This is it, I think as I tumble out into space. This is the end.
And yeah, I know, I know—my almost-dead dialogue sucks.
Is this truly going to be my last thought? Editing myself as I tumble into—
A frantic hand catches the fabric of my dress and pulls me back. I’m not on solid ground; I’m floating in someone’s arms with my heart on fire, ready to explode.
“I’ve got you, El. I’ve got you.”
It’s Oliver. It’s always Oliver.
Damn it.
“Can you speak?”
“I … I think so.”
He lowers me gently to the ground. My feet touch the cement, and my legs give way underneath me.
“I’ve got you,” Oliver says again, and he doesn’t let me fall because it’s Oliver and he’d never let me fall, not even if he were the one who wanted me gone.
Because my God, my God. Someone wants to kill me.
Someone tried to kill me.
What. The. Fuck.
“Thank you,” I say, trying to steady myself.
My back is to him, his arms around me like they were last night when he saved me the first time. I press against him, hoping his solidity will seep into me, and take several long, slow breaths.
I turn around slowly as the rest of the world comes back into focus. There’s still a crowd around us, the fireworks exploding above.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Everyone’s faces are turned up to the sky, lit up by the lights. Blue, red, gold.
I scan them quickly—those I know and those I don’t. No one seems like they just tried to push me off the edge. No one looks guilty.
No one’s looking at me at all, except for Oliver.
His dark eyes are clouded with concern, the fireworks reflecting in them like this is some scene from a movie. And I know what’s supposed to happen now. We’re supposed to move closer and closer together as the music swells until we end up in a clinch.
That’s how I’d write it, anyway.
But instead, he takes a step back and lets me go, and I’m on my own, just like I’ve always been.105
“You saved me, again.”
“What happened?”
“Someone pushed me.”
“What?” Oliver looks around at the crush of the crowd. “Who?”
“I don’t know. I felt a hand on my back. You saw what happened next.”
He puts his hands on my shoulders, pulling me closer. And maybe we will kiss now, only I think if we do, if he shows me any more tenderness, I’m going to burst into tears, and that’s not how I want our first kiss in years to go.
“Are you sure?” he says, and he’s so close to me I can feel his breath on my lips. “Maybe it was the crowd. Everyone pressing toward the railing to watch the fireworks?”
Moment’s over, I guess.
“No,” I say, taking a step back, away from his arms, away from the temptation. “I felt it.”
“You’ve had a lot to drink.”
“You’re monitoring my drinking?”
“I was only paying attention.”
He was watching me, he means. In a good way, he means. This should melt my cold heart, but instead, it makes me mad. “You don’t need to do that. I’m fine on my own.”
“Clearly not.”
There’s another rapid series of booms, building to a crescendo. It’s so loud, I’m not sure he’s going to be able to hear me, but I say it anyway. “What do you care?”
But he does hear me. It’s right there in his face like I’ve slapped him.
And I did. My words were a blow, one I meant to deliver. Because it’s easier to push him away than to hold him close. I proved that to myself once before, and here I am proving it all over again. I can use both hands, too, and end us once and for all.
“You really mean that, don’t you?” he says.
I don’t say anything, and that’s what convinces him. Because I always take the opportunity to have the last word if I can unless I’m using silence for emphasis.106, 107
“Next time, I’ll let you fall, then.”
Ouch. Oliver can use words like swords, too.
I watch him turn and start to push his way through the crowd.
The fireworks are over now, just like us, and it’s only a moment before he’s gone.
Maybe for good.
I let the crowd disperse, feeling stupid and scared and still drunk, but not quite drunk enough. It’s fully dark now, the sea black and glittering in the moonlight.
“There you are, El,” Harper says. “I’ve been looking for you all over.”
“Here I am.”
“What happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re crying.”
I reach up to my face and find tears. “Oh … Someone tried to kill me.”
“What?”
“During the fireworks. They tried to push me down the stairs.”
“Oh my God. Are you okay?”
“Oliver saved me.”
She wraps her arms around me. They’re not the arms I want right now, but they’re much better than nothing. “Connor. You. What’s happening?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t see who it was?”
“No, I just felt a hand on my back … I … I’m such an idiot.”
Harper hugs me tight, then releases me. “It’s not your fault.”
I almost laugh. “First of all, yeah, obviously it is. If someone wants me dead, I’ve clearly done something to piss them off.”
“What’s your second point?”
“Huh?”
“You said ‘first of all.’”
“The second thing is, I’m an idiot.”
“Why?”
“Because I told Oliver to get lost.”
Harper leans her forehead against mine. “Oh, El. You silly girl.”
I pull away. “Is that supposed to help?”
“Sorry. What should we do? Call the police?”
“Why would we call the police?” Connor asks, pulling up next to me with Isabella on his arm.
“God, Connor, not now!”
“Someone’s calling the police?” Shek says, popping his head out from behind them.
The rest of the suspects—I mean, other people on this tour—start to circle us, closing in.
“Eleanor wants to,” Isabella says.
“What?”
“Why?”
“What happened?”
I raise my hands over my ears to try to block them out. They’re like the fireworks, a boom, boom, boom of distraction. I can’t figure out what I need to do with everyone looking at me like I’m crazy and should be locked away somewhere. But just like the last time I almost died, when I nearly choked on that fish bone, I don’t have to stand here and take it. I can be like Oliver and walk away. I can banish myself from my own life.
So I do it.
And the fact that everyone follows me like lemmings, well, that might be predictable, but sometimes predictable things happen in life.
In books, too.
We end up in the hotel library. I didn’t know this hotel had a library, but when I got inside the building with the rest of them trailing behind me, I didn’t feel like leading them to my room, so I took a left in the lobby and ended up in here, a room lined with books and cushy red velvet sofas.
I sit down on one near a roaring fire, and even though it’s still a million degrees outside, the heat feels good. I’m shivering and feel feverish.
I must be in shock.
Well, obviously.
“What happened, Eleanor?” Allison asks sitting on the arm of the couch in front of me. She’s dressed in a flowing chiffon number that looks like something a movie star would’ve worn to the Oscars in the 1950s. It looks amazing on her, and I feel a flash of jealousy.
So, I’ve come out of my second near-death experience with my personality intact.
Good to know.
“Someone tried to push me down the stairs during the fireworks.”
A murmur of shock travels through the room like a wave.
“Did you see who did it?” Guy asks, and I can’t help but wonder if his voice sounds nervous.
Because he’s a suspect, right? They all are.
Did I say that already? I feel like I did, but my brain’s not working quite right.
“No, they were behind me.”
“Are you sure it was deliberate?” Shek asks. “There were a lot of people out there. Everyone was trying to get a better view, but as I informed the very rude girl who pushed me aside, the fireworks were above us, and there was no need to vie for a better spot.”
“Shek makes a good point. Maybe you were only jostled.” Connor’s eyes are twinkling with something, which is never a good thing.
But I know what he’s saying. Because it’s what I said to him about what happened in Rome outside the Vatican. That being pushed around in a crowd isn’t evidence of anything.
“I … I’m not sure.”
“How can you not be sure?” Emily asks.
“It felt like someone pushed me. Maybe it wasn’t deliberate?”
But even as I say it, I don’t believe it. There have been too many almost-deaths on this trip, both real and faked. I don’t believe everything happens for a reason, and there are coincidences, but not this many.
Which means that someone’s trying to kill me and Connor.
But who?
I hug myself and angle my body toward the fire. It feels like I’m never going to get warm.
“I think someone pushed her,” Oliver says, stepping into the room. We make eye contact, briefly, then turn away. He’s still mad, and I still feel stupid.
That is what I wanted, wasn’t it?
“Why do you think that?” Allison asks.
“I saw it happen. She didn’t just stumble … I barely caught her.”
I start to tremble, feeling that floating feeling I had right before he gripped the fabric of my dress. What would’ve happened to me if he hadn’t been there? Would I have tumbled down those stairs like a stone, spinning? What parts of me would’ve been broken?
“We should call the police, then,” Allison says.
“The carbonara?” Shek says. “Is that necessary?”
“Carabinieri,” Harper says. “And yes. If someone tried to kill El, then we need to call them.”
“No,” Connor says. “We can’t do that.”
“I’m not putting Eleanor’s life in danger just because you did something illegal,” Oliver says. “And since this is your fault, you don’t get a say.”
“My fault?”
“Do you think someone mistook Eleanor for you?”
“Of course not, old boy.”
“Then think it through, old boy.”
Everyone catches up at the same time. “Someone tried to kill Eleanor,” Emily says.
“Isn’t that what I’ve been saying?”
“Someone wants to kill Connor and Eleanor?” Allison says.
“Or just Eleanor,” Shek mutters.
“Excuse me?” I say.
“Why would anyone want to kill Eleanor?” Oliver says, and I love him for it.
And though I assume he meant this as a rhetorical question, the silence is, well, telling.
“Harper might,” Guy says eventually.
“What?” That might be me or it might be Harper. Our voices are very alike, and I’m not in my right mind.
“You said it yourself in that NYT piece. Doesn’t she inherit everything if you die?”
“You said that?” Harper says as two spots of color bloom on her cheeks.
“She called you the prime suspect, I believe.”
“Harper, you know how flustered I get when I do those things. I just babble.”
“And accuse me of wanting you dead?”
“It wasn’t like that. Read it, you’ll see. I was joking.”
“Freudian slip,” Isabella says.
I shoot her a look. She doesn’t belong here and she should stay out of it.
“No. That’s not what it was at all.”
“It makes sense, though,” Connor says. “Harper hates me and stands to inherit a lot of money if you die. And if we both die, together, here in Italy on the tenth-anniversary tour, then…” He moves his hands in a dramatic way, tracing large circles in the air. “… Imagine the book sales.”
“Shut up, Connor. Will you? For once.” I take a deep breath. No one’s reacting to the news that my own sister might want me dead with surprise. Only Harper is standing there, shaking her head slowly, like she can’t believe what’s happening.
“Night’s over,” I say.
“What about the police?” Shek asks.
“No, forget it. No one saw anything, right?”
Once again, the silence is telling.
“That’s what I thought. So what’s the point?”
There’s none. I’ve dealt with the carabinieri before. They treated me with about as much respect as you’d expect, i.e., none. And that was when we had solid evidence of a crime. When Connor was known to them. Who knows what the local officers are like? I’m going to assume they’ve never heard of Connor or me, and aren’t going to take some drunk semi-famous tourist claiming that a member of her own entourage wants her dead very seriously.
I stand and sweep my arms in a mimic of Connor’s gesture from earlier. “Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.”
I turn as dramatically as I can and try to flounce out of the room because I’ve always wanted to do that, but instead of leaving in a trail of perfume and stunned faces, I stumble into a low table and smack my shin in the worst way possible. I stifle a scream.
“You okay, El?” Oliver asks.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” I say without looking back.
The morning.
What are we doing tomorrow? Oh, right. The boat to Capri. Won’t that be fun?108
I finally make it out of the library, then try to remember where my room is. I fish around in my purse for my key—which I’ve miraculously somehow not lost throughout this clown show of an evening—and pull it out. But once again, it’s not my room key; it’s that master key I found earlier. How did it make it into my bag? The only person who was in my room yesterday morning was Harper, but—
No. No. I’m not doing this. I’m not going to add up the evidence that Harper might want to kill me.
I’m going to my room and to my bed and I’m going to sleep, and tomorrow, when the day is fresh and the alcohol has cleared from my system, I’ll figure out what’s going on.
I press the button for the elevator and get inside when the doors open. I lean my back against the glass wall, avoiding my reflection because I don’t want to see what I look like right now.
“Hold the door!”
I don’t follow instructions, but Oliver makes it onto the elevator anyway. He squeezes through the opening and the doors clunk closed behind him.
“Shouldn’t the doors open when you pass through like that?” he says.
“Defective, I guess.”
“Dangerous.”
This whole trip is dangerous.
And me and him being in an elevator together, even for a minute?
That’s the most dangerous of all.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“About?”
“What I said on the veranda after you saved me. I … I was being a brat.”
He rubs at the stubble on his chin. “You almost died.”
“Is that my excuse now? I almost died; therefore I can act like a jerk to the people I care most about?”
“I’m one of those people?”
“Well, duh.”
He laughs out loud. “Well, good.”
Our eyes lock as the elevator door pings and the doors slide open. “This is my stop.”
“Mine, too.”
We exit, our arms brushing as we walk down the hall. I have a strong feeling of déjà vu, like we’re reliving last night, only this time two things are different: Connor’s room is on another floor, and someone wants me dead.
Maybe that was true yesterday, too, but I didn’t know it.
I still can’t absorb it.
I stop in front of my room. The air feels pregnant with our thoughts, but what does that mean, exactly? So many expressions we use without thinking about it.
“Give me your key,” Oliver says.
“Why?”
He gives me a look that says not to ask, so I dip my hand into my purse and take out the right key this time. He takes it from my hand—did his fingers linger for a moment too long?—and opens my door.
He steps inside and starts to look around. He crouches down and checks under the bed.
Great. I want to sleep with him and he wants to search my room.
So romantic.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure it’s safe.”
“What if it’s you I have to be worried about?”
Oh, bravo, El. That will bring him running right to you.
But it does. Not running but walking toward me in slow motion.
What was in that wine, anyway? Oh, alcohol. Right, right.
“You do.”
“I do?”
He stops when he’s inches from me and the air shifts. I’ve felt this energy before, and it always—
Wait, wait, wait. No spoilers.
Not even for me.
His hand goes to my face and touches my cheek gently. “Do you think you’ll be all right in here?”
“I’ll lock the door.”
“And throw away the key…”
Oh, no. These are the lyrics to this song we made up years ago, a dance we’d do, swaying. Like a call-and-response in a musical. I’ll lock the door / And throw away the key. / I’ll keep you safe / Stay close to me. / I’ll love you the most / No, that’s me. Just lock the door / And stay here with me.109
I stare into his eyes. They’re supposed to be the windows to the soul, but I’ve never understood what that means either. All I see is myself, and then Oliver’s lips are on mine and I can’t think anymore.
I don’t want to.
Bang!
I freeze, unsure of what’s happening because my brain is so muddled from the day and the proximity to Oliver, and were we just kissing?
“What was that?” I ask.
Oliver looks at the ceiling. “Sounds like someone dropped something up there.”
“Connor.”
His mouth turns down. “You know where his room is?”
“Only as a precaution.”
“Against ending up there?”
“What? No!” I take a step back. “You don’t really think that, do you?”
He wipes his hand over his face. “I don’t know what to think, El.”
“I don’t want anyone but you,” I say. “But you have to forgive me, Oliver. Can you?”
“I’m not sure.”
Ah, hell. Why did I have to go and ask that?
“Okay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“You’ll be all right in here?”
“I will.”
“I’ll be two doors down if you need anything.”
“Okay, thanks.”
He stares at me for a second more, then leaves, gone before I have time to call him back.
I lock the door after him and put a chair under the door handle for good measure. I take off my dress and put on a soft T-shirt and climb into the big, lonely bed.
I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep, but it turns out that almost dying on a daily basis is a good sedative.
Or maybe it’s the alcohol.110