Wish You Weren't Here

Chapter 13

James

The students look like they’re crawling out of the grave. All but the select few locals who are used to the Italian social clock are wearing their tourist hangovers like neon flashing lights, slumped in their chairs with their pitiful bloodshot eyes unfocused and the noxious fug of alcohol wafting from them in gusts. They aren’t going to make it. And there’s no way in hell I’m wasting one of my favorite lectures on a bunch of hungover zombies.

I click off the projector and the picture of my hero, Federico da Montefeltro, dissipates to blackness on the screen behind me.

“Alright, people. Listen up. I get it. Second night abroad—you want to party like the locals. Start your night at midnight. Dance into the morning in fabulous footwear. But this”—I gesture with an open hand to all of them—“this is not what a local looks like. Luca, do you mind standing up?”

“Certo, Professore.”

Luca stands easily and faces the crowd. His facial hair is freshly groomed. His gray pants are perfectly tapered. Shoes quite probably shined this morning. A few girls and guys lean in to whisper something to a neighbor. Luca doesn’t even bat a lash. Kid looks like a million bucks. An Italian Ryan Gosling. He smiles. Points to a few people in the seats a few rows above him. And sits back down.

“Thank you, Luca. That is what a local looks like.”

At least they are smiling now. Still hungover. But smiling.

“Here’s the deal. You have one hour to go get espresso, eat something greasy, take a shower, whatever you need to do to not look and smell like”—I pull up my nose and open both hands toward them—“this. Meet on the West Hill at exactly nine AM.”

There’s a communal sigh of relief that still reeks of vodka and about fifty thank yous thrown down at me from above. I wave them away and gather up the stack of assignments they’ve left behind. Typically, we do the architecture lesson on the third day, but it’s too beautiful outside today (and the smell inside is making me nauseous) to be stuck in this amphitheater. And now if someone vomits, we won’t need to clean it up.

Ava shows up when the room is cleared out.

She pushes through the doors calmly, as if she took a huge settling breath before doing so, and looks around, then stares straight at me. Her hair is wet, twisted up into a bun on top of her head, and she’s wearing a long cotton dress. She makes her way down the steps with her eyes on me, chin up. The armor’s back in place and she looks just like the spoiled, expectant American I picked up at the curb. The urge to poke at that armor is impossible to resist. Especially now that I’ve caught a glimpse of what’s underneath.

“You missed the entire class,” I tell her.

“I’m never late. Honestly, I haven’t been late since—”

“You’re late now.”

“I really don’t want to apologize to you—”

“Then don’t.”

“But obviously it is completely unacceptable for me to be late on my second day.”

She looks like she’s in pain. And it’s not the hangover. I’m enjoying this way more than I should.

“It won’t happen again. I don’t usually drink like that. And without my phone”—she glares at me and I shake my head—“I had to use an alarm clock from Nina that was set to the twenty-four-hour European time. It just won’t happen again,” she assures me and I know I shouldn’t be smiling because she’s genuinely apologetic and obviously embarrassed, but I can’t stop thinking about how this is a completely different person standing in front of me than the one I escorted home last night.

“Ava, as much as I enjoy seeing you grovel—”

“I’m not groveling.”

“You need to lighten up a bit. This is an art history class, not a prison. And you are in Italy, not boot camp.”

She narrows her eyes at me, but nothing about her stance relaxes.

“Where did you send the students?” she asks, taking a few steps closer to me.

“To sober up. We are having class on the West Hill at nine.” And there’s the smell of the lavender shampoo. I can smell it from ten feet away. She’s stopped on the final step, either to keep her distance after last night or to even out our heights.

“Listen,” she starts. “About last night—”

Here we go. This should be good.

“Which part? The part where you tried to kiss me or the part where you stole my dog?” I take a step around the podium and weigh the thick stack of essays in my hand. Feels like a shit-ton.

Her nostrils flare like they did in the picture I took of her exhaling that cigar. But she doesn’t bite.

“I have a boyfriend. A serious one.” She pauses and waits for me to interrupt. I don’t. “And we are going to get engaged when this little“—her hand twirls in the air like she’s swirling cotton candy onto a stick—“this little hiatus is over.”

“Right. An oat-sowing hiatus from your quiet as a mouse in the bedroom future fiancé,” I clarify. It’s a bit below the belt, using the things she told me in the car against her. But she’s pissing me off with this Little Miss Perfect act. In fact, the only time she’s not pissing me off is when she’s drunk.

Our gazes meet, hers narrowed and closed. Angry even? She’s unbelievable. I feel like she’s hit me with her car, backed over me, and is revving her engine for the third pass, all while hanging out the window demanding that I apologize for being in the middle of the road.

“To recap,” I begin. “I have now escorted you home twice with no thank you. One time in which you insulted me repeatedly and the other in which you threw yourself at me and now you want to set the record straight for me?”

She scoffs. “Threw myself at you? Don’t be ridiculous. I can barely tolerate you. I just booped your nose. Boop.”

She reaches out with her finger to demonstrate, and I swat it away.

“Thank you for walking me home, James,” she says in a monotone, robot voice that indicates just how little gratitude she feels toward me.

“You’re welcome,” I say, reaching out and touching her nose with my fingertip. She tries to hit my hand but misses and nearly drops the papers.

“I suggest you drink that coffee and eat that croissant Nina sent for you. It’s on the desk down there.” I make my way up the steps, careful not to brush past her as I go. She wants to avoid me, and the feeling is fucking mutual. I have zero room in my life for a spoiled American, no matter how fun she is when tipsy and how photogenic she might be. “And, Ava.”

When I turn she’s already got the croissant in her mouth, half of it ripped off like it was fought over by two ravenous dogs.

“Hmmm?” she asks, pausing her chewing.

“Maybe you should use that calling card and clarify all those little details you just told me with Senator Edward. Seems like he’s the man with the plan.”

She flips up her middle finger and takes a sip of the coffee, smiling around the rim of the mug.

“Oh, and also, Ava. I’m not interested,” I say, taking my time with the last three words. “See you at nine, dolcezza. Try not to be late.”

I push through the door and head straight for my office, where my camera sits beside an empty cup of coffee. Somehow having the last word after that conversation didn’t bring me as much relief as it normally does with her. There’s a painful niggle deep in my gut, like the time four-year-old Massimo karate-kicked me in the nuts after watching a Ralph Macchio marathon. Except this time it’s not Maso’s foot doing the damage. I just need to get behind the lens, then I can shake her off.

I lift the camera and let the light and shadows chase away the anger at having my summer hijacked by the stuck-up American.