6
W e are not in Italy in seven hours.
For the next hour, we freeze our butts off on the tarmac under the blasting AC. Teller is getting anxious about the tight quarters and lack of cleanliness in the bathroom. Not that I blame him. It’s not comfortable to sit for so long with your thigh pushed against someone else’s, even if said thigh happens to belong to your best friend. Just when I think he’s going to lose it and demand to get off the plane, the wheels start moving and we’re in flight. Bless.
I wish I could say things got better from there. That we fell asleep over the Atlantic. That we woke up refreshed and ready to embrace all Italy had to offer. But things got worse. Much worse.
For the hour we’re actually in flight, the turbulence is awful. The plane dips and jostles from side to side so often, we don’t have time for our stomachs to recover. It gets so bad, people request barf bags from the flight attendants, who are eventually ordered to take their seats too.
I’m the type of person who loves roller coasters, but even I can’t hold in my gasps. I white-knuckle the armrest, teeth clenched. My insides feel like scrambled eggs.
“Hey, we’re going to be okay,” Teller assures me, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze.
I shake my head. “I—I don’t believe you.”
“Look at me,” he instructs, shifting closer.
I focus on his steady gaze. The little flecks of hunter green in his eyes. The rings of bronze surrounding the pupils. It’s an instant source of comfort. If Teller, of all people, is calm, I can be too. At least, I think.
“Take a big inhale,” he says, waiting for me to do so. “Count to seven, and slowly let it out for seven.”
I repeat his instructions several times as he drags the smooth pads of his fingers over the soft part of my forearm, leaving a tingly feeling in their wake. By the final exhale, I’m far less tense. There’s still a stubborn knot in my gut, but I’m no longer gripping the armrest, bracing for impact. My knee is no longer bouncing up and down. “Where’d you learn that?”
“One of my mindfulness podcasts,” he says. “I use it almost every day—”
He’s interrupted by a ding, followed by a voice over the loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. I regret to inform you that due to severe weather conditions on our flight path, we have to divert to the nearest airport.”
Angry, nervous chatter erupts as a flight attendant goes on about prioritizing safety, fastening seat belts securely, and putting trays in an upright position as we prepare for the descent.
Teller rubs his temple, trying to make sense of it all. “Is it just me, or is this flight cursed?”
“Definitely cursed. But we’ll get another one tonight once the weather clears,” I say confidently.
Unfortunately, the weather does not improve.
“There are no more flights to Venice tonight,” Miranda, one of the airport staff, informs us impatiently when we deboard at a midsize airport in Nowhere, America. I don’t fully blame her. She has to deal with hundreds of cranky customers in this humungous line, which appears to be growing exponentially by the minute.
“What about Rome?” Teller asks.
A bored blink. “Nope.”
“Florence?”
“Nope.”
“Are there any flights at all to Italy? Or Europe in general?” he asks, eyes alight with something that looks a lot like desperation.
Miranda shakes her head. “No flights out of country until tomorrow morning. Everything is grounded until the storm passes,” she says to the massive line of people behind us, who all grumble simultaneously. “My advice is that you find somewhere to stay overnight.”
We accept the new tickets for early the next morning and haul our bags to a wooden bench to figure out next steps.
Upon a brief Google search, we realize our options are slim with all the flights that are canceled. We call at least ten hotels in the area, none of which have any vacancies. One receptionist even barks a single-syllable laugh and hangs up.
The only place with a vacancy is a motel on the outskirts of town.
A sixty-dollar Uber ride later, we’re standing in front of the Shady Pines Inn.
“Could they not have come up with a better name?” I ask, taking in what was seemingly once a vibrant, neon sign that now reads h dy es nn and flickers intermittently, casting an eerie glow over the potholed parking lot. The beige paint on the siding is chipped and faded. There’s even a unit on the end with a rickety slab of wood nailed across the window, as though someone was trying to keep some dark entity in—or out.
Teller gulps and kicks at the gravel underneath his foot. “I’m sorry, but is this a joke? We can’t stay here. It’s straight from a horror movie.”
“Well, we paid to Uber all the way here,” I remind him, starting toward the lobby.
Teller begrudgingly follows close at my heels as we haul our rucksacks inside. Its entrance is bookended with rusty lawn chairs haphazardly turned toward the road. The lobby is a tiny, dimly lit, colorless room with a large walnut desk. At the desk is an elderly lady in glasses adorned with little pink rhinestones, a crocheted vest pulled over her ample chest.
“Hello, you’re the fellow who called ahead? Mr. Owens?” Her oddly cheery demeanor only adds to the creepiness.
“Unfortunately,” Teller mutters, though I don’t think she hears him over the clacking of her keyboard as she checks us into a room with two double beds.
The room is as expected from what we’ve seen of the place. There are two beds with mattresses that dip in the center after years of wear. Their floral-patterned comforters have almost certainly been here since the motel’s opening. Same goes for the heavy drapery, which are maroon on one side and sun-faded pink on the inside. A faint, musty scent of cigarette smoke hangs thick in the air.
And now it sinks in: I’ll be sharing a room with Teller. For the entire trip. Something about this reality makes my stomach flip. It’s not that I’m uncomfortable. Teller is probably the person I’m most comfortable with on Earth, aside from Dad and my aunts. But there’s something intimate about sharing the same tiny space, the same toilet, with someone for a month.
It’s the same as sharing with Bianca, I tell myself again. Only ... Teller is a guy. A guy with newly formed abs and muscly arms.
“Is this blood?” Teller asks, pointing to some suspiciously dark-red drips next to the dresser on the frayed carpet. “Oh god. I think it’s blood. Someone was for sure murdered here. Your dad would have a field day.”
“Don’t come in the bathroom,” I warn, assessing the discolored tiles and moldy grout.
He ignores my warning, poking his head in, immediately zeroing in on the cracked soap dish, sporting a used bar of soap. “That’s a pube,” he says, nearly gagging.
I examine the bar of soap closer, turning my head sideways, like the angle will make a difference. “We can’t know for sure. It could be a wiry beard hair.”
“Nope. Most definitely a pube. Lo, I don’t know if I can do this. Any hostel has to be better than this.”
I give him a motivational slap on the back, trying to stay positive for his sake. “Exactly. It can only get better from here. Besides, we’re just here for the night.”
That doesn’t comfort him in the slightest. Before I can unzip my bag, he’s on his hands and knees, mattresses turned over, searching for bedbugs. Given the bathroom tap is emitting rusty water, I head outside in search of clean drinking water.
The one thing this place has going for it is a well-stocked vending machine.
“They have Raisinets!” I say when I return, two bottles of water and a bunch of snacks in hand.
Teller is parked on the edge of the bed, his butt taking up as little real estate as possible without falling off. He’s wearing two hooded sweatshirts, a pair of plaid pajama bottoms, and thick socks. He refuses to sleep under the covers. “Seriously?” He inspects the box of Raisinets. “Just checking to make sure they’re not expired,” he says before peeling it open.
We make at least five more trips to the vending machine, spending way too much of our travel money on weird snacks like cheese-flavored Bugles, blueberry Pop-Tarts (my choice), and two rock-hard oatmeal-raisin cookies (obviously Teller’s choice) that nearly break my teeth.
The rest of the day goes by shockingly fast, sitting among a pile of snack wrappers, playing all our old card games. When I get tired of losing, we flick back and forth between all forty cable channels. Eventually, we settle on an infomercial station that’s advertising “Putt on the Potty,” which is exactly what it sounds like—a tiny golf putter and ball with felt that hugs the toilet, allowing you to practice putting while pooping.
“Why are you snickering?” Teller asks, eyeing me suspiciously. He’s still in all his layers, propped on my pillows at the head of the bed, while I’m draped at the foot.
I roll onto my back to hide my phone. “Nothing.”
“You’re up to something.” The glint in his eye is mischievous. Then he pounces over me on all fours like a panther, arms on either side of my temples, caging me in. At the sudden movement, the worn mattress springs let out a deafening squeal, like it’s protesting our weight.
Our eyes lock, and something shifts between us. I wonder if he feels it too.
“Tel, I think you just broke the bed,” I whisper, avoiding sudden movement.
Three seconds.
Five seconds.
Seven seconds.
At the tenth, we both descend into a fit of snorts, and Teller rolls onto his back next to me, chest heaving.
When I finally catch my breath, I toss him my phone to reveal the Putt on the Potty website.
“I was ordering you the Putt on the Potty for your birthday,” I say.
“Thanks,” he manages, wiping a tear from laughing so hard. “You always know exactly what I need.”
Ping.
His eyes flick to my screen. “Ack!” He tosses my phone back, blinking like my screen burned his retinas.
“What?” I lurch forward, only to find yet another dick pic from Mark B. This one is somehow even less flattering than the last. “Shoot. Sorry,” I say, quickly swiping it away.
“Can I ask who it belongs to?” he asks, half-amused, half-disconcerted.
“Mark B. A guy I was seeing.” I say it quickly in hopes that he’ll just move on. I don’t want to talk about Mark B., of all people.
“I’d ask if he was nice, but I can probably guess he isn’t.” Is he nice? That’s always Teller’s first question when I tell him about a date or someone of interest.
“Why wouldn’t he be nice? Because he sent a dick pic?” He nods. “You’re telling me you’ve never sent a dick pic?”
I expect him to make a show of disgust and say no, but he doesn’t. Not exactly. “I’ve never sent a dick pic ... unsolicited.”
“So you have sent one!” I shriek, ignoring the goose bumps erupting everywhere as my mind goes there . Like really goes there. In a flash, I’m besieged with images of Teller—abs prominent, entirely nude. Get your mind out of the gutter, Lo.
“I was in a long-distance relationship for two years, okay?” he says, snapping me out of my deranged fantasy. From the neck up, he’s the color of Santa’s suit, and I can only assume I am too.
I tug at my collar, suddenly feeling sweaty. “Hey, no judgment over here. Just wondering why you’d assume he wasn’t nice.”
“First, you said you were seeing each other. Past tense. Unless you’re still hooking up, sending that’s a little uncalled for. And second, the picture was taken in a car. That’s a serious road hazard.”
Only Teller would think about the safety of taking a dick pic.
I examine the photo again and spot the bottom of the steering wheel. He’s definitely driving. Sweet Christ. I don’t even want to know. “Okay, it’s weird. But in Mark B.’s defense, he’s actually a nice guy, if you can look past his tendency to send spontaneous dick pics.”
“So you’re not, um, requesting these dick pics?”
“No. It’s my own fault, really. He thinks I like them because I’ve been responding with the taco emoji. Or the sweat droplets.”
“The taco emoji?”
“I’m just trying to boost his confidence,” I manage through a hiccup. “And I feel kinda bad about how I ended things.” I go on to explain the whole fleeing-through-the-basement-window debacle.
Teller lets out a fit of laughter before asking, “Why did you end it?”
“I mean, we were never official or anything. We just didn’t like each other enough. I never thought about him when we weren’t together. Every time we did hang out, I had this weird feeling. Like it wasn’t where I was supposed to be. And there weren’t any butterflies or any of that giddy stuff like in movies,” I explain, all too aware how naive that sounds.
“That’s fair. Though that kind of love is overrated, I think.”
“Did you ever have that kind of love with Sophie?” I dare to ask.
A beat of silence. “In the beginning. And at the end. But not in between,” he admits. “Things were really stable in the thick of our relationship, but they were never over the top, you know? But I’m also not that kind of person, and neither is she.”
“Do you think it can be? Over the top the whole time?” I ask hopefully.
His gaze lifts to mine. “Yeah, I do.”
“I want that kind of love.”
“That’s the kind of love you deserve.”
Thank you, I say with my eyes. He has the uncanny ability to know exactly what I need to hear.
We may be in the shittiest of motels, eating food abomination after abomination, and watching ridiculous infomercials, when we should be in Venice eating pasta and meeting my soulmate. But I feel just as happy.
“I missed this,” I say over the mechanical hum of the ice machine in the hallway.
He swings his gaze back to me. “Missed what?”
“You. Spending time with you. We haven’t seen each other since you ditched me at Christmas,” I tease, rolling to face him.
We had plans one night to watch National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation —me, him, and Sophie—but Teller canceled last minute because Sophie was feeling sick.
It was hard going from seeing each other almost every day and texting all the time, exchanging adorable animal videos—like a sloth crossing a road—to the odd text every few months. Teller’s texts were really all or nothing. Either I’d receive a whole day of full-paragraph answers or radio silence.
“Sorry about that, by the way.” He really means it. I can tell by the edge in his voice. The way he tilts his gaze downward, guiltily. A subdued blue glow from the television dances over his face, illuminating the soft arch of his brows, almost creating a halo effect. “I really wanted to see you at Christmas, but things were so busy and—”
“Honestly, don’t worry about it. It’s fine. I just really missed you this year.” I consider telling him about all the times I started to text him. All the times I actually typed the message, only to change my mind and delete it once I realized my last one had gone unanswered. But I don’t want to sound pathetic.
He looks hurt. “You never visited me either, Lo.”
“You never invited me,” I counter.
“You’ve never struck me as the kind of person who needs to be invited. I assumed if you wanted to come, you’d come.”
He’s not wrong. There were many times I wanted to pack up my car and drive to him. Times where I felt lonely, lost, overwhelmed by the demands of my classes. But between the months of silence, unanswered texts, and, well, Sophie, I never got the sense that there was an open-door invite.
“Let’s promise we’ll see each other at least twice next year. Definitely once at Christmas,” he says.
“I’ll hold you to it.” The prospect of not seeing Teller again until Christmas is depressing. I’ve already mourned not being together every single day, but it’s still crushing, knowing it’s simply not a reality of adult life, unless we buy houses side by side. I’ve joking-but-not-so-jokingly brought it up one too many times, and Teller has never responded with more than a teasing snort. Yet another reminder to treasure the next month.
“I’ve been meaning to ask, how did you find classes last semester?” he asks, dropping a metaphorical brick on my chest.
“Oof” is all I can summon. I’d hoped to avoid this discussion as long as possible. “Honestly, no better than fall semester.”
He prods me in the thigh with his toes. “Hey, the good news is, you made it through the first year. Everyone always says all those intro courses are boring, no matter what your major is. You’ll take more specialized classes and electives next year.”
“I don’t know if I like it enough to stick it out.” I truly thought I’d like forensics, like my parents. I was decent at bio and chem and enjoy watching true-crime documentaries with Dad. But that passive interest hasn’t translated to my coursework. Unlike Dad or my peers, I’m not passionate enough about it to make it my life.
“You could always switch majors if you really hate it,” he suggests.
“That’s my problem. I took all types of intro electives, like English and social sciences, and I still don’t love anything. I’ve never had a thing , you know?”
“Sure you have. You’re passionate about life,” he says, like it’s as useful a field as medicine or education.
I roll my eyes. “Come on, Tel. Life?”
“I’ve never met someone who goes through life with the kind of optimism that you have. You just let yourself enjoy things. Crappy situations don’t faze you. I mean, you could be”—he gestures around vaguely—“sleeping in a murder motel and still have a smile on your face.”
He’s not wrong. I’ve aways tried to live optimistically, talk to as many people as I can, as much as I can. I’ve always understood life is fragile, even at a young age. I guess Mom dying made me that way.
“I’m not gonna lie, I hate this place. But if I let myself think about it too much, I’ll shrivel up and cry,” I admit. And knowing I’m going to meet the love of my life softens the blow a little. I’m tempted to say this to him, but refrain. It still doesn’t feel like the right time to tell him.
“Exactly my point. I’ve always wished I could be like you,” he says affectionately, running his finger over a loose thread in the blanket. “If I can find something I love, you can too.”
That surprises me. Teller has always been so put together, so sure of himself and how he moves through the world. He’s never struck me as wanting to be like anyone but himself, let alone me. “Really? You mean you don’t enjoy being a grumpy old man?”
He flashes a rueful smile. “I mean, I don’t wake up every morning trying to be negative. It just kind of happens.”
“Speaking of grumpy old men, what’s with the sleep mask and earplugs?” My attention snags on the crisp black sleep mask and unopened packet of fluorescent-orange earplugs neatly stacked on the side table between our beds.
“What do you mean? I need them to fall asleep, otherwise I’ll be up all night.”
“Doing what?”
“Lying there, staring into the abyss, stressing about everything and anything.”
“Oh, Teller.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t bring my portable fan,” he informs me, shifting over to his bed. “I sleep with white noise too. Tonight, I think we’ll listen to ocean sounds. We can pretend we’re in a five-star hotel overlooking the Mediterranean.”
“Hey, we will be. This time tomorrow,” I remind him, snapping a quick photo of him bundled up on top of the musty covers in all his layers.
He notices my sneak photo, but doesn’t say anything. “Well, not a five-star hotel.”
“True. But nothing can be worse than this.”