Beautiful Things Never Last by Steph Campbell Read Free Book Online Page A

single step. The smells only intensify the empty, gnawing feeling in my stomach. I haven’t had anything to eat since the bag of pretzels on my first plane ride this morning. When I pass the massive display of cheese wheels, I’m surprised by the woman who greets me . I expected someone older based on the voice when I came in.
                        Instead, a perfectly curvy, olive-skinned woman in her thirties, I would guess , is sitting behind the counter next to an industrial meat slicer.
                            “ Posso aiutarla?” she says.
     
                            I wring my palms together like I’m dry washing them and bite my lip. “Posso aiutarla?” I repeat back, the words fumbling off of my tongue in my bastardized version of the language.
                        The woman puffs her cheeks and blows out a big breath in annoyance. “I said, may I help you?”
                        I let out a shaky laugh, “Oh, thank god you speak English.”
                        She nods and wipes her hands on the front of her apron. “I do.”
                        “I’m sorry, I just…I didn’t have a lot of notice before this trip , and I don’t speak a lot of Italian. Or any. Or whatever.”
                        “You are with the American school?” she asks.
                        I nod and take a few steps toward her. “I just got here, but my room isn’t ready.”
                        “You arrived early. I was going to go home to let you in when I left for siesta . Sit down, I’ll make you a sandwich while you wait.”
                        “Are you the owner of the Bianchi house?”
                        “ Si .”
                        “I’m Quinn,” I say. I offer my hand to shake, but she leans in and kisses each of my cheeks instead. It should be weird. I hate having people up in my bubble, but it doesn’t feel awkward . I nstead, it feels friendly and comfortable.
                        “Amalea,” she says. “Sit . ” She motions to the round, rod-iron table in the corner of the small shop and I do as I’m told. I stare up at the handwritten menu and find myself fighting the urge to run away right now, before I’ve even been to a single day of class. Because I can’t read a single word of that menu, and how the hell am I supposed to make it here for two months?               “Would you like a drink?” Amalea asks, interrupting my internal-panic-attack.
                        “Cappuccino, please,” I answer.
                        She shakes her head and makes a ‘tisk-tisk’ noise with her tongue. “I’ll make you a Caffè alla Nocciola.”
              Shit, I already forgot the one rule Carter told me before I left : never order a cappuccino after eleven AM, or you’ll look like an asshole tourist. I nod appreciatively even though I don’t have the slightest clue what she just offered me. I do know that she just placed the most incredible looking sandwich I’ve ever laid eyes on onto the table , and it’s all I can do to not grab the thing and start tearing into it like an animal.
                        “This looks incredible, thank you.” I pick up the flaky Panini -style sandwich full of cured meat and creamy cheese and pesto oozing gorgeously out of the sides and I take a less than lady - like sized bite.               “Oh my god, this tastes incredible.”
                        “ Prego ,” Amalea says. “You finish eating and I’ll take you to the house.”
                        Amalea wanders back behind the counter , and I