Chapter Text
During his brief stay in Rome, Rainer Maria Rilke penned one of his acclaimed letters to a young wannabe poet, lamenting the disappointment he met within the streets of the ancient city. “There is not more beauty here than elsewhere,” he wrote, “and all these objects signify nothing, are nothing, and have no heart and value.” Yet he conceded, “But there is much beauty here, because there is much beauty everywhere.”
Due to Gio’s limited exposure to Rome—to the entire European continent whatsoever—he might have agreed in the past, for the most part. However, there’s one factor Rilke didn’t account for. Because if there is much beauty here, in one of the (ostensibly) most gorgeous cities in the world, it’s because a particular woman is sitting across from him, with a smile so wide that her braces shine as bright as the “B” charm on her necklace.
Ever since they arrived, it wasn’t so much of a question with them anymore. Holding hands in the airport after they landed felt completely natural, as if they’d been on trips with each other before, as if there were many more to look forward to. They didn’t let go until they reached their hotel room and unpacked. He listened to her hum as she changed into a sundress in the bathroom. When she stepped out looking like sunshine personified, he thought himself the luckiest man in Italy.
As they walked along the narrow streets, with the smell of flour wafting out of each restaurant they passed, he tried not to imagine what this trip would’ve been like if she hadn’t come. He’d be alone, for one, and wondering what Betty could be doing halfway across the world, for another.
But she had chosen to be here. Even if out of purely personal reasons, not just for him, but for the need to do something without her family to catch her if she stumbled, he decided it didn’t matter. He was just glad she was here, with him, at all. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he averted having to hear his kid sister’s “I told you so” if he’d ended up stranded in Italy without a date.
They retired at the base of a fountain and snapped some pictures with her digital camera. He stretched his arm behind her, setting his hand on the sleek stone beneath them. She gathered close and placed her thigh flush against his. He watched her for a while, as she took note of the scene in a small journal: students posing for a group photo, a mother and father swinging their child by his hands, an old couple leaning against each other across the piazza.
She smelled good, of the exact same blend of perfume and shampoo as always, and this reminder made Gio grin. Thousands of miles from New York, she was still the same Betty: Betty from Queens, Betty at MODE, Betty the writer. Only the circumstances had changed entirely.
He couldn’t help but pity Henry, for the fact that he was missing out on Betty’s quips and the excited pitch in her voice when they discovered a new part of the city. Just a little though. Not enough to not want Betty to stay.
She turned, whipping her head around to look at him. He flinched.
“What are you looking at?” she asked curiously.
“Nothing.”
“Oh, so I’m nothing?”
“No!” He laughed. “I’m just happy you’re here.”
Her eyes widened for a moment, and she glanced away. “I am too. Thanks for inviting me.”
“Hey, thank you. You’re the one who got this whole trip covered for us.”
Betty scoffed. “I bet it didn’t even put a dent in the company credit card.”
He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, almost by second nature. When he buried his nose in her neck, planting small kisses into the smooth curve there, she didn’t push him back or jump away. Things were different now. He no longer felt the constant risk of losing her to someone else.
Confidence was an arbitrary matter. Betty didn’t owe it to him, didn’t owe him anything at all, but it was nice to know that he stood a chance against the guy with a pregnant ex-girlfriend in Tucson; and when this theory was put to the test, she joined Gio instead of him.
Tomorrow Gio and Betty have a wine tasting scheduled in a vineyard a short drive out of the city, but tonight they sit around a small circular table as nearby store windows light up, with streetlights casting a golden glow on their empty plates.
He scoops up the last bit of tiramisu and holds it out to Betty, who is jotting down her overall impression of the ambience and the meal in her journal. Just like Gio with his new flavor, she was taking this trip as an opportunity to crank out more ideas for articles in the magazine.
“Would you describe the taste as more bitter or sweet?”
“I’d say it’s pretty sweet,” he answers as she bites down on his spoon. “The bitterness of the espresso isn’t overpowering.”
“Wait,” she says, then swallows. “This has espresso in it?”
He chuckles, an eyebrow raised. “Yeah. That’s kind of the whole point. Tiramisu literally translates to pick-me-up.”
She picks up a napkin and hurriedly wipes her lips. “But I—I’ve never had espresso before!”
“Relax, Suarez. There’s not enough in here to make you go off the walls. They just soak the ladyfingers in the espresso for a bit.”
She grumbles doubtfully.
“Trust me.” He lays his hand on hers, the one that’s splayed out on the paper. “You’ll be fine.”
Betty smirks, setting down her fuzzy-top pen. “How can I trust you? I barely know you.”
Gio nods his head understandingly. “Well, we can start by—”
“Gio,” she says, repressing a laugh. “I was joking. We’ve known each other for a few months now.”
“Not long enough.” He leans in, his voice low and raspy. “How about we play a game?”
She narrows her eyes. “I’m listening.”
He reclines, stretching his shoulders over the back of the chair. “Two truths and a lie. Heard of it?”
“ ‘Course I have. I tell three facts about myself, stuff that just any person wouldn’t know. Then you have to guess which one is the lie.”
“Exactly.” He straightens the collar of his black button-down, where a small part of his chest is exposed underneath. “Do you want to play?”
“Sure. I’ll go first. Just give me a second to think.”
He swirls the Sauvignon Blanc in his glass while she taps her pen on the journal in concentration.
“Okay!” She slaps her hand down on the table. “Got it.”
He swallows down the last drop. “Try me.”
“My favorite author is Virginia Woolf, I used to have a guinea pig named Mortimer, and I won the ‘Most Likely to Succeed’ award in high school.”
“Oooh… You made this challenging.” Gio clasps his hands together and takes a breath. “I would have pegged you as more of a fantasy reader, but I can see how Miss Woolf suits your style. And a guinea pig named Mortimer? Strange, but I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“Thank you?”
“No offense.” He winces and continues, “And ‘Most Likely to Succeed.’ I have no doubt you deserve that superlative, but from the stories you’ve told me, it doesn’t sound like you were popular enough in high school to win an award like that.”
“I’m starting to regret playing this.”
“There’s no shame in that! I wasn’t the most popular either, but look at where we are now. At the very least we can say we didn’t peak in high school.”
“You’re right,” she reluctantly agrees.
“Alright, final answer. The award.”
“Correct!” Betty exclaims.
“But Mortimer? Really?”
“I don’t know.” Betty shrugs. “Hilda and I thought he kinda looked like Mortimer Mouse. I was seven years old. Can’t speak for Hilda though.”
They share a laugh, and when it dies down, his shoe nudges her ankle under the table. This causes Betty to jump and subsequently ramble.
“Virginia Woolf basically inspired me to be a writer. I’ve always liked writing, but ‘A Room of One’s Own’ made me realize that women haven’t always had a place in the publishing world, and still often don’t. I want to help change that.”
“That’s really cool, Betty,” he tells her, an encouraging sparkle in his eyes. “I’ve already told you a million times, but I’ll say it again. I know you’re going to do something amazing with that. With all that ambition, and passion.”
She adjusts her glasses, suddenly at a loss for a clever reply. “Your turn.”
“Right. Okay.” He clears his throat. “I’ve been with more than five women, Antonella is my best wingwoman, and my middle name is Figaro.”
“Five women? That’s it?”
Gio bites his lip and shrugs.
“What does that even mean? Been with, as in slept with, or had a genuine relationship with?”
“Can’t tell you. It’ll reveal too much.”
She makes a gagging noise. “If you’re even a fraction like Daniel, I couldn’t put your body count at less than twenty, or thirty.”
“I’m wounded,” he says, palm on his chest. “You think I’m just as much of a dog as your boss.”
“I wouldn’t put it past you.” She snickers. “Antonella as your best wingwoman. I can see that. She was always around when you were trying to pick me up.”
Gio puts his hands up in surrender. “I’ll have you know she was a chick magnet when she was a baby. Chicks love babies.”
Betty rolls her eyes, deciding to ignore that comment. “Could your middle name really be Figaro? As in, Galileo Figaro Magnifico?”
“What can I say? My parents have every kind of pesto and pasta sauce running in their veins.”
“Hm. I’ll go with Figaro. That’s the lie.”
“Wrong.”
“So there’s another wingwoman?”
“I haven’t been with more than five women.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not. I’ve really only been with five.”
“Does that include one-night stands?”
“I guess? I’ve never been into the whole ‘hit it and quit it’ thing.”
“Ew.” Betty recoils. “You could’ve phrased that better. And you are such a liar!”
“I tried it once,” he admits. “But I got attached, you know? I can’t help that. That one only lasted a few weeks. Did not end well. The other ones were pretty long-term.”
“It just doesn’t make any sense.”
“Maybe,” he explains, placing his elbows on the table top and balancing his chin on his fists, “my mom just raised me right.”
“How do you explain acting like a player, then? All that womanizer, Phil Roth crap?”
“You call it being a player, I call it charisma.”
Betty stares at him, unconvinced.
“I’ve been on plenty of first dates and sometimes that leads to more. But I don’t go all the way, unless I’m sure. So those don’t count.”
She crumples her freckled nose. “I don’t believe you. What about that night you and Henry were testing out Phil Roth’s… methods? You were pretty adamant about keeping those numbers.”
“Did it ever occur to you that I might’ve wanted to make a certain someone jealous?”
“Oh my God,” she says, bringing a hand to her cheek. “You’re not kidding?”
Gio raises his right hand. “Not at all.”
He suddenly turns earnest. “Listen, I only brought this up because I wanted you to know what kind of a guy I am. This isn’t casual to me, Betty. I invited you to Rome for a reason. You’re special to me, and I’m serious about us. Remember my five-year plan?”
“How could I forget?” she replies sardonically.
“Well, it has you in it.”
He promptly calls over the waiter and asks for the check. As he sets down extra euros as a tip, Betty wonders just how much she’d underestimated (or overestimated, in this case) the man who insisted on taking her along to Rome. He takes her hand and guides her out of her seat. They stroll down the cobbled road, his fingers secure around her shoulder while hers brush the small of his back. And somehow they both sense it—in their satiated silence, with hearts and stomachs full—this new chapter emerging between them, uncharted territory waiting to be explored.