Meg Cabot: Every Boy's Got One

So what? He has a lot of faults, too. He thinks he knows everything, when, very clearly, he does not, particularly when it comes to human relations.

And he writes books I wouldn’t pick up to read if I even were dying of boredom.

And, though I can’t be sure of it, I think I caught him looked at me a little funny this morning when he saw me putting ketchup on my eggs.

Who needs that? Not me. No, sir. I’m sticking to nice guys. Like Malcolm. Well, not Malcolm, exactly, since he’s clearly moved on, which… good for him.

But I mean simple guys, like Malcolm. Guys who don’t play head games. Guys with a wry appreciation of life’s vagaries. Cal doesn’t appreciate anything wryly. Well, except for maybe my grammatical errors.

Oh. Wait. War.

Okay. Peter won.

Whatever.

Where was I?

Oh, yeah.

The first thing I’m going to do when I get back home is register for some kind of class at the Learning Annex. I don’t know what. But some kind of class a simple guy would take. Like pottery, maybe. Or Italian! Yeah. How to speak Italian. I bet a lot of guys take that class. And then I can meet a nice, simple guy, and next time I come back to Italy, I’ll bring him along.

Because even though this country has its faults—the three-hour lunches, where everything, even SHOE stores, is closed… not to mention the lack of toilets, like at Amici Amore, or just the seats, like that restaurant in Porto Recanati—it can also be super nice. When I made Peter drop me off in town today after the party, when he and Annika and everyone else went to harass Holly and Mark at their hotel, I walked around a little, got myself a nice gelato, sat down in a little palazzo, and just relaxed.

I haven’t been able to do much relaxing since I got to Italy—well, except for like five minutes by the pool that one day—what with the sightseeing and the worrying about Holly and Mark’s wedding not working out and the whole Cal thing.

But today I relaxed, and I looked around, and I… well, I liked what I saw. Italy, I mean. Well, Le Marche, anyway. They’re all so friendly, and say hi to one another as they pass on the street.

And all of the windows have flower boxes instead of fire escapes on them, because none of the buildings is more than two stories high.

And because the buildings are so low, the sky looks HUGE overhead, like in Wyoming, or something. Only it’s a blue like it never gets in New York, on account of all the pollution from the traffic. Here, most everyone rides scooters, or at most, they have tiny little Smart Cars.

Even the ice cream tastes better than back in America. That was the best pistachio I ever had.

And the pace of life is kind of catching. I mean, I definitely don’t approve of three-hour lunches. But if you NEED to take that long for lunch, it’s nice that it’s not frowned on. Like it would be in Manhattan. I mean, can you imagine if you worked on Wall Street or whatever and you tried to tell your boss you wouldn’t be back for three hours?

There’s something kind of nice about the way no one hurries, and how there always seems to be time for a cup of coffee and a friendly Buon giorno.

It’s a shame we have to leave Friday, really. I mean, not that I’ll be sad to say good-bye forever to SOME people I’ve met here. But I think I’ll miss this place. And Peter. And even his great-grandmother and snotty Annika (whom, when she asked me what she was supposed to do with Holly’s bouquet after she caught it, I told it was traditional to shred the flowers to pieces and throw them into the sea for good luck) and the mayor and the smell of horses drifting into my bedroom window in the morning and those skinny cats and the oven that you can’t turn on without the lights going out and all of the Virgin Marys and the castles on every hillside and…

Well, just everything.

Except HIM.

After I take that class at the Learning Annex—on how to speak Italian—and I meet that guy—you know, the simple one who’ll be able to appreciate life’s vagaries—we’ll come back to Italy, and we’ll have a fabulous time, because both of us will know what carabinieri are, and neither of us will laugh at the other’s mistakes, unlike—

HIM.

Oh, my God. He’s back.

He has some nerve.

Oh, and look. His face still has that same hangdog expression that he had on when I left. What happened, Cal? Did your Italian skank refuse to put out when she saw how stupid you look sitting at the bottom of the pool?

Huh. He’s trying to make conversation. Yeah, nice try, buddy. But you’re not going to get anywhere in front of the kid. Why do you think I invited him over here? Yeah, not because I have such a burning love for card games. No, it was because I had a feeling you’d come crawling back. And I know you aren’t going to be talking about us if there’s a third party—

OH MY GOD! THAT’S BRIBERY!

Wait, two can play at that game—

AARRRGHHH!!! WHY DIDN’T I GET CASH WHEN I WAS IN TOWN?

Fine. Whatever. So Peter’s gone. A twenty, and he’s off. Traitor.

I don’t care. I still don’t have to listen to what this guy has to say. I can just go inside and see what Holly’s doing—

Um, no, I can’t. Because Holly and Mark are at the hotel. The hotel room he bought them. We’re all alone. We’re all alone in this giant villa because he—

PLANNED IT THAT WAY!!!!

OH MY GOD. I AM SUCH AN IDIOT.

But whatever. Still not listening. No. Not listening to you, Mr. My Only Goal In Life Is to Break the Heart of the Stupid American Girl. NOT LISTENING.

Cal: “Jane. Seriously. Quit writing in that book and look at me. Just for a minute.”

Me: “No.”

Cal: “Fine. But I’m not going to go away. Not until we have this out.”

Me: “There is nothing to have out.”

Cal: “Yes, there is. Look, I know I’ve acted like a jerk almost from the first moment I met you—”

Me: “Almost?”

Cal: “Okay, from the first moment I met you. But I want you to know that I feel terrible about it now. You were right. I am an ass. And a creep. The things I said—the stuff I did—all of it. You were right. You were completely right about Mark and Holly, and I was completely wrong. I see that now.”

Hmmm. This is an interesting turn of events. He’s apologizing. And conceding wrongdoing. I’ve never had a guy do THAT before. What can this mean?

Oh, wait. I know. Silly me.

Me: “If this is all just an act to get me to go to the hotel too, so you can have the villa to yourself for the night for you and your skank, it’s not going to work. I happen to like it here, and have no intention of leaving, even for a Jacuzzi tub.”

Cal: “Jane. If I wanted to spend the night with Grazi, don’t you think I’d be at the hotel with her now, and not here, trying to reason with you?”

DAMN HIM AND HIS GENIUS LOGIC!

Me: “Well, whatever you’re trying to do, cut it out. It’s making me nervous. I liked it better when you hated me.”

Cal: “I never hated you—”

Me: “HA! HA! HA! CARABINIERI!”

Cal: “What? I can’t even joke with you?”

Me: “That wasn’t joking with me. That was a joke ABOUT me.”

Cal: “And you haven’t made plenty of those about me this past week?”

Me: “Not to your face.”

Oooooh. He just swung one of the wrought-iron chairs around, set it directly in front of me, sat down in it, and leaned forward, so that I can see the blond five-o’clock shadow dusting his jaw. Also those blue eyes.

LOOK AWAY. LOOK AWAY FROM THE HYPNOTIC BLUE EYES.

Cal: “Jane. Quit writing in that book and listen to me.” Ha. So not going to happen.

Cal: “Fine. If that’s the way you’re going to be, then I’m just going to say this. I will admit that when I met you, I might have been laboring under some misconceptions about male-female relations. I’m not going to tell you I’ve never been in love, because you and I both know that’s not true. I was in love once, and it didn’t work out, and because of that, I have worked very, very hard to convince myself that love doesn’t actually exist. Because I didn’t want to admit that I’d screwed it up. And if I couldn’t have it, I didn’t want anyone else to, either.”