Chapter 9

Saturdays were reserved for touring the city, but Sarah skipped the journey to Pompeii in lieu of picking up supplies. With a can of basecoat purchased at a nearby hardware store in one hand and a bag of tubes and brushes in the other, she nudged her bedroom door open with her foot. She shoved the supplies under her bed—any other place would be a tripping hazard—and flopped on the bed. If only she could start on the backdrops today! But in no way could she start until they were out in the open. And that meant—her stomach knotted—enlisting the help of Mr. Moretti.

His beady eyes and nasal tone filled Sarah’s mind. Maybe waiting a few days to get started wasn’t such a bad thing.

A floorboard creaked above, and Sarah gazed at the ceiling. Please let the little sprite be right about this one. If she wasn’t, and Mr. Moretti took offense to her covering his North Star, she might just need one of those plastic bags she’d stashed for Lucia.

Lucia! She sat upright. How could she have forgotten? She jumped up, aching feet and all, and headed upstairs. A flight of stairs later, a large wooden door, identical to her own, greeted her. Sarah had been here a month, and Anna’s room remained one of the only unexplored places at the school. She knocked on the door and waited. What kind of blackhole lurked beyond? Half-eaten slices of pizza probably littered the floor, and dirty laundry likely hung from the rafters.

Sarah knocked again, harder. The door creaked then slipped open. “Anna?” She peeked in the opening.

Inside, a room identical to her own, only more lived in, stood. Stacks of textbooks teetered in a pile by Anna’s bed. A collage of photographs pinned to one wall created a homey feel. Anna sat at her desk, with her back to the door, facing her laptop. Oversized headphones covered her ears like she’d just joined the Air Force, and the bass thumped to a steady beat. “Anna,” Sarah said at a volume just below shouting.

Anna gave a little jump and pulled off her earphones. “Oh. Hey.”

“I did knock.” Sarah jerked a thumb in the direction of the door. “Door slid open.”

Music still blaring from the earphones, Anna nodded and swiveled back around to her screen.

“I needed to ask you…” Anna was awfully quiet, especially for Miss Can’t Keep Her Mouth Shut. And she leaned so close to the monitor she could practically kiss it. Sarah peered over Anna’s shoulder but saw nothing—a security visor. Go figure. “What are you up to?”

“Just doing some research.”

“Research?” On a Saturday night? Fat chance. She stepped closer. “On what?”

“Grad school.”

Huh. Anna wasn’t kidding. Sarah sat on the edge of Anna’s bed. “Where at?”

“Oxford.”

“Wow.” Anna’s choice of schools was more elite than Sarah’s tea collection. “Think you’ve got a shot?”

Anna looked over her shoulder and smirked. “Of course. I graduated summa from MIT.”

“Right.” Sarah chewed her lip. Which was better summa or magna? Regardless, cum-anything from MIT was no small feat.

With a heavy sigh, Anna leaned on her elbow.

“What’s the problem then?” Sarah asked.

“Eh.” Anna lifted her eyebrows and rolled her eyes. “Not sure I’ll apply.”

Sarah stood. “What? Why not?”

“Why not?”—Anna snapped shut her laptop—“Applying is a pain in the ass is why not. Essays, transcripts, letters of recommendation…”

She couldn’t let someone as bright as Anna throw away a dream because the application process took too long. “Right. Like you don’t have a lot of time on your hands.”

“Like you don’t?” Anna glared.

Shifting on her feet, Sarah dropped her gaze to the floor. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, you’re right.”

Anna spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. Sarah lifted her gaze.

From her desk, Anna gave a sideways glance. “In fact, we both have a lot of free time.”

Her grin and dark eyes suggested she was up to something. “We do?”

“Yep.” Anna jumped up from her chair and planted herself in front of Sarah. “Tonight, for instance. Bet you don’t have any plans.”

Sarah took a step back. Her calf hit the bed, and she steadied herself against the wall.

“Do you?” Anna cocked a brow.

“Well, I planned to do some sketching. Enjoy a cup of tea.” Sarah rolled her lip. She sounded like a spinster.

“Ugh!” Anna dropped her smile. “You can’t be serious. You’re in Rome, Sarah. Why don’t you come out with me?”

“Anna,” Sarah said through a laugh. “My days of partying have come and gone.”

“That’s bull”—Anna slapped a hand on the chair—“and you know it. Come on—just this one time?”

Sarah sighed. Maybe she could make this arrangement work in her favor. “I’ll consider it. On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“I need your help with someone. Her name is Lucia.”

****

At just past nine, Anna parked her red scooter in a dark alley.

Raucous young locals in tight clothes filled the street.

Sarah climbed off the back of the ride. Thank goodness the breakneck drive through narrow streets was over. How had she let Anna convinced her to jump on the back of that thing?

Well, maybe it had been a little fun—just a teensy bit. She ran her fingers through the knotted ends of her wind-blown hair and followed Anna into a stuffy, dark club. Music blared, and smoke hazed the air.

Anna headed straight for the bar. “Let’s get a drink!” she called over her shoulder.

Behind a counter framed with neon-blue lights, a man in a metallic shirt greeted Anna.

She was clearly a regular. Sarah approached the bar.

He handed them two cups.

Sarah took a sip. A sweet syrup, followed by the bitter finish of vodka, hit her mouth. “I don’t usually drink.” The warmth of the liquor spilled down her throat.

“I figured.” Anna sauntered over to the dance floor.

Bright lights flashed in a chaotic pattern, illuminating smooth-skinned faces and sweaty bodies. Girls with underdeveloped curves wearing short skirts gyrated to a techno beat. A wave of nausea hit Sarah’s stomach, but the malaise wasn’t just from the booze and strobe lights. Was everyone in this building at least five—hell, ten years—younger than her?

This outing was a bad idea. She turned to head back toward the entrance.

But Anna caught her arm and hauled her through the crowd.

A handsome young man held up a hand. “You made it!” He leaned in and kissed Anna briskly on the lips then extended a hand toward Sarah. “I’m Francisco.”

“Sarah.” She shook his hand.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” he said. “Anna’s told me so much about you.”

“Oh, um…” She should have figured Anna would have an ulterior motive.

Anna stamped on her foot.

To avoid wincing, Sarah gritted her teeth. “Likewise,” she lied.

Anna smiled and spoke something in Francisco’s ear. They both shifted to the side.

A familiar face emerged.

“This is my friend, Marco.” Francisco grinned. “I believe you’ve already met.”

Sarah’s heart leapt to her throat, and her stomach twisted. She turned to scowl at Anna, but all she caught was Anna’s back.

Francisco pulled Anna into the jumble of bodies on the dance floor.

Damn it. She should have known Anna was up to something.

Marco stepped closer.

Sarah stumbled back and studied him. His light brown hair rested on gaunt shoulders. He nodded and took a swig from a beer bottle.

“Hi,” Sarah said.

He whisked the empty cup from her hand. “Let me get you another.”

“Oh, no.” She waved her hand. “That’s all right.”

But he was already headed for the bar.

Sarah tilted back her head in a “why me?” gesture. She swallowed hard and followed him. Dressed in relaxed khaki pants, a striped Ronaldo jersey, and leather sandals, Marco looked ready to again pop his feet into the Neptune fountain.

He handed her another cup. “So, Anna tells me you’re getting a divorce.”

Sarah tensed her shoulders, and she squeezed the cup so tight the pink concoction inside splashed out the buckling sides. “That’s right. But, still technically married.”

“Ah.” He sat on one of the barstools.

Sarah tapped a foot on the floor, glanced at the exit, and mentally retraced the route from the school. But her memory was a blur of headlights and unfamiliar buildings. Could she even snag a cab around here? Damn it, Anna! Reluctantly, she hiked herself onto the seat next to Marco, and made zig-zags with her finger along the side of her cup—better than crushing it. “You study with Francisco?”

“Ma va. I’m taking a break from school. Working at a bar these days.” Marco drummed his fingers on his glass bottle.

“And you don’t work on Saturday nights?”

He gave a meek smile. “I called in sick when Francisco told me you’d be here.”

Immediately, the tension in her neck subsided. The jitteriness in her fingers abated. Even the urge to claw Anna’s eyes was gone. She smiled, placed her drink on the bar, and rested her elbows on the wood.

But she didn’t respond. How could she? This situation was crazy. She didn’t engage in flirtatious banter with men half her age. She didn’t frequent bars. And she definitely didn’t hook up with people she had just met.

Sarah stiffened in her seat. Philip frequented bars, even after they were married. The Thursday night meet-up on the corner of M and 2nd was his favorite. Those nights were his evenings shooting the breeze with his buds. Her stomach knotted. Had he met Amanda there? Were the buddies just a cover for meeting his mistress somewhere else?

“Are you all right?” Marco clutched his bottle.

“Huh?” Sarah shot a glance at him. His brows pressed together. “I’m fine.” She pushed the memory—far away. “So, Marco, just how old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

Holy cow. He was even younger than she thought. She gulped her drink, the alcohol stinging the inside of her cheeks. Her eyes watered.

“Do you like it?” Marco asked. “I came up with it myself.”

“It’s good,” she fibbed.

“Thanks.” He widened his eyes.

The anticipation in his gaze grew, and Sarah fought against flinching. His efforts—skipping work and a made-to-order drink—at least warranted a response. What exactly should she say? I’m too old for you? I’m not interested in dating? She downed the rest of the drink. The features of Marco’s face blurred. He might be young, but he was attractive, sweet, and he liked her. Warmth blossomed in her chest. Flirting just a little couldn’t hurt, could it? After all, she was here to have fun—wasn’t she? She leaned closer. “Don’t you want to know how old I am?”

He gave a half grin. “You can tell me if you want, but”—he placed a hand over hers—“I don’t really care.”

Sarah smiled back. The only question remaining was whether she was drunk enough not to care either.

****

The warm yellow rays of the morning sun slanted through plastic mini-blinds. Sarah fluttered open her eyelids, letting them adjust to the light. Heaviness weighed her body, like she had molded into the firm mattress beneath her, and a steady beat pounded in her head. The residue of alcohol and bile in her mouth further soured her rolling stomach. Where was she? And what was that smell? A stuffy mixture of sweat, body odor…

Oh, damn. Sarah bolted upright. Sharp pains stabbed the back of her eyes, and she dropped her chin. She wore a maroon-and-gold-striped jersey—Marco’s jersey.

Double damn. She hopped out of the bed, glancing only briefly at Marco’s slumbering figure covered by a thin blue sheet. Searching through the clothes strewn on the floor, she found her own. Thank God for them. And thank God she hadn’t brought Marco back to the school. She’d have been fired for sure. But where was she? She had no recollection of coming to his place, no memory of…of anything past chatting with Marco in a smoky bar.

With shaky hands, she grabbed her belongings and headed for a bathroom off the bedroom. She pulled on her clothes as she called. “Please answer, please answer,” she whispered as the phone rang.

“Whaaaat?”

Sleepiness filled Anna’s cranky voice. “Anna, please, I—I need help. I’m at Marco’s. I…I didn’t mean for this to happen. I need to get out of—”

“Sarah, calm down,” Anna said through a yawn.

“Calm down? You drag me out and let me go home with a stranger, and you want me to calm down?” The throbbing in her head increased.

Silence reverberated on the line. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

Sarah heaved a sigh. “Thank you, Anna.” The line was already dead. She finished dressing and pulled her hair into a ponytail. As she turned to leave, something caught her eye. A used condom floated in the toilet. Bile climbed higher in her throat. She gagged then hurled—getting her head over the toilet just in time.

When her stomach was empty, she rinsed her mouth with water and examined her disheveled reflection in the mirror. She hadn’t felt this horrible since…since the Ben Carter incident.

The night out had been just like this—a few drinks, and then…

Pushing away the thought, she flushed the toilet and watched the condom circle down the drain. How many years had transpired since she’d carried one of those around? Not since Philip. But she’d carried one in her purse in high school and college.

She shuddered. So much time had passed since she thought of her first GYN appointment—the first time she’d heard the term PCOS.

“Irregular cycle. Heavy periods. Oily skin.” The doctor had tapped his clipboard. “All classic signs of polycystic ovarian syndrome. The condition is very common, Sarah. No need for concern.”

Sarah turned to Mom, who sat beside her in the exam room. The expression on her mother’s face confirmed Sarah’s fears. The diagnosis was definitely something to worry about.

“I can give you some pills if you’d like to be more regular,” the doctor continued, “but they’re not necessary. When the time comes that you’re ready to conceive, you might just need a little extra help.”

She sneered, a jolt attacking her stomach. A little extra help. How many times had she repeated those words in her mind? How many times had she screamed them into her pillow at night? How many times had she proved the doctor wrong?

In the bathroom, Sarah stared down at the toilet where the condom floated before she flushed. But the doctor mentioned something else that day, just before leaving the room. Something she hadn’t given much thought to in years. Of course, he spoke loud enough for Mom to hear as well, making Sarah’s face color with embarrassment.

“Now, Sarah,” the doctor had said, “don’t let this diagnosis make you careless with contraception. You can get pregnant and contract STDs.”

That statement was why, two days later, Sarah’s mother handed her a shiny wrapper. “Just in case.”

Sarah never thanked her mother for that advice. The sight of that same crumpled wrapper on the floor of Ben Carter’s dorm room years later had brought her such relief. A knock on the bathroom door brought Sarah out of her daydream.

“Sarah?” Marco asked.

Great. He was awake. Could this morning get any worse? “Just a minute!” she called then opened the door.

“Sarah.” He embraced her.

In his scrawny arms, Sarah stood rigid and resisted the urge to wriggle free.

With his hands still on her upper arms, he took a step back.

“Marco, um, I’m sorry about last night. I made a mist—”

“Why are you sorry?” He scrunched his brows. “Last night was amazing! You…you were amazing.”

Okay, this day could get worse—definitely worse. “Marco, listen. I made a mistake. I had too much to drink.”

He lowered his hands. “Are these feelings about your husband? Eduardo? Because I under—”

“What?” She went rigid. “Eduardo?”

“Yeah. You called me Eduardo last night—a couple of times, actually.”

Way worse. Her cheeks burned. Eduardo? Why had she called him that name?

Her phone beeped in her purse just as a toot-toot from Anna’s scooter whistled outside. She pushed past Marco and hurried to the front door, shouting over her shoulder, “I’m sorry, Marco…again.”

“Wait,” he called after her. “I don’t even have your number.”

Sarah hurled herself down the stairs and jumped onto the back of the scooter before he could catch up. Safe on the back of Anna’s scooter, she reached the dorm twenty minutes later.

Students streamed from the chapel across the courtyard.

“I thought you were having a good time,” Anna said.

“I honestly don’t remember. Maybe I was.”

“Sorry. I wouldn’t have let you go with him if—”

“What happened last night isn’t your fault.” Sarah entered the dormitory. “Just don’t give him or Francisco my number, okay?”

“Don’t worry. I was getting bored with him anyway.”

“Well, don’t do anything rash on my account.”

Anna gave a little snort. “We’ve been together six weeks. That’s two weeks past my usual max.”

A smile curving her lips, Sarah shook her head and turned toward her room. Then she froze.

Down the hall, Sister Maria stood at her door.

Sarah’s heart skipped a beat. Definitely worst day ever. Brushing her hands over her crumpled shirt, Sarah stepped toward her. But what was the point? She reeked of stale smoke and beer. The head of school would make her out. “Buongiorno,” Sarah mustered a cheery tone.

Sister Maria wheeled around, revealing a smile. But it quickly faded. “Buongiorno.” Her voice was as cold as her expression. She scanned Sarah’s outfit, and her scowl deepened.

“You weren’t at mass. I came by to check on you.”

“Oh, I’m fine, thanks. I—” Sarah broke off and folded her arms across her chest. What half-lie could she say that wouldn’t send her straight to purgatory? “I wasn’t feeling up to attending.”

Scowling, Sister Maria arched an eyebrow above her wire-frame glasses.

Sarah shifted her gaze to the floor. Purgatory for sure.

“I’ll leave you to rest.” Sister Maria stepped to the side.

“Thank you.” Sarah fumbled with her key.

“And, Miss Miller?”

Sarah caught the door before it closed but didn’t meet Sister Maria’s gaze.

“I don’t usually interfere with my staff’s personal affairs, but you’ve surprised me this morning. I hoped you would be a positive influence on Miss Franklin.”

With a shoulder push, Sarah shut the door. She left her clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor. She brushed her teeth twice—once before the scalding hot shower and once after. After throwing on a nightshirt, she pulled on her fuzzy slippers and climbed into bed. The clean clothes and countless times she’d ran the bar of soap between her legs hadn’t helped. She still felt dirty.

Curling up in the bed, she drew her knees to her chest. As she prepared to close her eyes, she caught sight of Sister Maria’s hand-me-down flats. The black leather had faded to dark gray, and scuffs marked the toes. They were old and dirty. But they’d been tucked safely in her room last night, where Sarah should also have been.

Closing her eyes, she pictured the smoky bar and Anna’s devilish grin, Marco’s unkept apartment and his bare torso, and the hallway leading to her room and Sister Maria’s disappointment. She pulled in her knees tighter and squeezed shut her eyes. But the tears fell anyway. This trip was supposed to rejuvenate her soul, not corrupt her morals. Would she ever stop screwing up royally?