8
I can’t be certain, but I think Teller regrets agreeing to stay. He’s been in bed, thumbing through his phone for the past half hour after getting a ball of hair stuck between his toes in the shower and nearly passing out.
I need to salvage this, and quick. Once we’re dressed, I drag Teller to the courtyard for breakfast. It’s a charming common area for the guests to mingle, time-worn walls trailing with ivy and potted plants cascading from the balconies. Among the few sets of wrought iron tables and chairs are five people, happily chatting.
First to introduce themselves are Ernest and Posie Crosby from the UK. They’re a salt-and-pepper-haired couple in matching khaki bucket hats and vests with an obscene number of pockets. We learn that they’re retired schoolteachers. Years ago, they started a tradition of taking a vacation every summer based on a destination they pull out of a hat, which is frankly adorable. They’ve continued on into retirement, although they joke they’re running out of destinations they can afford on pensions. I’d wrongfully assumed most backpackers would be young, but they’re both energetic and celebrating their thirtieth wedding anniversary.
“Actually, babe, it’s our thirty-first,” Posie corrects, giving Ernest a swift swat on the chest.
Jenny Kumar and Riley James from Pittsburgh join our conversation. They’re twentysomething-year-old best friends celebrating Riley’s college graduation. Jenny looks like your stereotypical backpacker in worn hiking boots, wrists stacked with woven bracelets—badges of honor from her extensive travels. Riley appears a little more artsy and eclectic in a linen dress with a beaded belt.
I can’t help but notice how Teller’s eye keeps wandering in Riley’s direction. One look at her tall, slender frame and elegant features and it’s clear Riley is totally Teller’s type. She’s casually beautiful in an understated, quietly confident way, with clear, makeup-less skin, fiery auburn waves, and kind eyes a warm shade of hazel—the type that probably changes color based on the weather.
“Are you two newlyweds or something?” Lionel Jones, an unfairly handsome guy from Atlanta asks, gesturing toward us. He’s here on a solo trip.
Teller swings me a sideways look, and we simultaneously burst into laughter. “No, not at all. We’re best friends. Just friends,” I say loudly to make the point. “We met back in high school working at a movie theater. I’ve always wanted to visit Italy. My mom came here with my aunt when they were the same age. I was planning to come with my friend Bianca, but she shattered her foot, so I begged Teller to come with me. He just came off a breakup and—”
Teller clears his throat. “Anyway, it’s nice to meet you all,” he says quickly, before I can divulge all our deepest secrets.
It’s true what they say about making friends at hostels. I’m obsessed with everyone already (including Ernest and Posie), and I already don’t want to go our separate ways. Jenny and Riley are even nice enough to let me borrow their clothes so I don’t have to walk around in my lemon tracksuit.
We spend the day wandering around the canal. We end up at a seafood restaurant for lunch that’s got spectacular views but below-average food. Still, we drink, laugh, and wander some more. By late afternoon, we’ve gone to at least four different pubs and swapped travel itineraries. Coincidentally, Jenny and Riley are also heading to Rome in a few days and share the name of their hostel. Teller carefully records all this information in a color-coded Google Calendar. He’s taking the planning duties seriously.
When we return to the courtyard for a break, I notice Teller’s eye wander to Riley again. She’s stretched on the chaise, reading Eat, Pray, Love .
I give Teller a swift elbow in the ribs. “Hey, you should go talk to Riley.”
He eyes me like I’ve suggested he cannonball into the canal. “Why?”
“I saw you checking her out. She’s the perfect rebound.”
He glances wistfully at her again, like a freshman gawking at their upperclassman crush. “She would never go for me.”
“Tel, you don’t give yourself enough credit. You have abs now.” I poke him in the stomach to prove my point. It’s so hard, I might as well have poked metal.
He quirks his brow. “When did you see my abs?”
On at least four occasions since this trip started. But who’s counting? “Every time you lift your shirt to take something out of your money belt.” His cheeks turn a dark shade of crimson. “Don’t be ashamed. You worked hard for them. They deserve to be seen and fawned over by the world.”
Teller both doesn’t know how to take a compliment and isn’t used to them. So he just ignores it entirely. “It doesn’t change the fact that I don’t know how to talk to women.”
“You’re talking to me right now.”
“Okay, but you’re not—” He stops himself.
“A woman? Wow. Thanks.” I’m half teasing, but I can’t help but feel a twinge in my chest.
“That’s not what I meant. What I was going to say is, I’m comfortable with you because I know you. I don’t do well striking up conversations with strangers.”
“I was a stranger when we first met.”
“And how did my first impression go over?” he asks, a brief smile playing across his lips.
I snort, recalling how uptight he was. “But we survived, terrible first impressions aside. It’s really not that hard. Practice with me.” I extend my hand theatrically and try to make my voice soft and dainty like Riley’s. “Hi, I’m Riley. What’s your name again?”
He looks horrified by my improv but goes along with it. “Teller.”
“That’s a unique name.”
“I’m named after the OB that delivered me,” he explains. “My mom was in labor for fifty hours before having an emergency C-section. So when the nurse asked what my name was, she said the first name she could think of in her delirium. Dr. Teller.” He follows that up with awkward eye contact and total silence. Smooth, Tel. Before I can call him out, he waves a dismissive hand. “Okay, no more. This is too weird.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s only weird if you make it weird. Just don’t bring up your birth story. Nothing about germs. Talk about the present. Something about travel. Italy. Ask what she’s most excited about seeing. There’s endless possibilities. You’ll be vibing in no time,” I say enthusiastically, tamping down the tiniest budding kernel that feels suspiciously like jealousy. But it can’t be. Jealousy. If anything, I want Teller to have this moment with Riley. He needs a distraction from Sophie.
He tugs at the collar of his shirt, panning around at his surroundings. “Okay. Fine. But if I humiliate myself, you owe me dinner.”
“Deal.”
Reluctantly, he makes his way over to Riley. Over the chatter of passersby, he says, “Hot out here, huh?” At least he’s trying. I’m proud of him—until he adds, “I’m basically dripping sweat.”
Oh, sweet summer child, Teller.
It’s not like I’m some expert flirt. But I know that talking about sweating isn’t exactly a great conversation starter. He knows it, too, because he starts sweating even more.
“Me too! I seriously need a shower,” Riley says, surprisingly not grossed out. She’s smiling, and Teller’s shoulders relax.
It’s strange, seeing Teller flirt. Successfully. On some level, I knew he had game. He was in a long-term relationship. But after so many years of him only having eyes for Sophie, charming a total stranger in front of me is foreign territory. Suddenly feeling like a creep for eavesdropping, I distract myself by kicking back with Lionel. He offers me half his croissant, and suddenly I’m divulging my life story, excluding the whole soulmate thing. Instead, I give him a sanitized version about how I’m on the hunt for rom-com-worthy love. He hangs on my every word.
“I’ve already met the love of my life,” he tells me, mouth softening in a slight upturn, his dark eyes lighting up at the mere thought of him. “His name is Paul. We met in the most romantic way. Definitely rom-com material.”
“Do tell!”
“We were both at CVS. I was buying a jumbo bottle of Pepto-Bismol, and he was looking for Magnums,” he says, and we both descend into laughter.
“He was supposed to come on this trip with me, but he ditched to spend the summer in New York doing a fancy publishing internship. Would have been nice to have him with me, you know, in case anyone gives me any trouble.”
My brow shoots up. “Trouble?”
“In case you didn’t notice, I’m Black. Traveling alone in a foreign country can be, well, you know.” He pauses and swallows. “I don’t always know how I’m going to be perceived when I go places.”
I dip my chin, empathizing with him. “Ugh, I’m sorry you have to deal with that.”
He shrugs. “So far, everyone seems friendly here. But you never know. Ignorance can happen anywhere. Like, I once went to Germany, and the bellhop at my hotel kept calling me Will because he somehow decided I looked like Will Smith.”
“With all due respect to Will Smith, you look nothing alike. You are way hotter,” I point out.
He clutches his chest. “Oh my god. Thank you for saying that.”
“But that’s horrible. This isn’t as bad, but one time I tagged along with my dad on a work trip to the Netherlands, and our taxi driver asked me, Where are you really from? when I said I was American.”
Lionel shakes his head. “See? This is what I’m saying. I always have to second-guess if someone is being rude because they’re just an asshat or because of another reason.” He tosses his head back in a sigh. “It would have been nice to have Paul here, at least.”
“I almost came alone too. My friend broke her foot. But luckily, I forced him to come with me,” I say, turning toward Teller. He was still swept up in conversation with Riley.
“He’s hot. In a hottest-guy-in-the-chess-club kinda way. You sure he’s not your soulmate?”
“He’s my best friend. And I think he might be flirting?” I can only bear witness to the interaction for a couple more moments before it starts to feel a little weird.
Lionel agrees they’re indeed flirting, and suggests we give Teller and Riley some private time. We sneak some complimentary biscotti and lemon-infused water from the fancy hotel next door and sip it under the awning. It’s shaded, thank gosh. The Italian sun is no joke, even by late afternoon. I have major boob sweat.
Fatigue aside, I take a good long look at everyone who passes by, wondering whether they’re my person.
Once we’ve cooled off, Lionel wanders across the street to take selfies on the idyllic cobblestone bridge. “Do you mind taking my pic?”
“Sure, no problem.” I leave the comfort of my shaded area to take his photo, even lying on the hot ground to get a good shot.
“As my vacation wifey, I feel compelled to warn you: if you get my double chin, I’ll consider it a violation of trust,” he warns, checking every couple pictures to ensure the angle is optimal.
Keen to return to shade, I do a swift backward shuffle to the middle of the street to capture some quick full-body shots. Just when I’m about to take the last picture, there’s a noisy rumble, followed by the rattle of metal clanking against concrete. Before I can identify the source, a deep voice bellows, “Watch out!”
I snap my neck to the left. And that’s when I see it. A runaway trolley filled with luggage, hurtling down the cobblestone slope straight toward me.