Saturday, May 13
Marco lands in Rome at 3 a.m. Evergreen time, and I wake up to fifteen texts about our hotel room, including a video of Marco struggling then succeeding
to set his phone up while he posed with an espresso cup, completely nude save for one of those souvenir aprons with David’s
stone torso and tiny, flaccid penis. Marco looked very satisfied with himself. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, he turned around—all firm ass and defined back muscles.
For the first time ever, I notice a little tattoo above his right knee and another on the inside of his left arm. I must have
missed them, the last time I saw him naked. We’d been very preoccupied.
Disgusting , I reply, sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, nervous jitters keeping me on the verge of a very-out-of-character giggle.
Blocked and reported .
But then I keep replying to every picture.
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
Omg.
Omg.
Marco takes a little while to reply, but when he does, it’s all heart emojis and the Italian flag.
Bring at least two fancy outfits , he tells me.
What does fancy mean to Marco? Before I can even reflect on the clothes I have in my closet, I’m in a full panic. Is this a red-carpet event?
Am I going to be photographed, heaven forbid?
What kind of fancy? I ask in earnest, my terror undoubtedly palpable to Marco. Unwisely, I follow up with: My Cracker Barrel best or Olive Garden chic?
Making a joke was a huge mistake, because the only thing Marco says back is: You scare me.
“You’re wading into the danger zone,” Allie tuts, holding up one of my lacier pairs of underwear before folding it and tucking
it into my carry-on.
Soph is draped over my bed as Allie and I carefully pack my suitcase. After some back-and-forth, Marco helped me pick out
two outfits for the mystery job–related things we’ll be doing: a white linen pantsuit with wide legs and a flattering high
waist and a muted orange dress that still fits perfectly over my curves. It’s a miracle that somehow these items ended up
here in Evergreen with me. Otherwise, I’d be showing up in my dad’s fishing boots and Nicky’s altar server robes.
“What danger zone?” I ask, doing my best impression of an absolute moron. I’m so far up my own ass, I’m surprised I don’t
emerge from my mouth every time I speak. “We’re going to do the same exact thing that we were doing here, just in Italy.”
Soph rolls over onto their back and lets out a labored sigh. “I hate to say it, but I’m with Allie on this one. You’re heading into a love pressure cooker. An accelerated timeline. If we were in a movie about the multiverse, the version of you and Marco in Italy gets married and sails off into the sunset in a gondola.”
“ What? Why? Because Rome is so sexy?” I’m sputtering like an old garden hose, fists pressed into my hips. “They have a very horrible graffiti problem.”
“Are you sure this maybe isn’t some sort of... overcorrection?” Allie offers. “With everything that you’ve had going on?”
I throw a pair of sandals into my suitcase a little harder than necessary, fighting off flashbacks from my phone call with
Liv. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We just want you to find a middle ground, sweets. To do what makes you happy—”
“I am happy,” I pout, crossing my arms over my chest. You know, like happy people do. “ This makes me happy. Marco makes—we’re happy right now.”
Allie tilts her head to the side and looks at me for a moment like I’m kind of tragic. “But it’s temporary, babe.”
My mouth almost falls open. What an unbelievable argument. “So what? Does that mean I don’t get to have fun? Do you cry while
you eat ice cream because you know it won’t last forever?”
Allie shrinks slightly, a flush of pink dotting her fair cheeks, and I can tell I just made a really good point. “We just
don’t want you to end up like after Kai—”
“My breakup with Kai had nothing to do with Kai—plus, who is this we ?” I cut Allie off viciously, turning my angry gaze on Soph. “Do you think that’s what’s going to happen?”
Soph sits up, pushing their glasses up and off their nose as they rub at their eyes. “I’m not getting involved. But just think before you say or do anything, okay? We don’t want to spend a month scraping you off the bathroom floor.”
Allie nods, pride beaming off her at Soph’s dad-like delivery of that final line. Then, she points at me. “Yeah. Don’t write
a check your ass can’t cash.”
That’s a Nadia-ism, used right against me.