Sunday, May 14
On my flight from Philly to Rome I was seated next to an older woman on the way to Basilicata to visit her family. Her English
wasn’t great and it seemed like maybe her Italian wasn’t either, after years of living abroad. I fell in love with her watery
eyes and soft, thin black hair immediately. She didn’t look anything like my nonna had—a heavy-set, sturdy woman with warm
brown eyes and solid forearms—but she seemed cosmically connected to all nonnas, and therefore I had to protect her.
When turbulence hit, we held hands and looked at each other, giggling, embarrassed by our fear.
“It’s okay!” I whispered. “We’re okay!”
“Mamma mia,” she said softly, gripping my hand.
Now I levitate through passport control and baggage claim, basically running to the arrivals hall. I only make one pit stop—into
the restroom to pop a handful of pills that will hopefully ease the horrible throb in my back, brush my teeth, and scrub away
the old mascara underneath my eyes. I smell a little funky, but Marco’s a big boy. He’ll survive.
I step through the automatic doors and search the crowded, chaotic hall for his face and I find him immediately. While Marco should blend in with his olive skin and dark, wavy hair, there’s something so American about his face. He looks like a gum-chewing, sunflower-seed-spitting baseball player with his square jaw and thick arms crossed over his chest, waiting for me on the other side of the railing that separates arrivals from arrival recipients. I pick up speed toward him, a grin on my face, and I’m still running when he wraps his arms around my waist and hefts me to him.
His teeth are bright and white and his skin is glowing and he looks like the safest place on Earth.
“Buon giornooooooo,” he trills, spinning us in a circle, almost knocking us into a group of discombobulated teenagers. It’s so ridiculous, so
over-the-top. Any other person and I would be mortified.
“Put me down, I’m flashing the entire airport!” I shout, trying to keep the shapeless linen sack I traveled in from flying
up over my waist.
He obliges, but we don’t stop moving. “This hotel is crazy. I can’t wait for you to see. It’s right in the middle of everything—right
in Piazza Trilussa. Oh, and there’s this restaurant we have to try—”
“Jesus, slow down. Can we stop for coffee?”
He comes to a complete stop and turns back toward me so fast I almost flat-tire his perfectly white sneakers. Marco takes
my face in his hands, improbably gentle and firm all at once, bringing his mouth to mine. When he pulls away, we stay close,
foreheads pressed together. It’s disgusting, how sweet it all is. He watches me through heavy lids, mouth curving. I’ve abandoned
my luggage and wrapped myself around him. “Certo, amore.”
I squeeze his bicep. “You’ve got worms in your brain.”
He laughs, but doesn’t let go of me. “Si, amore.”
Marco drives us back toward the center of Rome with every window of his rental car rolled down and the radio blasting. He
keeps taking his eyes off the road, over and over, to look at me and just smile .
“Stop it.” I laugh, shouting over the wind. “We’re going to crash.”
“You actually came. You’re here.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?” I raise my eyebrows at him. “Even with a ticket?”
He shakes his head, pressing his lips together. “I never know what’s going to happen with you.”
I look out at the ancient skyline, breaking through the umbrella pines under a wildly clear azure sky. “I’m not an asshole,
Marco.”
I sound like Liv. Our argument flashes back like a cold blade over my skin, and I actually shiver—even though it must be eighty-plus
degrees. I hate how we left things, but I can’t think about Liv and her obsession with trying to scale me down to a more recognizable
shape. I turn back toward Marco. “I’d never go out of my way to hurt you. You know that, right? You know I care about you?
Even if this... this relationship is fake or temporary or whatever, I’m not pretending I care about you.”
“Hey, of course.” He looks so serious suddenly and I realize it’s because I look serious. “Of course. I was just kidding.”
Rome is like a Renoir. A Matisse.
The air smells like jasmine flowers and honeysuckle, heavy with heat and diesel fumes and melting garbage. Everything’s ancient
and rotten and beautiful, lush green life bursting through broken concrete and abandoned buildings alive with wild vines.
We park near the Tiber River and step out into the morning rush, immediately absorbed into the pace and rhythm of the city.
There’s so much to look at, I’m not where to start and I think Marco can tell.
He pulls me through the crowds of tourists that clog the narrow, cobblestoned streets of Trastevere, my bag slung over his shoulder. He’s glowing like I’ve never seen before under the late-morning sun. The sky is preternaturally blue, and suddenly I remember that Italians have about eight different words for light blue. All different shades, all different combinations of soft consonants and decadent vowels.
“Coffee!” I remind him, tripping over my feet in an effort to keep up as Marco leads me by the hand down a winding vico , so filled with sunshine it looks like it’s been dipped in saffron.
We stop at a coffee shop en route to our hotel. The building is a faded shade of amber, crowded on either side by nearly identical
palazzi, ivy and graffiti mixing together to disguise where one building starts and the other ends. The entrance is bookended
by two tables of old men sitting with their newspapers and morning cigarettes. If Marco had a tail, it would have been wagging
at the sight of a delicious 8 a.m. smoke. I have to practically pull him away by his collar.
“God, I wish I could just have one vice without taking it too far,” he remarks, running a hand through his hair, jonesing .
“Woof, how personally should I take that?”
Marco rolls his eyes. “Sex isn’t a vice.”
“Oh, no?” I pop a brow. “You’re a very bad Catholic.”
He smirks and says with great pride, “Greek Orthodox, actually. I’m a bad Orthodox Christian.”
We order frozen espresso, shaken out of a liter Coke bottle into shot glasses, and sip them while standing at the bar, no
one else around us. The radio crackles over our heads and Marco keeps a hand lazily glued to my lower hip, something I would
have never allowed in Evergreen, but the magnetism of his happiness draws me closer and closer. Suddenly, I’m compelled by
the spirit of a corporate-girlboss demon to sputter out the sentence, “What... are your goals for this trip?”
Marco’s arms find their way around me, his fingers tracing the length of my spine over my linen dress. “What are my goals ?”
“Like, what do you want to accomplish?”
“Did you hit your head on the flight?”
“I just...” I attempt to shrug out of his arms, but he tightens his grip on me. “This is really romantic.”
“Okay.” He laughs, lifting a hand to smooth my hair away from my face. “And?”
“What about our feelings?” But before he can answer, I course-correct. “Soph and Allie told me I need to be careful with this.
They’re worried I’m going to...” I lose my nerve, just like the waitress from that very first night at Ernie’s. I roll
my lips over my teeth. “You know.”
“Ah, of course,” Marco says gravely, pressing his lips to my forehead. “You’re going to fall head over heels in love with
me, by accident.”
“Right.” I laugh, all the anxiety falling away from my voice. Am I being ridiculous?
“Do you think that’s possible?” he asks earnestly. “To fall in love with someone against your will?”
I grimace. “I don’t know, I spent a lot of years really horny for Conan O’Brien.”
He pulls back, admiring me for a moment. “Conan? Really?”
“One hundred percent. He’s so funny. And charming. And I guess I love a redhead.”
Marco smirks. “You know, I could probably get you his number.”
“Oh, honey. ” I wrap my arms around his waist. “Don’t make me beg .”
Marco pushes open the door to our home for the next four days, and I let out an audible gasp, pressing both my hands to my chest. Without an ounce of irony, I announce: “I want to live here forever .”
Marco’s grinning, the proudest I’ve ever seen the man. “I did a good job, huh?”
“This is the nicest place I’ve ever been.”
Gray terrazzo floors, stone archways through which each room flows into the next, leading to a balcony that overlooks the
piazza below, angles of sunlight falling across the bed from behind doors that nearly reach the ceiling.
The bathroom is bigger than the whole suite with a deep, white stone soaking tub that curves lusciously like a gravy boat.
I kick off my shoes and climb in, Marco watching me bemused from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, arms crossed
over his chest, sunglasses pushed up on his head, as I point my toes at the ceiling.
“Holy crap. We could both fit in here!”
“You think?”
“Yes, absolutely. Get in.”
Marco carefully removes his sneakers before climbing into the tub. Our legs interlock and we stare at each other, almost
doubled over with the type of silent laughter you assume becomes impossible with age.
“We... look... like... babies...” I manage through enormous gulps of air and wheezing laughter.
“Babies?” Marco repeats, beside himself.
When I finally get ahold of myself, I crawl across the space to him, his arms wrapping around me, and my head settles onto
his chest. I can hear his heart beating, his breath moving in and out of his lungs as his thumb traces the curve of my shoulder.
A window is open and sunshine and church bells and distant voices pour in. My eyes flutter shut and an extreme sense of peace
blankets me.
“I love this,” I say, the words falling from my mouth before I can catch them. It’s how I feel, down to my core. And it just comes from me, before my ego can step in the way. I do. I love this.
Embarrassment pinpricks in me immediately. I shouldn’t have said that. “Being here,” I add without lifting my head or opening
my eyes.
A soft noise of agreement moves in Marco’s chest. “Me too,” he whispers. “I love being here with you.”
I insist on seeing as much of Rome as possible, even though the city seems to still—haphazardly—observe the holy day. Through
the bathroom’s slated balcony doors, I hear the hushed excited chatter of two little girls, followed by the slapping of their
sandaled feet on the Sampietrini . I can sort of understand what they’re saying—something about a little gray cat. It takes everything in me to not throw back
the shower curtain, pull on a sundress, and run downstairs after them. Their voices carry on the sweet late-morning air, curling
and twisting with the steam from my shower while I towel off my hair, shaking myself dry like a puppy. Instead I wrap myself
in a towel and follow the smell of moka pot coffee into the kitchen.
“It feels like a waste to not spend every single moment—thank you,” I say to Marco, pausing to take a boiling-hot espresso cup from him before taking a series of sips. When
I look up, he’s smirking—leaning back against the little kitchen stove, sunshine painting his face in a honey light. “What?”
“Nothing.” Marco shrugs, arms crossed over his stomach. With a look of great satisfaction, he sips his own coffee. “I just
don’t think I’ve ever seen you this excited before.”
“I-I...” I stutter. “What about the whale?”
“Eh.” He tilts his head from side to side. “The whale made you smile—but the whale was also your idea.”
I grin, batting my eyes. “It was. I’m a genius.”
With a soft chuckle, he sets down his demitasse cup and shifts toward me, nearly closing the space in a single step. Before
I can finish any of my thoughts—about whales, about Rome, about how incredibly smart and perfect I am—Marco’s in front of
me looking so unbelievably handsome, my breath actually stalls. Then, he’s taking my face in his hands; a frustrated growl
half forms on his lips before he tilts my face to his and kisses me—slow and hungry. I curl my fingers around his wrists,
falling into him—soft and malleable against his chest.
He pulls away, keeping a firm hold on my face between his hands, and looks down his nose at me.
“What was that for?”
His gaze meets mine, eyes shining. “Good. You’re still grinning.” He swipes a thumb over my lips. “I was getting really jealous
of that damn whale—and this city.”
The fatigue of travel and jet lag are coming for me, ready to make me their bitch, crush me into a fine powder and blow me
into the wind. But for now I’m delirious and slap-happy.
Out in the heat and haze of a Roman afternoon, Marco seems completely, totally in his element. This is a version of him far
more confident than I’d seen in Evergreen and New York, a man I’d surrender to wholly. I’d let him manage my finances and
my sleep schedule.
He knows the best ways to the best places; we zigzag around crowds and slip through streets so narrow they must be hidden passages. He tells me about different personal landmarks like: Piazza di Santa Maria in Trastevere is his favorite of all the piazzas, the communist bar around the corner with cheap beers is the best in the entire city, and the supplì shop two streets over has the best potato croquettes and roasted chicken. Does he like pizza alla pala ? Yes, but only the kind with fresh mozzarella from the shop across from the park, on the other side of the piazza. He speaks
Italian well enough to make me instantly jealous. When a woman speaks to me in an aggressive, rapid string of Romance-language
perfection, I smile like a Midwesterner and gesture his way.
“So, what’s the deal with you and Rome?” I ask Marco over the margherita we’re splitting for lunch.
“We’re just having casual sex.”
“Oh, yeah?” I quirk a brow. “Just for the month of May or...?”
“Very funny.” He rolls his eyes at me, reaching across the table to dust a bit of semolina flour from my chin. “I don’t know—I
came here with the cast years ago and just... fell in love. It’s a city with everything, you know? Literally everything.
It’s like the entire universe contained between seven hills.”
“What about Greece?” I ask, shimmying two slices of pizza apart. I push one in his direction.
“Greece is beautiful, but—it can be a lot, being so surrounded by family and tradition.”
I make a noise of deep, guttural recognition, so he keeps talking. “Rome feels like my place. My memories, my traditions.
Every way I feel here is something I discovered.”
“No one’s telling you how to feel. No boardwalk clown music.”
Marco nods. “No boardwalk clown music.”
We jump on the tram and ride it to the end of the line. He takes me to a bookstore with four stories and endless shelves of glossy paperback editions. I see so many authors and volumes I lust for, I have no choice but to feel crushed with the knowledge that I’ll never possibly read them all. I stand at the table of Elena Ferrante novels with their Italian covers, as God intended, tears bubbling
in my eyes.
Marco laughs and takes my picture.
In the center of it all, I feel an ancestral ache. Am I home here, too? Am I as home here as I am in Evergreen? Two places
connected by an ancient pathway, carved out and worn smooth by millions of people. I see Liv in dark-haired women that zoom
by on mopeds, brows set in determined concentration. I see my mother’s soft, lined smile in the faces of different shopkeepers,
with their arthritic hands and reading glasses hanging around their necks.
We walk for miles until we reach Piazza Navona, and I stand awestruck at Neptune’s feet.
“Can we stay forever?” I ask Marco, arms outstretched. The sun sets in an ultraviolet explosion of indigo and fuchsia.
He makes the little eh, eh, eh noise and then snaps my picture from a crouching position. When he pulls his camera away, he’s watching me with a smile in
his eyes. “It definitely suits you.”
The way he looks at me makes my skin goose-pimple, my stomach lurch into my chest.
It does, I think. I think I’m healed here. I think I’m all better now.
The thought comes in an instant—and then it’s gone.