps. Take Noah, for example—I know to avoid him like the plague. I can spot an asshole from a mile away, and Lorenzo is not one of them.

“Here we are,” he says, reaching to take my hand to stop my forward momentum.

I look down at where our hands touch. It’s jarring, though it shouldn’t be. I just haven’t held hands with someone in a while. I tell myself it’s a sweet gesture for a first date. A little show of interest never hurt anyone. He squeezes it once and then lets it go with a bashful smile.

“Breakfast is on me. But you must try the zeppole donuts.”

“Sounds delicious.”

The small coffee shop is packed. Either locals flock here by the dozen or word has spread to tourists. We stand in line for a while to put in our order, and I take in all the people jammed in with us, catching stray pieces of conversation. No two accents are the same.

What few tables there are have all been claimed, leaving standing room only. We take our cappuccinos to the bar at the window and squeeze in between two groups.

“Is this okay?” Lorenzo asks me.

“It’s great,” I assure him.

“It’s not usually so busy. Before the sun is better. Tourists like to sleep in.”

A waiter comes around and deposits two heaping plates of zeppole in front of us. I realize immediately that they’re Italy’s take on donut holes. The fried dough balls are piled so high they threaten to topple. The ones on my plate are sprinkled with powdered sugar and practically melt in my mouth. Then Lorenzo gestures toward his plate, and I nearly pass out once I realize they’re filled with cannoli-style pastry cream.

“Good?” he asks.

“Amazing.”

They pair so well with my cappuccino and I’ve cleared my fair share of them in no time, much to my stomach’s dismay. The slight ache is well worth it though.