It was his lips. They deserved an exhibit of their own.

“Valerio?” I shook my head. “You work here?”

“Amir! Ay, I am sorry I have not texted. It was a busy weekend. I was working many shifts, and I thought I would see you at the Rigatteria party last weekend, but I did not, and I meant to text you, but—”

“It’s okay,” I said.

Valerio pulled me aside so another waiter could squeeze through. I flinched when he touched my arm. Valerio raised an eyebrow.

“Who are you here with?” he asked. “I cannot imagine it is a date, as you do not believe in mixing Italian food with romance.”

I looked away and smiled. “That would be impractical.”

“The mixing of foods, yes,” Valerio said. “The date, it is all right. I would not be angry if you were here with someone else. You are an American in Rome. I imagine you are in very high demand.”

I looked back at him. We stared at each other for a moment, Valerio and I. I was searching his face to see if he knew about Giovanni, how I had messed everything up, how nervous I was to be talking to him, but all I saw was the face of an Italian boy—those droopy eyes—endearingly cute and endearingly sweet.

“I’m here with my family,” I finally said.

Valerio’s face exploded. “What?”

“Eccolo,” I said, and I pointed at them at the table outside.

“Wow. I am happy for you,” Valerio said, squeezing my shoulder. “So they came around?”

I shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

Valerio’s eyes fell to his feet. “So you are going back. To America.”

“I am.” I put my hands in my pockets and—oh my God. The glow stick.

Valerio must have seen me react, because he went, “I apologize, but I must ask: Is that a phone in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

“You did not just use that line.”

“I have wanted to use that line for years! It is so American.”

I took out the glow stick. Valerio gasped.

“No way!” he exclaimed. He took it from me and chuckled. “You are crazy.”

“Maybe I am.” I shook my head. “But you’re crazier. You’re the one who wanted to kiss at the Vatican.”

“And I would do it again,” Valerio said. He bit his lip and smiled. “I should get back to work. These pizzas are getting cold. But promise me something, Amir. Promise me that the boy I met at Rigatteria, the one I kissed behind the door at the Vatican, that he will not go anywhere. That he will stay right here”—Valerio tapped my heart—“whether other people approve or no.”

I pulled in his hand and hugged Valerio tight. “Good luck with your mom,” I whispered in his ear.

“Good luck with your family,” Valerio said.

When I turned around, I noticed my family had been watching us.

After I went to the bathroom, I went back to our table outside, nearly knocking over a huge flowerpot on my way over.