YOU’RE KIDDING ME, RIGHT?” she asked, eyeing the envelope with skepticism and disbelief.
“Listen, I don’t know where he lives. I’m not going to corner him in the office, either, so I need you to do this.”
“If there are check boxes in here asking if he likes you Yes or No, I’m kicking your ass when I get back.”
I didn’t dignify it with a response.
An apology was necessary, so I did what any self-respecting, practically divorced woman of thirty would do. I sent a letter with my best friend, asking him to call, email, or text me. I gave him every option.
Being in the apartment all day wasn’t how I planned to spend my time, but I didn’t want to miss him, so I caught up on email. My in-box was flooded with curious questions from friends, more leading questions from acquaintances still determined to get the dirt, and no fewer than four emails from my mother.
She hadn’t approved of me running off to Rome, even though both she and my father were 100 percent in my corner when it came to leaving Daniel. But leaving Daniel didn’t have to mean leaving the country, or so my mother’s first email told me.
Her second email wondered why I couldn’t have simply escaped to their house; I shouldn’t be alone right now. She’d make me my favorite brisket, she’d rent us some funny movies, she’d buy me chocolate ice cream (my mother’s problem-solving methods were all straight out of a Julia Roberts rom-com), and she’d get me through this crisis, by God.
The third email allowed that perhaps I did need some time alone, but that if solitude was what I needed, then I could move into the Cape house and not see a soul if I didn’t want to. Furthermore, if solitude was what I needed then why, for pity’s sake, was I in Rome, a place crawling with summer tourists?
The fourth and final email told me that she was ready to give me my space, that she and my father would continue to support me any way that they could, but for the love of all that is holy, could I please return an email like a good daughter should?
She had a point. I had sort of cut and run when I left, and I know it didn’t make much sense to her. I quickly fired off an email promising that yes, I was fine, and yes, I was settling in, and that yes, once they got their Skype up and running I’d love to have a “video phone call or whatever.”
I emptied out the rest of my in-box, painted my nails a beautiful shade of Roman Red—fitting—and then proceeded to ruin my new manicure by deciding to grab my easel and head outside to the courtyard.
I’d been experimenting with different mediums, mostly colored pencils and pastels, but on a second visit to the art store I’d invested in a set of new acrylic paint and some great brushes. Not yet knowing what I was going to paint, or how good I’d be after such a long time, rather than investing in canvas I opted to go with some less-expensive cardboard. Some I’d purchased, some I’d scrounged from around the neighborhood. When you wanted to capture an idea, a concept, an anything, the bottom of a shoebox, once flattened, can be a great canvas.
I propped everything up on a cheap easel I’d also bought, tucked it into the corner of Daisy’s guest bedroom, and spent time every day just painting whatever came to mind. The light on the tiny patio, the trash cans on the corner I could just make out from my window, anything and everything to get my hands comfortable holding the brushes again.
Today I needed to get out of the apartment, away from thinking about whether or not Marcello would accept my apology, so I gathered up my supplies and headed out into the courtyard, determined to capture the exact color of those potato vines cascading down the balcony planters.
By ten I had captured the color.
By noon I had successfully layered the purples for the bougainvillea planted alongside the potato vines.
By two I had painted the planter itself along with the two on either side, the bricks below, the sky above, and was starting in on another round of trash cans when I began to think he wouldn’t call. Or text. Or email.
I brought my things inside, washed my hands, checked my phone one last time, then began to circle my laptop.
Should I? Should I not?
I had just sat down to email him when there was a knock at the front door.
Pulling off the apron, I held my breath, and my hope, in my chest. I opened the door, peeked around the corner, and let out a sigh when I saw him standing there.
“I was starting to think I wouldn’t see you for another nine years,” I said, stepping to the side so he could come in.
He stayed on the stoop, hands in his pockets. He looked every bit the boy I remembered, and the man I was beginning to know. Confident, handsome, and happy to see me?
“Am I interrupting?” he said, glancing at the colors splashed against my arms. “You have some”—he waved his hand near my cheek—“just there. Painting eh, melanzana?”
“What is that?” I asked, wondering what color was on my face. “Melons?”
He smiled, taking his thumb and smudging the still-wet paint from my cheek. “Viola, big, uh—purple vegetable.”
Then it dawned on me. The bougainvillea was purple. “You mean eggplant.”
Nodding, he rubbed his painted thumb between his hands. “Avery,” he began, but I stopped him by pulling him into the house.
“Can I say some things? First? Before you say anything.”
He thought a moment, then nodded.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you away,” I explained, choosing my next words carefully. “I wanted you to kiss me. At the bank. Below the bank. Whatever.”
I could feel the blush rising but I didn’t care. I needed to get this out and make sure he knew why I stopped him, why I had to stop him. His eyes were searching, piercing; they always could level me. I studied my hands instead. If I didn’t look right at him, I could say it. “I got spooked when it sounded like someone was coming. I kind of panicked, I guess.”
How there was skin left on my hands I will never know, the way I was wringing them. But I went on.
“I didn’t want you to kiss me, I mean I did, but not for the first time anyway, with people right around the corner. It’s been a long time since . . . well . . . since anyone looked at me the way that you did. At the bank.”
“Below the bank,” I heard him say, his voice full of teasing, but warmth, too. My eyes swung up to find him smiling at me.
“I thought you were embarrassed,” he said, glancing down to my lips.
“What? How could I possibly be embarrassed of you?”
He nodded and his mouth curled up in the tiniest of grins. “I’ve got an idea.”
“Hmm?” Was I forgiven? Again?
“You take off the apron, wash off the eggplant, and you and I? We take a walk.”
A walk. Yes. I could walk. I had a request, though. “I’ll go wherever you want, but I want you to do something for me.”
“What is this you ask?”
“Talk to me while we’re walking. Explain everything. Where we’re turning, how old something is. All of it. Left, right, north, south. Don’t leave out any details.”
DAISY AND MARCELLO had very different methods of showing me their city. Daisy’s was an adopted sense of pride, so she prattled on incessantly as if it were a travel show. She loved Rome’s beauty and history, but she explained everything in an academic way.
“Did you know that Rome has over three hundred fountains?” she’d said as she tossed a coin into one on the outer wall of a McDonald’s. It was one of those instances where I was contemplating the fusion of old and the new. “And something like nine hundred churches? That’s a lot of holy.”
“Maybe you should get a part-time job as a tour guide.” I’d been teasing her one night when we were walking past a guide with a lime-green flag and a trail of eager tourists. “I’m sure that tour group Dark Rome would take one look at your résumé and hire you in a second.”
Everything she told me was interesting, sure, but sometimes you just wanted to wander and lose yourself.
And this was how Marcello played tour guide. We lost ourselves in the city, wandering wherever we wished, with me asking occasional questions and him answering, more often than not with a story accompanying. I took everything in, tried to take mental pictures at every turn, willing myself to remember so that I could re-create it later on. Even the roofs of the surrounding buildings were something I never wanted to forget. Slate gray, brick red, some were tile, some were shingle, nothing matched so everything matched. And the doors were something else that I found myself enamored of here. Santorini blue, vermillion, and evergreen—this world was saturated with color.
We eventually headed down toward the Tiber, where we walked along the tree-lined sidewalk and enjoyed the breeze coming off the river.
“Left, right, or straight?” he asked when we came upon a magnificent stone bridge filled with foot traffic.
I stood in front of one of the ornately carved pillars to read the marker: Ponte Vittorio Emanuele II. It was something that I was growing to adore about the city. Everything had a name and not just Blah Blah Street or Someone Circle. Beautiful, historic names that I butchered with my pronunciation, but I loved hearing him teach me what I was doing wrong.
“Say it again?” I asked, pointing up to the bridge’s oxidized plaque.
“Ponte Vittorio Emanuele.” He embellished the syllables for my benefit. Either because he genuinely wanted me to learn how to say it properly, or more likely, because he knew his accent made me swoony.
“Why angels?” I pointed to the top of the great stone plinth where an angel held a shield and raised a sword proudly.
“These are for victory. They are named for Victoria, Roman goddess for triumph in battle. You will find them all over the city; jewelry, money, architecture. At one time she was worshipped on one of the Seven Hills.”
In that moment, it didn’t matter what he was talking about, I just wanted him to keep talking, and I told him as much.
And just as I requested, Marcello explained why each bridge was named what it was, and how the streets that intersected all had something to do with the bridge and the town. Each little nook had its own bit of history. It was fascinating and intoxicating listening to him.
We continued along the Tiber, the streets tree lined and crowded with couples, families, runners, tourists, and locals alike, out and about enjoying their city. Another strong breeze whipped through, giving me the perfect opportunity to lean into him for warmth. He casually slung his arm over my shoulders as he told me we were about to pass Circus Maximus.
“Oh, you mean like Gladiator? I love that movie.” I sighed.
“You are teasing me?”
“No! You’ve seen it, right? Russell Crowe kicking ass in the Colosseum? So hot.”
He harrumphed. “Historically inaccurate.”
I laughed, poking his side when he scowled. “Don’t be jealous. Russell has nothing on you. Show me more of your Rome.”
He did just that. We continued to wander, making decisions about where to go on a whim, wherever we wanted to go.
When I mentioned feeling a bit hungry, he bought me a bag full of little fried fish tossed with lemon and salt. Delicious.
I wasn’t warmed by just the beautiful weather, but by him; how could I not be? His bolder-than-life presence, the confidence that didn’t fade a day in the years since we were together. When he caught me staring, his chest puffed up in such a self-satisfied way I couldn’t help but smile.
All afternoon he’d been careful not to get too close to me. Only an occasional shoulder brush or maybe his hand in the small of back to steer me around something, but always a respectable arm’s length. A few times I’d feel his hand accidentally brush mine, and then it would flex and get tucked into his pocket.
As the light began changing to something more akin to candle glow, it became harder and harder to ignore the powerful draw that was still between us. That string was still there tethering me, us, to the memories of Barcelona.
I felt an invisible hand at my back nudging me toward him. It was like the walls behind us were pushing us together. I wouldn’t be backing away as I had last night.
“Marcello?” I asked, reaching out to touch his forearm. I loved the feeling of the muscles tensing. His hand flexed into a fist before laying across mine. This was the first time he purposely touched me, and even though it was innocent, nothing about it felt that way.
He was struggling. His eyebrows bunched and his eyes went to my hand on his arm, studying it. The right side of his mouth quirked up, and I was desperate to know what he was thinking about in that second.
He nodded, swallowed hard, and then he took a step back this time.
“Let us walk a bit more. I want you to see something before it gets too dark,” he said, pointing in the direction of the less-crowded cross street.
“Tell me how many stamps you have in your passport,” he asked suddenly as we rounded a corner.
“Stamps?”
“You had so many plans for traveling the world—you couldn’t wait to fill all those blank pages up with stamps. So tell me all about the places you’ve been since you left Spain. I’ve been talking for hours now, it’s your turn.”
I remembered the conversation. We were in bed—where most of our deep conversations took place—and I used his torso as a map of the world. Each kiss I placed on his body was a country I planned to visit. To explore their lives, the culture. The art.
“Oh. Well . . .” I stalled to snap a photo of the sunset behind the ancient amphitheater. It’d make for a beautiful sketch later.
“Avery, you are avoiding the question, yes? Tell me.”
I sighed and leaned against a bus stop. “I’ve traveled. A lot. An incredible amount really. Let’s see . . . Hawaii, Grand Cayman, Maldives, Belize, the Seychelles.” I ticked the sandy-beach vacations off my fingers. Let’s not forget the dozens of golfing vacations or trips to Vegas, Miami, Los Angeles.
As I went on about the gorgeous blue waters and stunning resorts, the wind picked up. Unbidden, he slid an arm around my shoulder, tucking me into his side to shelter me from the suddenly strong breeze. Once I was done prattling on about the limbo contest I’d won in Grand Cayman, he looked down at me thoughtfully.
“May I ask you something?”
“Of course.” Church bells dinged in the distance. Eight o’clock. We’d been walking for hours.
“These trips. They do not sound like you.”
“What do you mean?”
“These are places that someone else chose, yes?”
“Yes,” I admitted, contemplating if I should explain Daniel and truly what was going on back home. I opened my mouth at least three times, trying to get the words out, but I just couldn’t figure out how to tell him. How to open that box again of what had happened, all those years ago, when I left him and went home.
He waited, patient and quiet to see if I’d elaborate, watching as I struggled and finally putting me out of my misery. “Avery, it is okay. You tell me what you can, when you can, yes?”
“Soon, we’ll talk about my life in Boston.”
Appeased, he kept us walking forward. “So you never went anywhere that you liked?”
“Once.” I took a deep breath and looked into his eyes. “Spain was somewhere that I liked. Spending hours on a sketch of Sagrada. Swimming in the same sea as Dalí had, all those years ago. Getting lost in the Gothic Quarters.” I dropped my gaze. “You.”
He lifted my chin. “That sounds like the Avery I remember.”
He hurried me along a pedestrian walkway, past the busy intersection filled with honks, screaming traffic, and a few near misses with Vespa drivers. We were walking and chasing the dying sunlight just over a giant dome in the distance. I began walking faster, eager to see whatever it was he was taking me to.
And I was speechless.
“Holy Christ—” I blurted, but Marcello wrapped one arm around my waist and slipped his other hand gently across my lips.
“Not that. Not here,” he whispered, leaving me to wonder what he was referring to, the kiss or the cursing.
“That is incredible,” I whispered, spinning three sixty to see light-colored stone wall that rose high above us.
He’d brought us to St. Peter’s Square.
I was never very religious. We went to church when I was a kid, because it’s what you did for the social aspect. Same reason I went with Daniel. You dressed in your best and brunched with the worst. Nothing about it had to do with the church.
Here you felt . . . I don’t know . . . I won’t pretend it was some sort of divine presence—or maybe it was. Whatever was happening made me feel something. It was the art in my bones, the history I’d studied for so long hunched over long wooden library desks in the fading light. Seeing it in person was something altogether different. Magnificent.
“Come.” He nudged me, holding out his arm for me to take. Such an old-fashioned gesture, but for him, it fit. He led us to a gap in the queue rope where a flood of people were streaming through and I stopped, mouth agape, with a nearly crippling need to sketch it.
I didn’t know where to look first. The tall, noble pillars that circled the wall above us. The huge majestic statues lining the top like sentries guarding their little city. We walked around the square, my phone filled with photo after photo. I spun, trying to memorize every inch of it, but there was too much. As if he knew what I was thinking, Marcello placed his hand on my back and guided me to one of the black folding chairs.
“You know the way here now, so you can come back. Bring your chalks or pencils, make it your own.”
He was beaming, handsome, and my heart flipped.
“I feel like I could sit here for weeks and not capture a fraction of the beauty of this place.”
“I hope to see them when you have finished. I’ve missed your work.”
We didn’t chat at all once we left St. Peter’s. By the time we reached home, night had swallowed up the city in a magnificent navy hue. I was lost in thought, contemplating all the things I’d seen on our walk, and all the places I’d still yet to visit. Walking with him tonight really drove home how compact this city was. You could see a dozen landmarks in just a few miles.
On our way home, Marcello seemed to be getting text after text on his phone. He apologized several times, and I tried not to think about who might be blowing up his phone. We’d yet to talk about Simone, the woman he’d been sitting with (and kissing) the night I’d arrived in Rome. Was she still in the picture? How serious were they? Should he be out on the town with me? With my heart full of joy and my head full of questions, we climbed the stairs to the apartment.
I turned, and Marcello was right behind me. Close enough that I could feel the fabric of his shirt on my bare arms. So many of our early dates in Spain had ended this way, him looking over my shoulder at my door, wondering whether he’d be invited in. I thought about Daisy’s note. He technically wasn’t a boy . . . would I ask him inside?
“Today, well today was perfect,” I said. “Thank you for showing me some of your Rome.”
“This makes me happy, to know you liked seeing my city.”
I knew he was telling the truth. He’d always liked to make me happy, to find out what I liked, and what I loved. Emboldened, I looked up at him. “I’m thinking right now of something I’d like.”
His eyes changed instantly, smoldering. “Maybe a kiss?”
I held my breath, turning my lips up in silent answer.
He cupped my face and lowered his mouth to each of my cheeks.
“I was thinking somewhere else,” I admitted, licking my lips when his eyes flickered to my mouth.
“I’m afraid if I kiss you the way I want to, I won’t stop.”
I nodded, not quite agreeing, but unable to say the words that would give him the okay, the “let’s make this real again.”
“Good night, Avery.” Marcello held my eyes as he walked down the steps.
I thought back to each time today when he almost or I almost. When we were crushed together in the crowd outside the Colosseum. When he wrapped his arm around me as we walked along the Tiber. And the night before, when he’d picked me up as though I weighed nothing to lift me over the velvet rope and I almost let him kiss me the way I was desperate for him to.
And I hadn’t let him.
“Marcello,” I whispered, not loud enough that I thought he’d hear me.
Oh, but he did. And in three strides he was back up the stairs.
He was on me before I could barely take a breath, his body flattening mine into the brick wall. His mouth hot, hungry, and demanding against my neck, along my shoulder, and up to my ear, where he whispered, “Give me your lips.”
I wanted nothing more than to pull him into the shadows and have my wicked way with him.
Why can’t you? a voice whispered in my head. You deserve this.
I put my hand under his chin to stare into those beautiful eyes before I took those beautiful lips. Oh my goodness, his lips. Soft and strong, they felt the same, they tasted the same. He kissed me crazy once, then twice, then what felt like a thousand times, and still not enough.
“I didn’t realize how much I missed you. Missed your mouth,” he purred, frantically angling me up the stairs.
“Marcello,” I sighed, my lips tangled with his. There was nothing in the world like kissing this man. And I wanted more than ever to kiss him for hours without a care in the world, reacquaint myself with every contour and plane of his exquisite mouth.
But this reunion was anything but relaxed. This was nine years, nine years, of going without this kind of passion.
With a thud, my back hit Daisy’s front door. We fumbled against each other, laughing and still kissing, as he held both of my hands above my head in one of his. His other hand quickly untucked the hem of my shirt, slipping beneath with ease. I gasped into his mouth as his fingers danced along my rib cage. I needed this, oh, God I needed him! I needed his hands on my body more, now, in this instant. My gasp turned quickly into a groan, spurring on his movements as his fingers slid underneath the edge of my bra, smooth and rough, and I loved it.
I was pushing my body toward him while trying to loosen his grip on my hands. I wanted to touch him back. To thread my hands into his hair, to hold his face in my hands while he panted heavily against my skin, but he wouldn’t ease up.
When he finally did let go, I overshot my mark and lost my balance, sending us both bumping into the wide-mouthed planters on Daisy’s porch. They clattered and smashed against the wrought-iron railings before cracking against the steps.
Within seconds, Daisy popped out of the window and looked over at us, laughing.
“Oh, hey guys. What’s going on? Aw, I liked that planter.”
Marcello leaned heavily against me, resting his forehead in the crook of my neck, and I could feel him smiling against my skin. “Daisy, cara,” he said, his voice muffled. “I will replace the pot. Buona sera.”
She began to hum before disappearing into the window.
Marcello took a minute to help me straighten my clothes. I watched him smooth my blouse with painstaking care. He was quiet, thoughtful while he took care to make sure I was put back together after being wonderfully ravaged. Maybe it was a reflection of what had just happened or perhaps what we both knew would happen if he stayed.
I took his hand from the edge of my shirt and brought it to my cheek, loving the feeling of warmth against my skin.
“When can I see you again?” he asked when I leaned in to kiss him again. A light brush of my lips quickly turned into another deep, searching kiss.
“Avery, when?” he begged, kissing my lips, my cheeks, forehead. “When?”
My brain was fuzzy, kiss addled, and blank. “Soon,” I said between kisses. “I promise. It needs to be soon.”
With another quick peck, he said, “Soon.” With a wink, he slid down the railing and disappeared around the corner, whistling the whole way.
WITH THE WEEKEND UPON US, I danced barefoot into the kitchen, humming a tune I’d heard at the pizzeria yesterday. I didn’t know what it was, but it was going to be my new cheery go-to song.
“Good morning, best friend,” I sang, clinking the cups to the beat in my head. I grabbed a wooden spoon and the coffee tamper and began my own rhythmic beat on her countertop while shaking my ass at Daisy.
She was sitting at the counter, coffee in hand, waiting.
“Someone is feeling good this morning, sorry it’s technically afternoon. Singing through the pain?”
“The pain? Whatever do you mean?” I replied as the shiny espresso monster roared to life.
“You had my door knocker digging into your back last night. I figured you’d be sore. I can see that your lips got a workout.” She snickered.
Last night as I passed the hall mirror on the way to bed, I studied my face. Sure enough: my lips were very pink and swollen. My head whipped around and I pretended to glare. “Just how long were you watching us?”
“I peeked outside just as he was charging back up the sidewalk. Good lord that was sexy. He swept you up and pinned you to the door in one swoop! I was fanning myself while I was pretending not to watch.”
“It was pretty great,” I admitted, running my fingertips across my lips just thinking about it. But something was bothering me. “I have a confession to make.”
She was reading the paper and peered at me over the top. “Yes, dear child. Confess.”
I made a face. “That’s beyond creepy and I’m guessing sacrilegious.”
With a shrug, she folded the paper and set it down. “Sit down and talk to Dr. Daisy.”
“I’m serious. I feel like . . . I don’t know . . . I’d feel better if I made it official.”
“Made what official?”
“My sins. All of my good lord look what I did now; tell me it’s okay. Do I pick one of the ninety-five thousand churches to confess in, or is Rome just so holy that you yell your sins outside at the sky and wait for judgment to befall you?”
Throwing her head back, she groaned. Loudly. “You’re so dramatic. Loosen the clutch on those pearls, will you? What is this, Doomsday? You went out with a hot guy who you have a history with. What could you possibly have to confess? That you’re enjoying your time with Marcello? That you’re loving your life for the first time in ages? That you’re sketching again? Please explain this to me, because I don’t understand why you feel bad, when Daniel is dipping his tiny dick into all of fucking Boston.”
“We don’t know that he’s sticking his . . . dick . . . into all of fucking Boston,” I muttered. And I wasn’t going to say tiny, because it wasn’t, poetic justice aside. Normal sized? Yes. Boring? Yes. Tiny? Sigh. No.
“Well, we don’t know that he isn’t, do we? So you might as well get yours while he’s getting his, because of course he’s getting his and—”
Frustrated, I stood quickly, bumping the table and sloshing her coffee over the edge of the blue cup. “That’s exactly my point! I don’t want to be Daniel! Don’t you see, if I get mine, doesn’t that make me just as bad?”
“You’re not cheating, Avery. You’re separated—practically divorced. You’re like . . . divorced adjacent. A piece of paper just needs to be signed for you to be officially free and back on the market.”
“I don’t know.” My stomach was in knots. “Maybe it’s because I feel like I shouldn’t be enjoying myself right now? Shouldn’t I feel worse about all of this?”
She threw her hands in the air. “Why? He cheated. Not you.”
That was the thing, though. This little sticky sticking point. I had cheated. Years ago. So was I mad that Daniel had cheated? Yes, but was I more mad that it made us the same?
Ugh.
But when I cheated on Daniel with Marcello . . . oh my God I’d do it again in a second.
Daisy was still talking. “You’re picking up the shitty cards he dealt you. So please don’t put yourself in the same category as that crap weasel.”
That made me chuckle. “Crap weasel? Wow, you’re not kidding.”
“Let me ask you this, if you went back to Boston today and he said he was sorry and he still loved you and he’d never cheat again, could you forgive him?”
There it was. Probably the single most important question about the single most important relationship in my entire life. And I knew the answer immediately.
“No,” I said simply, and I knew then without any shadow of a doubt that no matter what he said or did, I’d never forgive him.
“Then you shouldn’t feel guilty. A piece of paper does not a marriage make, Avery.”
“You’re right.”
“And to be clear, I love you, but I will kick your ass down the Spanish Steps if I hear you feeling guilty again.”
Then I wouldn’t say it out loud again. I was grateful for her input, but I still couldn’t say with all sincerity that the guilt over what I might be getting up to in Rome while my divorce was still being hashed out was over just because my best friend snapped her fingers. I did feel better for actually saying it out loud, though. Kind of.
A few hours later we were both getting ready to head out. Daisy was meeting up for dinner with some friends she made from a project she worked on months ago. “I feel like all I do here is eat, sketch, paint, sketch, eat, walk, and sometimes sleep. Is that wrong?” I asked, smoothing on my lipstick. “I was emailing my parents and it read like instructions for a retired person’s handbook.”
“If that’s wrong, who the hell wants to be right?” Daisy answered, stepping into another pair of killer stilettos. I still don’t know how she does it with all those cobblestones.
“I’ve got to mix it up a bit, though. More tours or more art groups.”
“What about the art group from the campo? The class you saw when you first got here?”
“Way ahead of you. I actually spoke with the woman the other day. I’m going to start with them soon. I just have to buy a few more brushes.”
“Excellent. I’ll hang everything up that you bring home.”
“You’re like my mom when she used to hang up my artwork on the fridge. She did that until I graduated BU, by the way . . .”
“Speaking of, how are the parents?” she asked.
“Speaking of, they’re good. Retirement suits them perfectly. I have to call soon, though; I can tell they’re getting antsy. There’s only so long I can dodge an actual conversation, although you should see the detail in some of my mom’s emails. She said they’ve seen Daniel’s parents at the club several times since I split, but there hasn’t been an actual Daniel sighting. Which is surprising, since he practically lived there.”
That was true, he was always way more into the scene than I was, even growing up and going with my family.
“I’m sure his mother’s head exploded when your mother told them where you are.”
“That’s why she wants to talk. To find out some details to lob back at her when Bitsy starts throwing her perfectly manicured shade.”
Time to change the subject. I pulled my travel guide from my tote. “Speaking of the Spanish Steps, I’ve decided to venture there today.”
“Look at you, Lewis and Clark-ing all over Rome. I’m so proud.” She wiped a fake tear from her eye. “Try the bus, it’s super easy.”
FAMOUS LAST WORDS.
It’s super easy didn’t include telling me about the metal box next to the driver that looked like a pay phone but without a receiver. Or that the driver didn’t accept cash. Or that you had to buy your tickets before getting on the bus. After several near misses, however, and a delightful exchange where an old lady smelling like a rosemary bush told me exactly where to get off, and not in a nice “I’ll give you actual directions” way, I finally figured it out. And after all that, it was like a five-minute ride! Ah well.
Once off the bus, however, it was surprisingly easy to find on foot. I just followed the well-placed signs that directed pedestrians to various landmarks.
I reached the Spanish Steps just as the sun was beginning to set behind them. They were filled with people eating, painting, and talking. I took a seat and pulled out my phone to take some pictures.
Then I had an idea. Turning the camera around on myself, I snapped a quick photo and sent it to Marcello before I could second-guess myself. It was a pretty good picture—the sun lit up my hair in all its wild curls, and I knew he’d love it. I looked happy and more relaxed than I’d been in ages.
His response dinged back immediately. “Belissima.”