Chapter 37

Savannah's house isn't bad, not at all what I would have expected. I don't really know what I expected. Judging by what her parents sound like, probably something dark, old fashioned. Or bright vintage. Her front door matches pieces of furniture I can spot from outside, all bright wood, the grain placed horizontally. Just beside it, on the right, there's a glass panel, as tall as the door itself. It's slightly obscured, so the inside isn't the first think you see, but it's still visible. The walls are white, inside and out, they're too clean not to be painted last summer. On the left I see a driveway, but the road I used to get to the door is a squiggly cement path, surrounded by a garden of white zen stones and cacti and exotic plants. I wouldn't be surprised if indoors I'd find some Buddha statues.

There's another path uniting mine and the drive, made of bright-colored cement too, but between that and the house's walls, there's a very narrow line of green, thin-leaved plants, which barely reach the dark, blinded windows. It looks too perfect to be Savannah's house, and too zen to be her parents'.

I walk in.

I find myself in a small corridor, on my right there's a white coat hanger, which has elegant, leather and fur jackets hanged in precise order, and a few brown and black hats with matching scarfs on the shelf on top. On my left there's a little solitary wood cabinet, holding a plate filled with keys and pictures of a numerous happy family on its surface. I recognize the background, it's Villa Ada, a famous villa in Rome. I never visited it, but once I was in the capital at a friend's house, who lived right in front of it, in via Salaria. There are too many children, so I can't recognize Savannah, and anyway I don't want to make it awkward and look too intently.

"If you want to take your shoes off, you can leave them here. Only if you want, fai come se fossi a casa tua."

I never heard her speak Italian, online she wouldn't make any spoken TikToks or stories, but I knew she'd have a Bolognese accent, since she lived there. I weirdly like it, and I definitely would have never guessed the first Italian thing she'd say to me would be 'make yourself at home' a few years ago. Probably even just weeks. Okay, I'll calm down now.

I take my shoes off and leave them under the hanger. In the mean time she walks to the end of the corridor, turns to the right, and disappears. There are three arches, one straight ahead of me, which has little lighting, and one on each side, left and right, which look brightly illuminated. I follow her.

I enter a dining room and kitchen. In front of me there's a very big table, probably eight people could fit in it, made completely by glass, placed horizontally from my perspective. The chairs are black, though everything else is white, the kind of white I have at home. What is it with Americans and white? Are they trying to blind themselves?

Savannah is on the left, behind a white kitchen peninsula, which has cupboards on top with hanging plants, their leaves mixing in with pans attached to a metal, horizontal pole. She's leaning onto a counter, just in front of another window, holding a glass.

"Is there anything I can get you, m'lady?" She asks, with class. Not real class, her idea of it. Which just makes me want to laugh, but I manage to contain myself.

"Nothing, thank you." I reply. She mumbles a 'suit yourself' and moves to the room opposite in the corridor. I follow her.

We enter a living room. Even in this room, everything is white except for the TV, the couch's light brown pillows and the coffee table, which is, in fact, the same color as coffee. There's another not-so-little solitary wood cabinet on the door's wall, which has many more pictures than the other. Savannah plops on the couch while I observe.

Even these are family photos, some are with a large number of people, like the one in Villa Ada, others have either just a few people, or always the same toddler. Her hair is raven and short, the kind of straight hair which doesn't really stick to your head, but almost. She's smiling at the camera, with uneven teeth and a dirty mouth of what I assume is tomato sauce, since she's got a plate half full of amatriciana in her hand. Her eyes are full of sparks of joy and mischief, and I spot the same kind of expression in the next picture, one of the same girl when she was probably eleven, in Rome, in front of one of the Romans' famous fountains. It's blue and big and it has a dolphin spitting water, the perspective makes it look like the liquid's spilling on her azure hat. Her pink t-shirt and denim shorts make her look nothing like the child in the picture, for some reason. Her smirk and braided long hair make her look like she just did something bad, but is a good kid at the same time.

I look at the girl who's sitting on the couch in front of me, her hair short again, curling wildly on her forehead. Her slim figure, an athlete's figure, same mischief, same amusement I had mistaken for arrogance, just more mature and calm, controlled. She's not arrogant, she's just different from the rest, and that's what makes everyone attracted to her, like a magnet. Not the personality of a rebel, but of a daring leader, with dark honey eyes that pull you in, which contain sparks that could set off Hell if she let them, but gentle enough to bring you to Paradise. A complex mix of raw emotion and confidence which cover a softer inside, a core of sweet smiles and caring words. I feel like there's so much inside her, who knows if I could ever truly unravel and learn everything?