“There’s a nice restaurant around the corner,” I tell my parents as we walk down the arched tunnel towards the street. I can feel that my cheeks are still red. The idea of eye contact with either of them is still too horrifying to conceive.

“Whatever you think is best, dear,” my mother says. “So is that the Dylan I remember from your university days?”

I pull open the wrought iron gate. “Yes,” I say. “We’ve known each other for a long time.”

“He’s a very handsome boy. Very…well put together.”

My father makes a noise like a dying cow, and I get it. He doesn’t want to acknowledge the idea of a nude man in his daughter’s flat. He doesn’t want to think about whether or not Dylan is handsome. I suspect that if my father gets his hands on a bottle of wine this evening, he’ll chug it like water.

“I’ve been doing some research for my clothing line,” I announce, trying desperately to change the subject as we make our way along the street. “I have some really good ideas after wandering around Rome.”

“Did you know that Trudy’s daughter just married a surgeon?” my mother asks, which has nothing to do with what I just said, yet has everything to do with it.

“Um, that’s great,” I reply.

“Is Dylan a doctor?”

“He’s an architect. I’ve told you that. And we’re not about to get married.”

“An architect, you say?” my father replies. He’s finally perking up. Finally, something he can sink his teeth into.

“Yes,” I say, smiling and looking at him for the first time since his arrival. “He has his own firm back in the States.” As I utter the word firm I wince, reminded of Dylan’s hard-on. “He’s studying the villas here in Rome. He wants to use their style for some American buildings.”

“Well, that sounds interesting. I’d like to…”

“How much do architects make, dear?” my mother interrupts. I swear to God, she does this just to see if she can make my blood pressure spike.

“I don’t know, Mom. I imagine quite a bit.”

“Maybe you should have invited Dylan to join us this evening.”

“I think Dylan might have been a little embarrassed.” I think Dylan wanted to run away screaming is more like it.

“I don’t know. He was very comfortable in his towel, chatting with us.”

When we arrive at the restaurant, a waiter gestures us towards a table by the window with a nice view of a vine-covered façade across the way.

Dinner is mostly painless, with the odd passive-aggressive comment about my choice of food, clothing or the fact that I chose to wear my hair up instead of down thrown my way. But we somehow get through it. My father seems to have gotten over his shock; I suppose he’s worked out that maybe next time it would be wise to knock on my door before barging in.

After an hour or so, we head back to the apartment. The entire time, I’m trying to figure out if there’s a way I can sneak over to Dylan’s without causing problems. As much as I want to see him, I know I won’t be able to relax if I think my parents are lying in bed with their judgy-faces going.

“There are fresh sheets in the closet,” I tell my mother as we climb the stairs to the flat. “I’ll change them when we get back.”

“Yes, I think that would be best,” she replies, like my current ones are sullied with gallons of sweat and the aftermath of wild animal sex.

What is it with mothers and daughters? It’s like there’s some unwritten animosity, a barbed wall of criticism that rises up between us like fortifications. My father and I have always gotten along like a house on fire, albeit a fairly tame blaze. We chat about life, we laugh. We enjoy each other. My mother, on the other hand, lives to let me know that I am not, nor will I ever be, perfect. Or anything close to it, for that matter.

It’s no wonder I’m a freaking basket case.

When the sheets are changed, I find myself standing in the bedroom doorway, staring at my parents. I stretch my arms over my head and fake-yawn. It’s, like, eight o’clock and I’m totally not tired, but I hope to hell that they are.

“Well, I think it’s time for me to lie down,” I say.

“So early? I thought Europeans stayed up half the night,” says my mother.

“Yeah, it’s been a long day. I think I’ll just crash.”

“Actually, I’m tired too,” my father says, winking at me. Winking! He’s got it. My father understands my need to get my ass across to Dylan’s place. He hears my plea for sanity and calm. “I think I’ll brush my teeth and get to bed. Best way to stave off jet lag is to get lots of sleep the first night, they say.”

“Okay, then,” my mother replies, looking like she’s disappointed that she’ll have to cease her barrage of critique at such an unreasonably early hour.

Thank God there are two bathrooms, and the one attached to the bedroom guarantees that they won’t have to walk through the living room in the middle of the night. It means there’s a chance that I might manage to sneak out to Dylan’s place. Of course it’ll have to be without the negligée, but that’s okay.

Naked is better, after all.

When we’ve said good night and my parents have finally closed their door, I wait a suitable amount of time. Which means at least half an hour, during which I play every game on my phone, stare longingly at the window and touch up the polish on my toenails. Finally I hear my father’s deep snore erupting from the bedroom.

Excellent.

It’s time.