Chapter 44
I shrug off my feat, posturing like it’s no big accomplishment before breaking into a grin.
I peel back one of my wide-leg pants pockets, revealing that it’s stuffed to the brim with trinkets: the spoon catchall for my mom, the BEWARE OF DOG tile from Pompeii, and a half dozen pistachio chocolates that are getting mushy from the heat of my body.
I’m lumpy and carrying at least ten pounds on my person, which makes navigating security a bit of a hassle.
“Didn’t even need to use Anya’s bag this time.
” I beam, proud of myself, before I confess one small detail.
“Nico did also mail a few things home for me.”
“We still have a month and a half left,” Anya warns. “Those pocket seams may not hold up.”
Almost like he could sense us talking about him, my phone vibrates with a FaceTime from Nico.
I answer, and his bright face fills the screen.
Anya and Mari pop their heads into frame, blowing air kisses to Massimo, who’s currently perched on one of Nico’s shoulders like he’s a parrot.
Nico is cat-sitting until Anya gets the necessary vaccinations and documents to bring him home.
“How’s the B and B?” I ask. “Has a new batch of beautiful American women checked into our room?”
“Funny you should ask. They just checked in this evening. In fact, one called down specifically to talk to me.” Nico’s eyes sparkle.
“Is that so?” I perk up.
“Yes. She asked if I could fetch her arthritis medication from the pharmacy down the street.”
“Well, it’s good to know that I could take her in a fight,” I joke. “If it comes to that.”
“You two never quit, do you?” Mari pipes in.
“Lovebirds,” Anya adds.
“I miss you,” I say, ignoring their teasing. I wrap my hand around his pendant and gently tug, my way of feeling close to him when we’re apart.
“I miss you too, Soraya. I’ll see you soon enough.” Nico’s face turns to Anya and Mari. “Travel safe. You two take care of my girlfriend for me.” He offers up a final wave, and then he’s gone.
“Oh my God, he said girlfriend.” Mari looks like she is going to cry.
“He’s been calling me that for a few weeks now,” I say, laughing.
“We’re really going to give this a go.” It feels nice, unexpectedly, to be dating—officially dating—someone who isn’t afraid of his feelings, who makes sure to let me know how much I mean to him and who doesn’t run when I tell him the same.
I’ve spent so long trying to make things happen that I forgot that sometimes, it can be easy.
“Like we said, we’re just happy that you finally got to this point,” Anya adds.
“It only took a short flight and a whole lotta drama for me to see the light,” I say.
“Amen to that.” Anya settles into her chair, but then shoots straight back up, panic-stricken. “Wait. We didn’t use my mom’s hundred-euro bill!” She takes out the note from her journal and holds it up on display. It’s as crisp as it was three weeks ago.
I relax and grab her hand, laughing. “Anya. We’re barely halfway through vacation. The best is yet to come.”
Watching Anya tuck away her journal reminds me of Mari’s photo album.
Despite knowing the answer will likely sting, I finally garner the courage to ask the thing I’ve been wondering ever since we left Amalfi.
“What did you two do all those days we avoided each other? Did you do a lot of exploring?” I pause, swallowing. “Did you take a bunch of photos?”
Anya and Mari share a mischievous look.
“We’ve been waiting for you to ask.” Anya sits back in her chair, all smug.
“We did take some photos. Want to see?” Mari asks, pulling out the photo album from her backpack.
“Sure!” I say, way too cheerfully, as my throat clenches.
Mari hands me the album and I lay it in my lap.
Inside is the first batch photos we took together before things went south: in the Atlanta airport holding up our crocheted passport covers; a photo I didn’t even realize Mari took of us on the bus, with Anya’s face looking green; and lugging our suitcases toward the B and B a whole lifetime ago.
There is a photo of us stretched out on our towels during the beach day, fishing with Nico, lounging on Aurora’s boat, me eating the lemon crème cookies with crumbs all over my lap, and even one of us in Pompeii.
My chest gets tight as I go to flip the page.
I’m shocked to find that, on the first page of photos without me, I’m still there. Anya and Mari must have taken the ferry to Capri, as they are standing on a cliffside in their hiking clothes, but I’m standing right in between them.
“We couldn’t leave you out of the memories,” Anya explains, taking note of my surprise.
“You were always there with us. In spirit and physically.” Mari grins. “Even if it was only in two dimensions.”
Tears sting my eyes. Somehow, Mari and Anya lugged a giant cardboard cutout of me around all over the Amalfi Coast. “Where in God’s name did you even get this?”
“Nico.” Mari beams. “He had a friend who helped us get it made. They even figured out a way to disassemble it so it fit in our backpacks.”
“Of course it was him.” He always manages to surprise me, even when he isn’t here.
I laugh when I see that my cardboard cutout had been folded into a chair at a restaurant, with Anya pretending to feed it spaghetti.
The next photo is her tipping a wineglass into my mouth.
“Cardboard me really likes her wine, I see.” There is page after page of this, in every single Polaroid.
It’s heartwarming and creative and thoughtful all in one. “I love you guys so much.”
“We love you,” Mari says. The three of us share a bear hug at the gate before Mari starts giggling. “You should have seen the looks we got. People did not think we were well. But we had a blast.”
“I mean this is actually insane. Insane. You didn’t consider Photoshop?
” I page through the album, past photos of Anya and Mari in a pasta-making class with me standing right beside them, one of them playing puppet with my hands as I slice San Marzano tomatoes, until I reach the blank pages.
I hand the album back to Mari, my heart completely full. “I’ll never be able to top this.”
“You will,” Mari says. “I know you. You and your big plans.”
Our flight to Barcelona is about to start preboarding. “I have to run to the bathroom,” I say. “Any snack requests?” Anya glances instinctively at her watch and I grin. “Don’t worry. I’m only stopping for snacks if there’s still time. No dawdling, no SIM cards, I promise.”
Mari waves me off with a request for lemon crème cookies just as my phone buzzes with a photo from Nico. He’s holding a cup of granita and wearing a goofy grin. Italy is missing you already!
I turn the corner, face down, texting him back, and promptly collide with someone—a girl around my age, elegantly dressed, with dark skin and long microbraids that hang down her back. My phone ricochets off the floor, flying to a stop right in front of her.
“Oof.” She grunts as her things all tumble to the ground.
“Scusi!” I say, mortified, dropping to my knees to help collect her things. But I realize I probably could have just said it in English, because the passport I scoop up is American.
The girl smiles politely as she hands my phone back to me.
She’s distractingly familiar-looking in the way Sailor had been when we first saw her at Hartsfield-Jackson and I wonder, idly, if I follow her on Instagram or something.
But then my eyes fall to her ticket, to Charles de Gaulle—Paris.
We’ll be there too, soon enough, once we’ve plied our stomachs with tapas and walked through the orange groves of Valencia and caught a soccer game in Barcelona.
In fact, we’ll be there in two weeks exactly, and Nico will be joining us before he starts the semester back in Rome.
I already can’t wait to watch the Eiffel Tower sparkle, to eat picnics of baguettes and macarons and good French cheese.
We’ll laugh over our memories—the old ones we have now, and the new ones we haven’t made yet.
“You’re going to have the best trip,” I gush before I can stop myself, as I extend her ticket and passport back to her.
She looks surprised at my prediction, but nods contemplatively. “I hope you do too,” she tells me, before leaving for her gate.
I stand there stoically as a smile passes over my lips. Because I know that, no matter what happens the rest of the summer, I already have.