5
Departure to Venice
I still don’t understand why we had to be here so early,” I manage, dragging my feet into the airport lobby like a zombie. I may be a morning person, but by morning , I mean when the sun is actually up. It’s still pitch black.
You could probably hear the footsteps of a single ant in here. The airport is deserted aside from me, Teller, and a few airport employees. Then again, we’ve arrived four hours early. Teller insists on being absurdly punctual for everything.
“You have to be at least three hours early for international flights,” he tells me for the hundredth time as he speed-walks ahead. I doubt he even went to bed at all.
I’m struggling to keep up with his giraffe strides. Admittedly, I did not pack light. Dad nearly threw his back out putting my rucksack in the trunk. I’m not sure how I’ll cart that thing around all month, but an array of cute options are worth back pain when you’re meeting The One.
“You don’t have to be this early. It’s just one of those fake rules that don’t really mean anything. Like expiration dates on yogurt.”
He spins around, overcome with thinly veiled revulsion. “You eat expired yogurt?”
I don’t respond as we reach the check-in kiosks.
When he lifts his T-shirt to retrieve his passport from the money belt fastened to his torso, I’m shocked. Not to be a creep, but I’m incapable of looking anywhere else.
Teller.
Owens.
Has.
Abs.
ABS. Six of them, to be exact.
Let’s be clear. He’s always been the infuriating kind of lean where abs just naturally poke through without a crunch or Cinema-popcorn deprivation. A monster, really. But this is different. These sculpted abdominals aren’t there by happenstance. They are clearly hard earned.
It’s only when he catches me staring that I wrench my eyes away. Vision blurred, I stub my toe on my rucksack as I charge to the kiosk on the left, loudly humming the Elton John song that was playing in the car on the way here. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Passport, passport, where are you?” I mumble, rooting around in the massive Kate Spade tote that Mei gifted me (Black Friday blowout deal). Bianca calls it my “bag of tricks” because it holds just about everything, from an umbrella to an extra pair of shoes. My shoulder will pay for its significant weight down the road, but given my tendency to forget things, it’s nice to carry everything in one place.
“Don’t tell me you lost your passport already,” Teller says with a groan. He’d already triple-checked I had it before leaving my house.
“I think I feel it!” I say excitedly, finally locating it in the deepest of depths, next to a half-eaten protein bar.
“It’s not too late to wear the money belt,” he says. This morning he showed up with an extra money belt for me (his dad’s, apparently). To prevent pickpockets from accessing my valuables, he claimed. And to humiliate me into oblivion. It was a kind gesture, but I can’t meet my soulmate wearing a money belt. And I certainly can’t be wearing it when he goes to cop a feel.
“Never,” I say, distracted as I check in on the touch screen.
“You should reconsider. You’re a prime target for a thief,” he warns, bending over to retrieve his ticket and luggage tag from the machine. “Overly friendly, a bit aloof.”
“I’m not aloof. And it’s just not sexy. I don’t make the rules.”
“Safety is sexy. Look, it’s discreet!” He tugs at the hem of his T-shirt defensively.
I point at the noticeable bulge, only allowing my eyes to linger for a half second, lest I accidently see a sliver of abs again. Why can’t I stop thinking about them? “It’s really not. And you sound like you’re in an adult-diaper commercial.”
“With our advanced technology and discreet design, you’ll feel protected and secure, all day, every day,” he says in his best commercial voice before we both dissolve into a fit of laughter.
Despite Teller’s doom-and-gloom warnings about how long it takes to go through TSA, we’re able to check our bags, get through security, and find our gate all in less than forty minutes. A TSA agent even praised Teller for his organization and attention to detail (liquids in clear bags, etc.), which I suspect he’ll boast about for years to come. We’re so early that there’s an entirely different flight waiting to board at our gate.
“See? Told you we didn’t have to come so early,” I brag.
He rolls his eyes and plunks down in an open seat, strategically closest to where we’ll line up. “You’d have been up in two hours anyways. And it’s not typical to get through security that fast. You have to reserve time for potential delays.”
“Based on all the times you’ve traveled?”
“Based on my research.”
There’s no point in arguing, so I plop down next to him and take my phone out. “Airport selfie. Smile!” I say, pressing my cheek to his. I hold my passport and ticket to the camera.
“I’ll tag you so you can repost it. Sophie still follows you, right?”
“I think so,” he says, pulling his phone out to double-check.
“Does she know you’re going to Italy with me?”
“No, but for the record, I don’t want you to think I’m only coming to show Sophie I have an adventurous side,” he says, holding my gaze. “I’m going because I know how much this trip means to you.”
Warmth floods my insides, like I’ve just guzzled warm tea. When Teller says something, he means it.
“Thanks, Tel. But if it just so happens to make Sophie second-guess dumping you, that’s an added bonus.”
Teller loosens up over the next few hours once all the stressful parts of flying are behind us. We spend our time doing our usual—people watching and eating candy. Apparently Vacation Teller is okay with sweets at six in the morning. He even fetches us breakfast sandwiches and snacks because he doesn’t trust plane food.
All is going smoothly. Until it’s not.
First, the flight is delayed twenty minutes due to high winds. Then thirty. Then almost two hours by the time we’re actually allowed to board.
The plane is large, with seats in twos on either side, a wider row of three ribboning down the middle. Teller is less than impressed with our seats, which are in the middle. It doesn’t help that our arms are pressed against each other’s. Curse this airline for designing such tiny seats. I give Teller the aisle so he doesn’t have a panic attack.
While the rest of the passengers take their seats, Teller goes to town wiping his tray with a wet wipe. Once he’s satisfied, he extends a fresh wipe to me between pinched fingers. “Here. Airplane trays have three times more bacteria than the toilet flush button,” he rattles off like an encyclopedia.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the wipe. I note his knee is bouncing up and down too, a natural reflex when he’s feeling anxious. “You okay? You’re not scared of flying, are you?”
“No. Planes are safer than cars, statistically speaking. It’s just ... Sophie posted a story last night. With a guy ...” His voice trails.
“Really? Let me see!”
He turns his screen toward me. It’s a video clip of her arm, presumably, cheersing a foamy beer with someone across a small table.
“Is it a guy? It’s hard to tell from the clip.” I rewatch it a couple times, assuming there’s more.
“Look at the arm.” He leans in close, and his cheek grazes mine ever so slightly. He scrutinizes the screen like an FBI agent combing every pixel for evidence. “It’s hairy. Definitely a dude.”
“It does look that way,” I admit. “But don’t jump to conclusions. What if it’s like, her dad? Or brother? Or just some random friend?”
“Her dad lives in Panama. And she doesn’t have platonic one-on-one guy friends.” I already knew the latter bit. It’s the reason she never quite understood or trusted Teller’s friendship with me.
“Remember back in tenth grade when Tim Yates broke up with me and then made out with Danika Pressley that same night?”
He relaxes against the headrest and smirks. “That was the first night you drank.”
Teller’s being kind. Here’s the story: I decided chugging two strong drinks as fast as possible was a surefire way to get over Tim. This resulted in a dramatic public confrontation where I proceeded to topple into a beautifully decorated Christmas tree.
“Anyway, remember when he tried to get me back?”
Teller nods stiffly. “Yup.”
“He only wanted me back because I went dark over Christmas break. I stopped texting him, stopped posting on social media. And he saw me with you on New Year’s and got jealous.”
“Ah yes. When he threatened to rearrange my face. Sweet memories.”
I’d felt so vindicated, but I didn’t go back to him after that.
“Exactly. The point is, maybe you need to use this trip as an opportunity to—”
“Make Sophie jealous? I don’t know.”
I level him with a look. “Okay, maybe not jealous. But make her miss you a little! Don’t text her or like any of her posts.” I can tell he’s unsatisfied, so I add, “And if you decide to work the jealousy angle, we can find you a hot Italian girl. You’ll take a bunch of mysterious photos with her, and I guarantee Sophie will text you.”
I couldn’t actually guarantee it. I didn’t know Sophie all that well, despite her dating my best friend for the past three years.
The first time we met was at the bus station when she visited him for the weekend. He’d planned some activities for us, like mini golf and a game night. I didn’t mind the idea of third-wheeling. After listening to Teller sing her praises for weeks, I couldn’t wait to meet her and become the best friends I thought we were destined to be.
She was exactly what I’d pictured—the perfect girl for Teller. She’d dressed her dainty frame in a minimalist capsule wardrobe filled with white, navy, subtle stripes, and a shit-ton of neutrals to match her clean fingernails and glossy, pin-straight hair. She was my polar opposite. A straight-A student and president of multiple clubs, but pleasant and just self-deprecating enough not to hate. She didn’t make penis jokes at the wrong times, nor did she scare strangers by asking to pet their dogs. She didn’t embarrass Teller with a tendency to break into song or dramatically quote films. She lived life by color-coded schedule, always early for everything. Basically, she was Teller’s dream girl.
She was sweet to me from that first awkward hug, remarking how it felt like we already knew each other, how she appreciated me keeping Teller in line (though it was really the opposite), and that she couldn’t wait to see me beat Teller at mini golf. She loved my “unique” style, said she could never pull off such bold floral prints and vintage pieces.
We made enthusiastic small talk for at least fifteen minutes in the parking lot before Teller insisted we get on the road before rush-hour traffic. My first instinct was to return to the passenger seat. My seat. The seat I’d spent hours in, next to Teller. But when we stepped toward the door, I realized for the first time that it wasn’t my seat. If someone had dibs, it was the girlfriend.
And so began a war of apologies and insisting the other take the front seat, despite both of us clearly wanting it. A battle of niceties, which I learned was her thing. She always apologized, even if she wasn’t at fault, like if I unintentionally cut her off midsentence. Anyway, she won the car-seat battle. For the rest of the weekend, and every other time she visited, I was in the back seat.
Despite how “fine” things were between us, I never got the sense that she truly wanted to be friends. That she truly wanted to know me. There was an invisible barrier I couldn’t seem to break down. Over time, it felt as though everything I did or said was too much, too loud for her (fair). Let’s be real, I’m a lot to handle sometimes, but I worried that with Sophie’s influence, Teller would finally realize he didn’t want to be my friend. In reality, he probably didn’t talk or think about me all that much when he was with her.
He doesn’t seem sure about my plan to make her jealous. “I don’t know. It seems a little juvenile, don’t you think?”
“True. But you have to promise you’ll actually enjoy this trip. Put the phone down and leave your baggage here in the US. I won’t tolerate pouting.”
“You’re right. Officially putting the phone away,” he says, tucking it into his pocket.
“Good. Just think, in seven hours, we’ll be in Italy. The most beautiful country on the planet. You won’t even have time to think about Sophie.”