Isabella Taylor is a girl who knows her own mind. She knows carbs shouldn't be eaten after six pm. She knows that she could never get away with wearing a football shirt. She knows she could live happily without a boyfriend.
But then a summer spent...
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Nari and I avoided each other as much as we could- he was a brash American, I'm a crazy Brit. That's like oil and water, really. We sat across from each other every night for dinner and while I was left out of the conversation, for the most part, Nari was nattering on and on in fluent Italian, laughing and joking along with Nonno and Nonna, as well as his own family. As I cleared the table every evening, I found myself getting more and more annoyed with Nari and how he was able to easily assimilate himself.
"I'll wash, you dry," Nari said as he walked into the kitchen with the last of the dirty dishes. Rolling my eyes at having a man- no, a boy- tell me what to do, I drop the dish towel and head over to the sink, sinking my hands into the lukewarm water. From behind me, I hear Nari laugh and say, "Va bene."
I grind my back teeth together to avoid answering him back. While I wasn't sure quite what he said, I didn't appreciate the tone and made it clear that I wasn't his biggest fan by repeatedly shoving dishes into his hands before he had finished frying the one he already had. The more he muttered in a language I didn't understand, the more infuriated I became. After one 'placati!' too many, I throw the dishcloth into the sink and round on him.
"What is your problem?" I demand, my voice coming out far too whiny for my liking. Mentally kicking myself up the arse for being such a child, I change my stance, trying- and probably failing- to come across as being more threatening than I really am. "All you've done is mutter to yourself and be an arse."
Nari smirks. "First of all, it's ass nor arse," he wrongly tells me, his accent making it sound as if he's a pirate going 'arr, me hearty.' Setting his best Barbosa impression aside, he turns his back on me and goes to sit on top of the counter a few feet down. "Personally, I think you're the one with the problem, not me. I mean, you're not even making an effort here. We both arrived on the same day and all you've done is lie by the pool and bake in the sun, rolling your eyes whenever someone suggests that we go and do something fun."
"Fun?" I snort. "There isn't anything fun to do here! It's Verona."
"Well, Shakespeare might disagree with you on that one," Nari says bluntly. "And more to the point, how would you know that there's nothing fun to do here? Have you even ventured out of the estate?"
When I remain silent and my eye begins to twitch due to the awkwardness, Nari gives me a cock-sure smile and mutters 'Thought so' under his breath. Challenging him to prove to me that Verona is more than meets the eye- read, boring- Nari excitedly starts to roll off all the amazing things there are to do in the city. Arena di Verona. Castle Vecchio. The Basilica of San Zeno. Piazza Delle Erbe. Giardino Giusti. Torre dei Lamberti. Verona Cathedral. Casa di Giulietta. Teatro Romano. Castelvecchio.
"They all sound like a history lesson, to be honest," I admit, pulling a face. Sensing Nari was going to start lecturing me, I fake a smile and say, "But who doesn't love History, right?"
Going back to finish the dishes, within ten minutes, we have everything cleaned and cleared away and I can finally flee to my room to snuggle up in bed and read the book I brought with me, The Other Side of Lost. I'd bought it in the WH Smith shop at the airport and already found it an easier read than the last book I read, Asking For It. After reading Louise O'Neill's harrowing novel, I was scarred for life and determined not to let men try to control me. It was exactly as my eldest sister, Romy, said- women don't need a man. We are capable of living without them. We are strong, independent women and boys can go fuck themselves. She's instilled this in me for many years but since she's given in to societal expectation and gotten herself a boyfriend, I am flying the flag for feminism solo.
After getting past the next three chapters, I set the book down and decide to change into something more comfortable. Finding my pyjamas, I give Superman in a phonebox a run for his money and in less than a minute, I step out of the bathroom in my comfiest, if tattiest, pyjamas. Going back to lie on the bed, I pick up my phone and start to scroll through my Facebook and Instagram feed, snooping on what all my friends back home are up to. A few have gone off to exotic places but the friends I'm closest to are back in London, loving life.
One photo pops up on my Instagram feed and instantly, I'm pissed off. Smiling towards the camera, Max Casek is lying in a park in London, a fountain in the background. I have to admit, he looks good when he squints in the sun, his dark eyes seeming almost, just a tad, golden from the light. If it was just him in the photo, I'd have liked it and added a comment. But it wasn't just him.
No, kissing his cheek was Amelie. His girlfriend. She was looking at the camera for the photo and I could practically see her thoughts as she stared back out at me: The boy is mine.
"Urgh, what a cow," I mutter as I continue to scroll through the feed. Still, my mind kept going back to the photo of Max and Amelie. "Get a grip, Isa. He's just your friend."
Despite telling myself that, there was one thing I could not deny.
Max Casek is more than just my friend. He's the boy I'm falling more and more in love with every day.
So much for my feminist, We Don't Need Men stance, huh?
