7
T eller is standing at the foot of the bed, hair all tousled and water-kissed from his shower, abs displayed in all their glory. Fresh droplets cling to each smooth contour, making the ridges of his stomach appear almost shiny as he stuffs his belongings haphazardly into his rucksack.
I should be packing too, but I’m tense, mesmerized by the twist and pull of the muscles in his back and biceps. What is this feeling? Am I ... turned on?
No.
I am not having sexy thoughts about Teller Owens. My best friend. Basically, my brother. The same Teller who used to unclog toilets with me at The Cinema. The same Teller who has been madly in love with Sophie for the past three years.
I only snap out of it when he skewers me with yet another sharp look, the second in the last minute and a half.
Here’s the deal: he’s rightfully annoyed with me because we’re Very Late. I assured him numerous times last night that I’d set my alarm to catch our flight, but made the rookie mistake of hitting PM instead of AM . We ended up sleeping in an extra half hour.
Thankfully, we make it on time. The moment we’re in the air, Teller slaps his earphones in and closes his eyes. I don’t push it. He needs some time to decompress, which is fine, because I fall asleep, definitely not having any more illicit thoughts about my best friend.
I jolt awake when the wheels touch ground in Venice. Maybe it’s the shudder-inducing sound of rubber skidding against the asphalt, or maybe it’s the prospect of meeting The One. Who can say?
A shooting pain radiates down my neck and into my right shoulder. When I open my eyes, the source becomes clear. My head is cocked to the right at an odd angle, nuzzled into something warm, yet firm. It’s a shoulder. A shoulder belonging to Teller, who hates unnecessary human touch.
I jerk my head back to my personal bubble and panic-pat the side of my mouth for drool. He flashes me a reassuring expression that says It’s really no big deal .
Just when I think our bad travel luck has ended, I’m proven wrong. Upon our arrival, we wait at the luggage carousel for a solid forty minutes until it becomes clear our baggage hasn’t arrived with us. The airline gives us fifty-euro vouchers for our trouble, which don’t go far at the overpriced souvenir shop.
“For one of the most fashion-forward countries in the world, I expected more,” Teller whispers, tugging at his black T-shirt that reads Sorry, I can’t. I have plans in Italy .
“What are you talking about? I’m a vision in this tracksuit.” I managed to find an outfit with a massive yellow lemon across the chest that reads When life hands you lemons, make limoncello .
If anyone wondered if we were tourists, they sure know it now.
Despite a rocky start, the feeling of being on Venetian soil is special. As we make our way out of the airport, my shoulders drop, my jaw relaxes. All the tension from the past few days just falls away as I take in the Italian signage, the romantic hum of passersby, the sweet, saucy aromas emanating from the airport restaurants.
There’s something about this place—I can feel it. It’s a strange familiarity, like sinking into a chair custom designed to fit every groove and curve of your body. Like being in exactly the place I need to be. I’m going to meet the love of my life in Venice, I just know it.
I think about how Mom must have felt after having her vision. Did she look for The One around every corner like I am? Was she just as excited? Eager? Anxious? Did she know the moment her and Dad laid eyes on each other?
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought of every possible movie-worthy scenario for the meet-cute. Maybe he’ll whiz by on his red Vespa, silky windswept hair flowing from his helmet, and do a double take. Perhaps he’ll be a charming waiter with rolled-up white sleeves (showcasing rippling forearms) who doles out extra meatballs to children and senior citizens. Or maybe I’ll pull a Cinderella, lose a shoe to the cobblestone, and he’ll dutifully pursue me, risking life and limb in a treacherously busy intersection to return it.
I may or may not have gone so far as researching luxury wedding venues in Tuscany where we’ll inevitably return for our future nuptials. Despite sharing in my excitement, Bianca is concerned I’m getting “way too ahead of myself.” Maybe she’s right. But when it comes to love, it’s just what I do. I can’t help it.
“How do you still look good and rested after a nine-hour flight?” Teller asks as we make our way to a stone pier to catch a water taxi. I’m taken aback for a moment. Did he say I looked good, unshowered and in this hideous tracksuit?
“I had a good nap,” I say, taking a long, purposeful inhale of the salty air, mesmerized by the dark water lapping against the side of the worn wooden mooring poles. I have half a mind to twirl around, arms outstretched, but I refrain.
As we motor toward the heart of Venice, it becomes clear the city is more than just the main canal you see on TV. It’s made up entirely of channels, both wide and narrow, all connected by stone bridges, some more ornate than others. The buildings are tall, ancient, and enchantingly decayed. All appear to be slanted or uneven, which only adds to the charm. There’s something about Venice that’s magical, like I’m walking into my own dream.
The hostel Teller preapproved is located across from a tiny cathedral. It’s a small three-story building painted clementine orange with green shutters adorning high arched windows. Under each sits a rectangular flower box with assorted wildflowers.
“See? Nice for a hostel, isn’t it?” I ask. Next to the building appears to be a small restaurant with a patio. Bright-blue umbrellas fan out over each table, adding a pop of color. At one sits a posh-looking couple enjoying a romantic seafood dinner. The other side is a postcard-perfect gelato shop with a canary-striped awning. Teller and I pause in awe of the gelato. It has artful swirls and is sprinkled with cookies, nuts, berries, and even Parisian macarons.
I can tell he’s impressed, though he won’t admit it.
“I forgot how ... small a single mattress is,” Teller says. He scratches his head and turns it sideways, as though calculating how we’ll both fit on there tonight.
We didn’t book a reservation in advance, so I suppose this is our fault.
Admittedly, it looks quite dire. Scientifically speaking, it’s barely wide enough to fit a kid comfortably. There’s no way we won’t be on top of each other. My nerves whir and hum from head to toe just thinking about it.
To add insult to injury, we’re sharing a room with four strangers, which Teller is not keen on (because they could do weird shit at night, like watch us sleep, or steal our stuff). But I’m not letting this hiccup ruin the day. Besides, as I remind Teller, we have no belongings to steal.
It takes some serious trial and error to fall asleep, positioning ourselves in the least intrusive way. We settle turned butt to butt. It’s strange, sleeping with my backside pressed into his, being lulled to sleep by the warmth of his body, the rise and fall of his breath. Unfortunately, it’s near impossible to stay asleep over the creak of mattresses, the sound of zippers opening and closing, and the jingle of keys, which is why I’m lying here texting Bianca.
Bianca: OMG those Venice pics. So sad I’m not there. Ugh.
Lo: wish you were here too!! if it makes you feel better, at least you’re not sharing a Single bed with a very tall adult male.
Bianca: ????
I snap a quick picture, though my flash is on and it disturbs Teller. I hold my breath, worried I’ve woken him up as he flips over, facing me. He’s still asleep, breath steady, sending goose bumps skating across the back of my neck.
Lo: there were no available doubles.
Bianca: So you and Teller are sharing a single bed??? That’s weird.
Lo: it’s not. would me and u sharing a bed be weird? No.
Bianca: That’s different.
Lo: how?
Bianca: Because. It just is.
Lo: it really isn’t, i swear!!
Should it be weird? It really isn’t. In fact, it’s peaceful, until the hard tune of Cardi B rings through the air. I squint through the darkness, trying to find the source. Finally, Veronica, the friendly hippie girl in the opposite bunk, sits up, the screen of her phone lighting up the room. “Hey, Mills!” she squeals into the phone. At Veronica’s shrill, Teller startles, nearly rolling right off the top bunk when he realizes he’s spooning me.
“Shit. Sorry, I—I thought you were—” He doesn’t have to finish the sentence for me to know he was going to say Sophie’s name.
“It’s fine,” I whisper. “I’m just glad you got some sleep.”
“Barely. Maybe twenty minutes?”
We listen to Veronica’s conversation for a couple more minutes before Teller lets out a loud sigh.
Her phone is so loud, you can basically hear whoever is on the other side. As she slowly puts her socks on, she tells “Mills” all about her adventure in Pisa. I’m praying she’ll go outside to take the call, but instead she stands right outside the bedroom, door ajar. Her voice is almost drowned out by the sound of the guy in the bunk below us gorging on chips, bag crunching with each movement.
“I’m sorry, again. I really messed up,” I say into the darkness. I know he’s hating life even if he’s trying to pretend like he’s not.
He doesn’t respond. He just turns on his back and stares at the ceiling, which is so low, we can’t fully sit up without hitting our heads. I lean over to check if he’s wearing his earplugs to drown out the many noises.
He’s not. He’s just mad. I can tell by the way he’s breathing. Long, slow breaths, like he taught me on the plane yesterday. He’s trying to calm himself down.
“I know you wanted this whole trip to be impromptu and spontaneous, but it’s not working for me,” he finally utters.
It’s completely fair. Planning day by day sounds whimsical and romantic in theory, but really, it’s just a lot of stressing over logistics. It would be nice to know where we’re sleeping or which train to board.
I feel terrible and generally disappointed in myself. I should have planned better, anticipated what Teller would need to make this enjoyable for him.
“I totally understand if you want to go home—”
He rolls toward me. “I’m not ditching you in Italy, Lo. But you do need to promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“I get to plan the rest of the logistics. We need some level of structure,” he says.
I turn into the side of his chest, grateful, and maybe a little bit optimistic that this trip will be what I’d hoped. Maybe it’ll bridge that gap that’s been growing between us since last year.
So I don’t hesitate to say, “Deal.”