Wish You Were Italian Quotes

“I stare at his relaxed face, pale in the dim light. Nearly asleep, he looks vulnerable. Like I could tell him anything I wanted and he wouldn’t remember it in the morning.
When I first met him, I thought he was attractive but not in an omg-he’s-the-most-gorgeous-thing-I’ve-ever-seen way. But somehow, now that I know him, how his light brown eyes can sear right through me, how the corner of his mouth turns up when he laughs, how he blushes when he’s caught wearing a headband, I can see that he really is beautiful.
His hand twitches and his breathing slows, deep and heavy. In an instant he’s fallen asleep, and I’ve fallen even harder for him.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“Did you already forget how to promise?” I worm my pinkie around his and squeeze.
He squeezes back and lowers our joined hands to the bed. My heartbeat is strong in my ears. Do I pull away first? Do I wait for him to? What if he doesn’t? What if we fall asleep like this?
“I promise I don’t write mushy, girly stuff,” he says. “I just like to keep track of what’s going on, you know? The places I go, the things I find. The people I meet.”
I could be imagining it, but the hold on my hand seems to be tighter.
“I know one day I’ll want to look back,” he continues, “and I don’t trust my memory alone to remember everything. What’s important to me right now might not be later, but that doesn’t mean I want to forget it.” He yawns and his eyes get watery, tired.
I fight the temptation to yawn myself. “I think you’ve just made an excellent case for diaries. Maybe I’ll start keeping one.”
He yawns again and his grip on my pinkie loosens, but we’re still mostly hooked together. “It looked like you already were,” he says in a fading whisper. His eyes drift closed.
I stare at his relaxed face, pale in the dim light. Nearly asleep, he looks vulnerable. Like I could tell him anything I wanted and he wouldn’t remember it in the morning.
When I first met him, I thought he was attractive but not in an omg-he’s-the-most-gorgeous-thing-I’ve-ever-seen way. But somehow, now that I know him, how his light brown eyes can sear right through me, how the corner of his mouth turns up when he laughs, how he blushes when he’s caught wearing a headband, I can see that he really is beautiful.
His hand twitches and his breathing slows, deep and heavy. In an instant he’s fallen asleep, and I’ve fallen even harder for him.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“Well, whatever his name is. I still don’t like him.” His voice is rough and his bright brown eyes pierce straight through me.
Tell me why you don’t like him. Tell me it’s because you’re jealous he kissed me and you haven’t. Tell me you want to. Want me.
“Gag,” Nina says with a groan. “Would you two just kiss and be done with it already?”
Darren and I gape at her. Fire creeps up my neck, and I press my body against the window, as far from Darren as possible.
“I thought you were asleep,” Darren says to her.
“With the both of you whining like children? Please,” she huffs.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“I just figured someone like him would be named Fabio or something.”
I want to be angry, I really do, but I can’t resist laughing. “That’s what I thought the first time I met him,” I admit.
Darren actually cracks a smile, and hope blooms inside my chest for an instant before it fizzles. I’m itching to tell Darren that he’s the one I want. But I don’t know how, or if I should. Keeping Darren at an emotionally safe distance might be the only way I make it through this summer unscathed. If that’s even possible at this point.
“Well, whatever his name is. I still don’t like him.” His voice is rough and his bright brown eyes pierce straight through me.
Tell me why you don’t like him. Tell me it’s because you’re jealous he kissed me and you haven’t. Tell me you want to. Want me.
“Gag,” Nina says with a groan. “Would you two just kiss and be done with it already?”
Darren and I gape at her. Fire creeps up my neck, and I press my body against the window, as far from Darren as possible.
“I thought you were asleep,” Darren says to her.
“With the both of you whining like children? Please,” she huffs. “I’m going to the little girl’s room.” She stands and her long legs step over Tate’s without waking him. “Fix this or we’re all going to be miserable,” she whispers to Darren loud enough for me to hear.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“Bruno, this is my friend Pippa. Pippa, my cousin Bruno.”
Bruno. The in-with-the-wrong-crowd Bruno. Divinely and supernaturally gorgeous Bruno.
And he just winked at me. Not good.
He closes the distance between us in two long strides of his tight white pants and says “Piacere!”--which I remember from my phrase book means “pleased to meet you”--before taking ahold of my shoulders and kissing each of my cheeks. His lips are on my cheeks.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and want to die. It’s physically impossible for a face to be any redder.
I try to say “Piacere!” back but only a squeaky noise escapes my lips. I raise my shirt just enough to hide behind and fake a coughing fit, waving with the other hand for him to leave the room. He laughs and mutters something in Italian as he walks off. Chiara closes the door.
Way to make a great first impression on the sexy Italian.
“What did you say to him?” I ask when I’ve recovered the ability to speak.
“I told him that he should knock on doors that are closed. That you are American and do not lie on the beach with le tette out. You are private.”
“Le tette? What’s that?” My face pinks again. “My boobs?”
“Si.” She sprawls across the bottom bunk. “I think it is sweet. Leaves room for the imagination.”
“Um…thanks.” I finish getting dressed. “What did he say?”
She laughs. “He said, ‘She will one day.’”
My nose scrunches at the thought of baring it all on a beach towel in a foreign country, with Bruno and other guys who look like Bruno watching. I shudder. “Doubtful. There are some parts of me the sun just wasn’t meant to see.”
Chiara rolls to her side and looks at me. “So you have never been swimming without clothes on?”
“Skinny-dipping?” I smile as I stow my dirty clothes into my suitcase. “Well, the moon can handle those parts of me just fine.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“Room here,” she says, proceeding to draw a line of the route. It doesn’t look too far.
I stand, taking the map from her, and manage to get out a comprehensible “Grazie,” which my Rick Steves’ Phrase Book says is actually pronounced graht-seeay. Who knew? She smiles again and everything seems to be perfect until I lose my mind and give her a slight bow. I’m in Europe, not Asia.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“Goals update:
 Don’t get arrested
 Don’t make a fool out of myself in public--FAILED
 Get my picture taken at the colosseum
 Find random souvenir for Morgan
 Get a makeover
 See Pompeii
 Swim in the Mediterranean Sea
 Have a conversation with someone in only Italian--FAILED
 Eat a whole pizza in one sitting
 Fall in love with an Italian--FAILED”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“Goals update:
 Don’t get arrested
 Don’t make a fool out of myself in public--FAILED
 Get my picture taken at the colosseum
 Find random souvenir for Morgan
 Get a makeover
 See Pompeii
 Swim in the Mediterranean Sea
 Have a conversation with someone in only Italian--FAILED
 Eat a whole pizza in one sitting
 Fall in love with an Italian--FAILED”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“The pen touches the paper again at the bottom of the page and I freeze as he draws a slow, thick line through “Fall in love with an Italian.”
I snatch the book from him and scan the list of my goals. “Why did you do that?”
He brings my face closer with a finger under my chin, diverting my attention to him, and gives me a swift but tender kiss.
“Because lucky for you,” he says, lips still brushing against mine, “I was born in Rome.”
I gasp and part my lips to respond, but he covers my mouth with his and slips his hands around my bare back. As I glide my hands into his thick hair, he pulls me up until I’m straddling his lap. He leans forward, holding me tight against him, and we crash into the pool, our lips never pulling apart.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“The pen touches the paper again at the bottom of the page and I freeze as he draws a slow, thick line through “Fall in love with an Italian.”
I snatch the book from him and scan the list of my goals. “Why did you do that?”
He brings my face closer with a finger under my chin, diverting my attention to him, and gives me a swift but tender kiss.
“Because lucky for you,” he says, lips still brushing against mine, “I was born in Rome.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“That’s the journal on your chair, right?” he holds out a hand, demanding to see it. “Show me this list.”
I grab it and turn directly to the page with the list.
He takes it from me and holds out his hand again. “Pen?”
I eye him curiously but he doesn’t say anything, so I hand the pen over too.
He makes a humming sound in his throat as he studies my handwriting, then says, “Ciao.” When I don’t respond, he says it again and holds out his hand for me to shake. “Sono Darren.”
My eyes widen when I realize what he’s doing. “Ciao. Sono Pippa.”
He squeezes my hand. “Che bel nome, Pippa.”
I blush because I can’t help myself. He thinks my name is pretty. And I forgot how hot it is when he speaks Italian. “Grazie.”
“Arrivederci.”
I wave as if we really are going to part ways. “Arrivederci.”
Darren clicks the pen into action and strikes though “Have a conversation with someone in only Italian.” It wasn’t exactly my original plan, and it’s elementary at best, but it had a beginning, middle, and end. And summer’s not over yet, so I’m counting it.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“Remember when I told you about that list of goals Morgan had me write out at the beginning of my trip?”
“Yeah.”
“Ugh, this is going to seem so stupid to you.” I pause to get the last bit of laughter out, preparing myself for what I’m about to reveal to him. “One of my goals was to fall in love with an Italian.”
The dimples pop in his cheeks before he draws out, “Reaaally?”
“I was going to fall in love and bring him home with me when summer was over. But I just had to eat gelato before dinner, and there you were, throwing me off course on my first day in the country.”
Now he laughs. “So I foiled your master plan, huh?” he asks, and I nod with pouty lips. “Am I that hard to resist?” He straightens, smoothing out the front of his shirt.
“Well, you kept popping up everywhere! How was I supposed to fall in love with anyone else?” My hands are shaking so I slide them underneath me. “It was a silly game anyway.”
“I don’t--wait.” Color spreads through his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “Are you saying you’re in love with me?”
Is that what I was saying? Am I in love with him?
I’m mute. All I can do is stare at him, soak him up.
Darren gets a spacey look on his face as he pats at the surface of the water with his feet, mumbling something that sounds like, “Oh, my parents are gonna love this story.”
“What?”
He ignores me and looks behind us. “That’s the journal on your chair, right?” he holds out a hand, demanding to see it. “Show me this list.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“I actually brought a guy home from Italy. This is crazy.”
He relaxes a little. “What do you mean?”
“Remember when I told you about that list of goals Morgan had me write out at the beginning of my trip?”
“Yeah.”
“Ugh, this is going to seem so stupid to you.” I pause to get the last bit of laughter out, preparing myself for what I’m about to reveal to him. “One of my goals was to fall in love with an Italian.”
The dimples pop in his cheeks before he draws out, “Reaaally?”
“I was going to fall in love and bring him home with me when summer was over. But I just had to eat gelato before dinner, and there you were, throwing me off course on my first day in the country.”
Now he laughs. “So I foiled your master plan, huh?” he asks, and I nod with pouty lips. “Am I that hard to resist?” He straightens, smoothing out the front of his shirt.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“I want to make this work, Pippa. I knew we met for a reason.” His breath is warm on my face as he whispers, “I can’t not be with you.”
I close my eyes and absorb his words. He wants to make this work. I want to make this work. It will. Somehow.
“You really like me that much?”
I hear him swallow. “I’m not sure like is a strong enough word.”
I lift my chin until our lips meet in a sweet, gentle kiss. And then I ruin it when I surrender to another giggle fit.
He leans away to look at me, alarmed. “Why is that funny?”
“No no no, I’m not laughing at you.” I stroke his wrist with my thumb. “It’s just…I actually brought a guy home from Italy. This is crazy.”
He relaxes a little. “What do you mean?”
“Remember when I told you about that list of goals Morgan had me write out at the beginning of my trip?”
“Yeah.”
“Ugh, this is going to seem so stupid to you.” I pause to get the last bit of laughter out, preparing myself for what I’m about to reveal to him. “One of my goals was to fall in love with an Italian.”
The dimples pop in his cheeks before he draws out, “Reaaally?”
“I was going to fall in love and bring him home with me when summer was over. But I just had to eat gelato before dinner, and there you were, throwing me off course on my first day in the country.”
Now he laughs. “So I foiled your master plan, huh?” he asks, and I nod with pouty lips. “Am I that hard to resist?” He straightens, smoothing out the front of his shirt.
“Well, you kept popping up everywhere! How was I supposed to fall in love with anyone else?” My hands are shaking so I slide them underneath me. “It was a silly game anyway.”
“I don’t--wait.” Color spreads through his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “Are you saying you’re in love with me?”
Is that what I was saying? Am I in love with him?
I’m mute. All I can do is stare at him, soak him up.
Darren gets a spacey look on his face as he pats at the surface of the water with his feet, mumbling something that sounds like, “Oh, my parents are gonna love this story.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“You really like me that much?”
I hear him swallow. “I’m not sure like is a strong enough word.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“When I called and heard your voice mail greeting this morning, something inside me just clicked. I had to see you. Today.” He leans toward me until our foreheads press together, his fingertips trailing tortuously slowly up and down each of my arms. “I tried all summer to talk myself out of liking you, to stay away from Cinque Terre once I knew you were there. Especially when I thought you might be with someone else. But I couldn’t. I want to make this work, Pippa. I knew we met for a reason.” His breath is warm on my face as he whispers, “I can’t not be with you.”
I close my eyes and absorb his words. He wants to make this work. I want to make this work. It will. Somehow.
“You really like me that much?”
I hear him swallow. “I’m not sure like is a strong enough word.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“Oh, well…they’ve been a little relaxed because of Gram’s passing, but I’ve been assured once school starts my life will be all work and no play.” I kick my feet under the water and watch the surface swirl.
“Well, we better take advantage.” He pulls me in for another kiss and when we break apart, I’m overcome with laughter. This is so the opposite of how I saw my summer ending even just a few hours ago.
“You’re really here. I can’t get over it.”
“When I called and heard your voice mail greeting this morning, something inside me just clicked. I had to see you. Today.” He leans toward me until our foreheads press together, his fingertips trailing tortuously slowly up and down each of my arms. “I tried all summer to talk myself out of liking you, to stay away from Cinque Terre once I knew you were there. Especially when I thought you might be with someone else. But I couldn’t. I want to make this work, Pippa. I knew we met for a reason.” His breath is warm on my face as he whispers, “I can’t not be with you.”
I close my eyes and absorb his words. He wants to make this work. I want to make this work. It will. Somehow.
“You really like me that much?”
I hear him swallow. “I’m not sure like is a strong enough word.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“So, how did everything work out in the end? How did your parents deal with the subterfugery?” He looks behind us cautiously as if we’re about to get caught breaking the rules.
“I’m pretty much grounded until further notice.”
I steal a glance at the house and spot Morgan and Mom peeking through the window, but they back away as soon as I catch them. I’m surprised Mom is giving Darren and me so much time alone. Thank you, Morgan.
“Really? How bad could it be though, if Morgan’s here?”
“Oh, well…they’ve been a little relaxed because of Gram’s passing, but I’ve been assured once school starts my life will be all work and no play.” I kick my feet under the water and watch the surface swirl.
“Well, we better take advantage.” He pulls me in for another kiss and when we break apart, I’m overcome with laughter. This is so the opposite of how I saw my summer ending even just a few hours ago.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“We move to sit side by side on the deck and dangle our legs in the water.
“Hey,” he says, waiting for me to look at him.
I smile as he leans in and presses his lips against mine. He palms the side of my face and I reach around the back of his neck, pulling him closer and hastily deepening the kiss, making up for lost time.
A little groan of relief escapes his throat. “I’ve been waiting for so long to do that.”
“Me too.”
“I missed your eyes,” he says, killing me with his intense stare.
“About that. Why did you say you’re afraid of green eyes?”
He chuckles. “I’m not afraid of all of them. Just yours.”
“Why?”
He meets my gaze head-on and inhales deeply. “Because when you look at me, you really look at me, like you’re actually listening and really care about what I have to say. From the first time I met you…I knew I was in trouble.”
“I think I knew too.” I lean against his shoulder, our legs entwined under the water.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“I can’t believe you’re here,” I say, clasping his hand in mine. “Where were you when you left that voice mail earlier today?”
“Ah…I was waiting for my connection in Newark. I was supposed to fly home, but I changed my ticket for Chicago last minute. Like, seriously last minute. I saw the last person on the plane before they closed the cabin door.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that,” he says. “I had your address, so I crossed my fingers that you were home.”
“Risky.”
“Worth it, though. Here we are.” He rubs his thumb along mine.
“Here we are.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“The back door opens again a few minutes later and I stand, fully prepared to wrestle the phone away from her. But Morgan’s not standing in my backyard.
“Hey, you.”
I blink. He’s here. Dark-red T-shirt, brown fedora. I blink again. The corner of his mouth turns up and I take off in a sprint, fly down the stairs of the deck, and jump into his arms, which he wraps tight around me.
His hand cups the back of my head and repeatedly strokes my damp hair. Our bodies sway back and forth, and I slowly slide down until my feet touch the ground. I take a step back to study him.
“You’re a hat guy again.” I grin. “But, that means--” I gasp when I pull the hat off him. “Your hair! You cut it!” I reach up and rake my hand through his subdued curls, more like waves now.
“I cut it for you.” His hands at my bare waist send shivers through my core.
“I liked the curls, you know.”
“You thought I had a perm!” He leans his head back and laughs fully. “That’s the very definition of not liking the curls.”
I giggle and shrug. “They grew on me. But this can grow on me too.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“When I went to meet you, Bruno told me what was going on.”
“Bruno did?” I ask, shocked. Morgan’s eyes widen as she deciphers the other half of the conversation.
“Yeah, he brought me to the apartment and had me copy down your contact info since we’re totally lame and never exchanged on our own.”
“Totally lame,” I agree. “I can’t believe you guys actually conversed.”
“Please, he’s my new BFF.” Darren cough-laughs. “So, what are you up to today?”
“Morgan and I are just hanging out by the pool.”
“Oh yeah? Hey, pass the phone to her for a minute.”
“To Morgan?”
“Yeah, I still need to thank her for making you that little journal thing.”
“Okay…hang on.”
I hold the phone out to her and she raises an eyebrow expertly. I mouth he wants to talk to you and she takes it from me.
“Hello? Yeah, I’ve heard a lot about you too…Wha--Oh.” She holds up a finger, wraps a towel around her waist and whispers, “I’ll be right back,” before scampering into the house.
“Do you have to take him with you?” I shout after her.
I grunt and return to my journal. I write a few lines but it’s impossible to concentrate.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“When I went to meet you, Bruno told me what was going on.”
“Bruno did?” I ask, shocked. Morgan’s eyes widen as she deciphers the other half of the conversation.
“Yeah, he brought me to the apartment and had me copy down your contact info since we’re totally lame and never exchanged on our own.”
“Totally lame,” I agree. “I can’t believe you guys actually conversed.”
“Please, he’s my new BFF.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“My phone blares on the little table between us and we both jump. I hastily mute the ringer, then nearly drop it when I see the name.
I gasp. “It’s Darren.”
“WHAT?” She rotates in her chair to face me, throwing her book down. “Freaking answer it! What are you doing?”
I answer the call and swallow, talking myself into staying calm so as not to appear psycho. “Hey!” I say, excited yet relatively restrained, considering who’s on the other end of the line.
“Hey, you.” His familiar, rough voice melts my insides.
“How are you?” I ask, cheeks killing me from smiling so hard.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“You’re so tan.”
“Spent a lot of time outside,” I say slowly, fingers crossed that she doesn’t want to talk too much about my summer of lies.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“There’s nothing else inside the envelope. I turn the photo over and we read the note on the back written in small, careful handwriting.

I miss you, Pipperoni.
-Darren

I swallow the lump in my throat and look up at Morgan. We both have tears in our eyes.
“Why are you crying?” I ask, laughing.
“Because this is the single most romantic thing I’ve ever heard!” she says, swiping at the corner of her eye. “How did he get your address? I thought you never exchanged info.”
“We didn’t.” I sit down on my bed and invent scenarios. “Maybe Chiara really did see him. Maybe she didn’t want me to know, so this could be a surprise?”
“Oh, I would die to have something this epic happen to me,” Morgan squeals. She falls onto the bed with the back of her hand against her forehead as if she’s fainted.
I log into my e-mail and compose a letter to Chiara, telling her to call me right away. Then I stare at Darren’s note some more, especially the “I miss you” part. And the “Darren” part. Which is basically the whole thing.
Darren misses me.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“Something came for you in the mail,” she says, sliding a small envelope across the counter. “From Italy.”
I snatch it and study the handwriting. It’s not Chiara’s.
Pulse pounding in my ears, Morgan and I race back upstairs and shut the door to my bedroom.
“Open it, open it!” Morgan chants. “Who’s it from?”
“I have no idea.” I tear at the thin envelope and pull out a 4X6 photo. It’s me, my profile. Eyes wide in wonder, lips slightly parted in awe. “Get. Out. This was the moment I first saw the Colosseum.”
“What?” She looks at the photo. “Who took that?”
There’s nothing else inside the envelope. I turn the photo over and we read the note on the back written in small, careful handwriting.

I miss you, Pipperoni.
-Darren”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“How could you just…not think? I don’t understand you. I know we raised you better than that. You’ve completely disrespected us.”
“I did think. I saw all the money you gave me and I thought, wow, I can do whatever I want now that I’m here and no one’s dictating me anymore.”
“Oh, the money. That’s great. Your mom will love to know it’s my fault. I suppose I practically told you to skip town.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“Wait,” I say, digging into my camera bag. “I want a picture with all of you. Us. Together.”
Dad takes the camera from me and I stand in the middle of everyone. Nestled under Chiara’s and Matilde’s arms, I find it easier to smile than I expect. I’m surrounded by people who care for me, and who I care for, all because I wanted a chocolate pastry for breakfast in Rome.
The shutter clicks and I pry myself from their embrace. At the door I turn and look at each face once more, knowing that this will likely be the last time I’ll see most of them. Matilde, who welcomed me, an American stranger, into her home, even kicking her own children out of their room. Luca, a quiet boy with a good heart. I have confidence he’ll be ten times the man his brother’s been. Bruno, the gorgeous smooth talker. If my dad had a clue about what’s gone on between us this summer, he’d have him beat up all over again.
Chiara. One of my very best friends who I didn’t even know existed a few months ago. All-knowing, beautiful Chiara.
Throat tight, eyes blurred with tears, I wave to them all one last time and turn to Dad, his hand on the doorknob. “I’m ready. Let’s go home.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian

“Our lips touch until the last possible moment when the doors of the train threaten to close at his stop in Manarola.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, a smile stretching ear to ear.
“Tomorrow,” I reply, beaming back at him. “Good night.”
“Good night, Pippa.”
He hops down onto the platform and the doors slap together. I look at him through the grimy window, reminded of the time I saw him across the metro station in Rome, when I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again. Now I know I will for sure.
And I also know there will be kissing.”
― Kristin Rae, Wish You Were Italian