“I’m ready,” Vittoria says, flopping onto my bed. She’s wearing pink pajamas—the same ones she used to wear when she came over to sleep years ago.
Seeing her in those, I can’t help but remember the old times; an era when Vittoria wasn't bold enough to step out of her comfort zone. But now, after tonight, I have to admit that maybe I don’t know her as well as I thought.
“It still fits you,” I mention, and she looks down to see what I mean. She offers a bitter smile and then purses her lips into a pout.
“I stopped growing when I was seventeen.”
I burst into laughter. I’m not any taller than she is, but her complaint makes me laugh. Italian men tend to be quite tall and usually don’t take short girls like us seriously—at least, that’s been the case with the guys we know. That’s why Vittor
