Love & Gelato(15)

“Carolina Caroleena. I like it. Very Italian-sounding.”

He put his headphones back on, then tossed his ball in the air and started playing again. Ren definitely needed some etiquette classes or something. I turned to walk away, but he stopped me again.

“Hey, do you want to come meet my mom? She’s basically starving for American company.”

“No thanks. I have to get back soon to meet up with Howard. He’s taking me into Florence for dinner.”

“What time?”

“I don’t know.”

“Most restaurants don’t even open until seven. I promise we won’t be gone that long.”

I turned back toward the cemetery, but the thought of facing Howard or the journal again made me shudder. “Is it far?”

“No, just right over there.” He pointed vaguely at a grouping of trees. “It will be fine. And I promise I’m not a serial killer or anything.”

I grimaced. “I didn’t think you were. Until now.”

“I’m way too scrawny to be a serial killer. Also, I hate blood.”

“Ew.” I looked back at the cemetery again, mentally weighing my options. Emotionally challenging journal? Or visit with a socially inept potential serial killer’s mother? Either option was pretty grim.

“Okay, I’ll come with you,” I relented.

“Nice.” He tucked his soccer ball under his arm and we headed for the other side of the hill. He was only about a head taller than me and we both walked quickly.

“So when did you get here again?”

“Last night.”

“So you’re pretty much jet-lagged within an inch of your life right now, right?”

“I actually slept okay last night. But yeah. I kind of feel like I’m underwater. And I have maybe the worst headache of my life.”

“Wait until tonight. The second night is always the worst. Around three a.m. you’re going to be wide-awake and you’ll have to think of weird stuff to keep yourself occupied. Once I climbed a tree.”

“Why?”

“My laptop was out of commission and the only other thing I could come up with was playing Solitaire and I suck at that.”

“I’m really good at Solitaire.”

“And I’m really good at climbing trees. But I don’t believe you. No one is good at Solitaire unless they cheat.”

“No, I really am. People stopped playing games with me when I was in like second grade, so I taught myself how to play Solitaire. On a good day I can finish a game in like six minutes.”

“Why did people stop playing games with you when you were in second grade?”

“Because I always win.”

He stopped walking, a big grin on his face. “You mean because you’re really competitive?”

“I didn’t say that. I just said I always win.”

“Uh-huh. So you haven’t played a game since you were like seven?”

“Just Solitaire.”

“No Go Fish? Uno? Poker?”

“Nothing.”

“Interesting. Look, that’s my house. Race you to the gate.” He broke into a run.

“Hey!” I took off after him, lengthening my stride until I caught up and then passed him, and I didn’t slow down until I hit the gate. I whirled around triumphantly. “Beat you!”

He was standing a few yards back, that stupid grin still on his face. “You’re right. You’re totally not competitive.”

I scowled. “Shut up.”

“We should play Go Fish later.”

“No.”

“Mah-jongg? Bridge?”

“What are you, an old lady?”

He laughed. “Whatever you say, Carolina. And by the way, that isn’t really my house. It’s that one over there.” He pointed to a driveway in the distance. “But I’m not racing you there. Because you’re right—you’d win.”

“Told you.”

We kept walking. Only now I just felt stupid.

“So what’s the deal with your dad?” Ren asked. “Hasn’t he been the caretaker at the cemetery for like forever?”

“Yeah, he said it’s been seventeen years. My mom died, so that’s why I came to live with him.” Ah! I mentally clamped my hand over my mouth. Lina, stop talking. Bringing up my mom was a surefire way to create awkwardness around people my age. Adults got sympathetic. Teenagers got uncomfortable.

He looked at me, his hair falling into his eyes. “How’d she die?”

“Pancreatic cancer.”

“Did she have it for a long time?”

“No. She died four months after we found out.”

“Wow. Sorry.”

“Thanks.”

We were quiet for a moment before Ren spoke again. “It’s weird how we talk about that. I say ‘I’m sorry’ and you say ‘thanks.’?”

I’d had that exact thought maybe a hundred times. “I think it’s weird too. But it’s what people expect you to say.”

“So what’s it like?”

“What?”

“Losing your mom.”

I stopped walking. Not only was this the first time anyone had ever asked me that, but he was looking at me like he actually wanted to know. For a second I thought about telling him that it was like being an island—that I could be in a room full of people and still feel alone, an ocean of hurt trying to crash in on me from every direction. But I swallowed the words back as quickly as I could. Even when they ask, people don’t want to hear your weird grief metaphors. Finally I shrugged my shoulders. “It really sucks.”