11
C aleb is right. There’s nothing more romantic than a gondola ride at sunset in Venice.
Everything about it screams romance. The main canal is cast in warm, orange sunlight, the calm water reflecting it like fireflies. Handcrafted wooden gondolas are stationed in neat rows, all handled by young, fit Italian men in classic red-and-white-striped shirts.
I can picture it now—the moment Caleb and I fall in love. It will be like the movies as we float under the majestic Rialto Bridge.
As though fate knew I needed a win, our rucksacks were waiting at the hostel when we returned from the walking tour. Teller nearly teared up using his own toothbrush and wearing his slippers for the first time in days. And while I’m grateful to have my floral shift dress with dramatic ruffle sleeves for tonight (Bianca says it elongates my legs), I think about what Caleb said about being happier without material things. Making do with less. I can’t help but feel silly for packing so much.
Our group crowds along the dock, waiting to board the gondolas, which appear to seat two at a time. Caleb is chatting with Posie. He’s dressed in a snug Henley that accentuates his muscles. I’m sure he could give these fit gondola drivers a run for their money.
He waves me over. “Wow, you look incredible.”
“You told me to expect romance,” I say, nodding toward the empty boat to our right. “Are we taking this boat?”
“I would absolutely love to. It’s just—” He nervously runs a hand over the back of his neck, and my heart nearly falls out of my body. He’s about to tell me I’ve got it all wrong. To get lost because he’s not interested, or that he’s got a girlfriend, or he’s betrothed.
I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for the worst.
“I already told another beautiful lady I’d go with her. Posie,” he whispers, flashing her a pearly smile as she approaches. “Ernest isn’t here because of his hip. I guess he overdid it today. She was saying how much she was looking forward to the gondola, and I don’t want her to have to ride alone. I hope that’s okay. Can we do a rain check?”
He says it so adorably, I can’t possibly be disappointed. In fact, I think my ovaries have exploded. There’s nothing more attractive than a man who’s kind and thoughtful to senior citizens. “Of course. No worries at all.”
He gives me a quick smile before taking Posie’s arm and helping her into the wobbly boat. It’s quite frankly the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. There’s a velvet upholstered love seat facing the water and then a smaller bench with a side view.
I find Teller seated on a bench on the dock, staring at the water like it’s raw sewage. He’s still rigid, jaw clenched, white-knuckling the bench so tight, the veins protrude in his forearms, and his face is the grayish shade of oatmeal.
“I thought you’d be riding the gondola with Riley,” I say, plopping down next to him. He spent most of the walking tour with her today, and from the looks of it, there was some heavy flirting.
“She asked me to. But I hate water. You know that.” I feel like a dimwit. He’s always hated water. I found that out soon after we first met. He was staying home all weekend while his family went out to a family friend’s cottage on the lake.
“Ah yes. Water—your sworn enemy.”
“Who knows what lurks beneath,” he says, vaguely gesturing to the canal.
“Probably lots of teeny-tiny fish. And bits of trash from tourists, from the looks of it.”
His eyes bulge and he sits up a little straighter. “Okay, but this is the Adriatic Sea, which is connected to the literal ocean, of which eighty percent is unexplored. We can’t even begin to imagine what lives down there.”
“You’re really going to pass up a once-in-a-lifetime Venetian opportunity for the minuscule chance you’ll fall overboard?”
He shrugs. “I haven’t decided yet.”
I can’t help but crack a smile. “Say you did fall overboard, which you won’t—”
“I might.”
“Highly unlikely.”
“I could. Do you see the bags under these guys’ eyes? They’re way too exhausted to be any use in an emergency situation.”
He’s not wrong. Beyond the muscles and good looks, some of the drivers are a tad gaunt and dead-eyed. According to Gia, they’re livelier earlier in the day, which makes sense. Driving a gondola all day looks labor intensive.
“Worst case, you go into the water,” I start. “What’s going to get you? You said yourself the scary, unknown creatures live at the very bottom of the ocean. I doubt these canals are that deep.”
Teller leans forward and casts an uneasy glance at the water. “They look pretty deep to me.”
“Excuse me, sir,” I call to one of the drivers, suddenly feeling gutsy. “How deep is the canal?”
“This one? About fifteen feet. You two coming?”
I barely hold back a laugh. “Come on. You heard the man. It’s only fifteen feet deep. You could probably touch bottom and float back to the top in seconds.”
He lets out a tortured sigh and cautiously follows me to the boat. He parks himself on the seat, stiff as ever.
Our gondola driver, Alfie, is a great tour guide, which marginally helps defuse my disappointment. I can see Caleb and Posie just ahead.
“The Rialto Bridge was built in the sixteenth century. For hundreds of years, it was the only way to cross the canal,” he explains, voice soft and melodic. He looks to be in his midtwenties, if I had to guess. “It connects the San Polo and San Marco districts of Venice.”
“How long have you been a gondolier?” Teller asks Alfie.
“Since I was fourteen. My father was a gondolier, as was my grandfather,” he says proudly while expertly navigating through a tight turn.
“What a legacy,” I say. A pang of deficiency shoots through me. Unlike me, Alfie is upholding his family’s tradition.
“You could say it is in my blood. Though in the past few years, droughts have been causing the smaller canals to dry up.”
“Really? From global warming?” Teller asks.
Alfie nods with a pained expression. “We have been having some, how you say, extreme weather. Flooding, then droughts. It is bad for us locals because we do not have many roads for commuting. We rely on the canals for transportation.”
“That is terrible. I can understand why you’re worried about it. I mean, the canals are what make Venice Venice ,” I say.
Alfie talks a little bit about some environmental initiatives he’s part of. He then winds us through some of the smaller channels, pointing out the colorful houses of Burano Island and the Santa Maria della Salute Basilica. Teller snaps shots of each site like a stereotypical tourist.
He also peppers Alfie with a bajillion questions. Curious Teller is a favorite. It’s nice to see him relax and enjoy himself, and not alone in his room pining over Sophie.
The gondola floats atop the water with such grace, you can’t even hear anything but the gentle slap of the water against the side of the vessel mixed with quintessential Italian music.
“Now we’re coming up to the Bridge of Sighs, which connected Doge’s Palace to a prison in the sixteenth century,” Alfie explains. The bridge’s shadows dance across the water as we approach. “This structure is very special. According to legend, a couple that kisses under this bridge will enjoy eternal love.”
He looks at us expectantly, as though we’re a couple or something.
An audible groan escapes me as we pass underneath, lamenting the missed opportunity with Caleb. It would have been a beautiful memory to share with generations to come.
There’s a lull as Alfie chats with a passing gondolier. “Where’d your sunshine go?” Teller asks.
I look up at him.
He shrugs. “Usually you’re off the walls, radiating with excitement over these things. You seem a little ... subdued.”
I hesitate, unsure if I want to open that can of worms with him. “It’s just, I kind of hoped I’d get to ride the gondola with someone else. No offense,” I add. “I love you, you’re just not—”
“Caleb?”
“Shh!” I shoot him a warning glare, paranoid everyone in our group heard. Voices carry on the water, after all.
“No one is around,” he assures me, nodding toward the closest gondola twenty feet ahead.
Still, I lower my voice to just above a whisper. “How did you know?” I ask quietly. But of course he knows. He can read me like a book.
“You’ve been kind of obsessing over him since you met,” he says matter-of-factly.
I wince and shield my face in my hands. “Am I that obvious?”
“When you like something, you really like it. You get all giddy and talk super fast. I could tell pretty much right away after the whole trolley thing. And when you were talking to him today, you were nervous ... and you’re never nervous.”
I go on a long ramble about my chat with him today and how straight-up awesome he is. “And did you know he doesn’t even have a cell phone?”
“You’ve mentioned it once or twice,” Teller teases. “Seems like a really cool guy, though.”
I wince. “Is it okay? Me potentially being with someone on this trip?”
“It’s not like you need my permission.”
“I know that logically, but I still feel like I’m breaking some sort of cardinal best-friend rule.”
He smirks. “Ah, that’s why you’re pushing Riley, so I’m not a sad-sack third wheel?”
“You’re so dramatic. But no. I actually just want you to have a rebound. That’s all. Nothing to do with me.”
“I appreciate you looking out for me. And as long as you’re not hooking up in the bed next to me, I have no issue with you doing your thang,” he says.
I let out a cackle. “Please never say doing your thang ever again.”
He squeezes his eyes shut and face-palms. “I know, I know. It sounded wrong the moment I said it.”
We quietly snicker so as not to ruin the ambience.
He goes still as Alfie turns down a narrow waterway and under a smaller bridge. “But I have to ask, why Caleb? He doesn’t seem like your type.”
I’m not sure whether to be offended or not. “What do you mean?”
He smirks. “I didn’t want to say it, but, you know, Cindy-ish. Upper-middle-class dude taking a gap year funded by his parents to experience the world beyond the gates in all its raw, poor glory. ”
I snort, feigning offense. “What? Caleb is not like Cindy. I mean, sure, he lives the backpacker life, but he’s not having photo shoots with Ugandan orphans so everyone knows what a virtuous person he is.”
“You already creeped his social media, didn’t you?”
“He doesn’t have socials. Well, I mean, he technically does. But he doesn’t use them because he doesn’t have a phone.”
“Proves my point even more. Not your type.”
I raise my brow. “Okay, then what’s my type?”
“Back in high school you went for these caveman football-captain dudes with no brains—”
I give him a swift kick in the shin. “Hey, Tim Yates has brains. So does Mark B. There are different ways you can be smart. Like Caleb, he knows all these historic facts—” I pause when Teller starts chuckling.
“Jeez, he must have made an impression on you.”
“You could say that. I mean, it’s kind of a long story,” I say carefully, trying to figure out the most natural way to ease into the whole soulmate conversation.
Teller sits back. “We have time.”
I suck in a long breath and finally come out with it. “Remember that time I told you the women in my family can foresee their soulmates?”
I can’t help but feel a twinge of surprise when he casually nods, as though I’ve merely reminded him diabetes runs in the family—not some wild psychic power.
“Well, I had a vision.”
He sits forward, eyes wide. “Wait. You had an actual vision? When?”
“The other night, right before you picked me up from that frat party.”
“But I thought you didn’t have—” he starts, brows pinched.
“I thought so too. I mean, I don’t have any other psychic abilities that I know of. It was just this one vision.” I explain the vision as we continue through a labyrinth of waterways, passing an old brick building that was allegedly Marco Polo’s house. “I told my aunts that night, and they said it was pretty much identical to the one my mom had about my dad. They interpreted it to mean I was going to meet The One in Venice.”
“Caleb,” he says.
“Exactly.”
He leans back and stares at the canal ahead, taking it all in. “Wow. No wonder you’ve been so gung ho about this trip. How come you didn’t tell me?” He sounds a little wounded, understandably so.
“I wanted to that night. But you were so sad about Sophie, it seemed like the wrong time. And I guess I was scared you wouldn’t believe in the whole soulmate thing.”
“Well, you’re both comfortable being shoeless in public places. If that doesn’t scream soulmates, I don’t know what does,” he says, deadpan. Last night, when Caleb entered the courtyard barefoot, Teller and I immediately locked eyes and snorted.
“Anyway, that’s not all. My aunt Ellen told me there’s also a related curse. Anyone in the family who doesn’t end up with their soulmate is eternally lonely and miserable.”
His eyes widen even more. “Eternally?”
“You bet. Promising, huh?”
“But what’s wrong with being alone?” Teller asks. “Some people are perfectly happy without a partner.”
I shrug. “I’m sure they are. But not in my family. Ellen told me a pretty alarming story about my cousin, twice removed. She decided not to be with her soulmate and got hit by a bus; then her house flooded.”
“Jeez,” Teller croaks.
“Seriously, though. You think I’m a loser weirdo, don’t you?”
His laugh echoes over the slap of the water against Alfie’s ore. “I don’t think you’re a loser weirdo.” He runs a hand over his chin, seemingly choosing his words carefully. “It’s not that I don’t believe you or your family and the whole psychic-curse thing. But as far as soulmates ... statistically speaking, it seems a little wild, don’t you think? And scary. Like, the idea that there’s only one other person out there for you, among all eight billion?”
“That’s exactly what’s so romantic about it. Of all eight billion people in the world, we’re fated for one.”
“Okay, so what if the one person you’re meant to be with lives halfway around the world in a remote village with no technology? What if socioeconomic barriers prevent them from ever meeting you?”
“We’d find a way to meet,” I say confidently.
He narrows his gaze, uncertain. “Even if they never leave their village? What if you don’t even speak the same language?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t see how this is even relevant. If there were that many barriers to meeting or connecting, that person wouldn’t be my soulmate.”
“But you would agree that, generally, most people who fall in love typically live in the same geographic location, share the same language, class, probably age.” His points are valid, and I’m absolutely unequipped to respond with any sort of authority.
“I guess so.”
“So doesn’t it make more sense that it’s just totally random? That people choose others based on those factors and not some predetermined cosmic force?”
“No.” I shake my head stubbornly, making a mental note to ask my aunts for their opinion.
“Okay then. What if your soulmate is like, a hundred years older than you and dies tragically before you even get to meet? Does that mean you’re shit out of luck for another soulmate?”
I scratch my neck like someone’s surprised me with a math test. “I—I don’t really know the logistics.”
He can tell I’m getting flustered. “It’s okay, Lo.”
“But you don’t believe me.”
“That’s not true. I’m just trying to make sense of it. You know I need to logic everything. For the record, I believe you saw what you saw.”
“Really? You’re not just trying to make me feel better?”
He levels me with a knowing look. “No. And even if I didn’t believe it, it wouldn’t matter.”
“That’s true.”
“So, Canadian Boy is your soulmate. You’re sure on that?”
“I’m sure.”
“All right.” He gazes up at an old cathedral. “Then I’ll do whatever I can to help your vision come to fruition, Lo, even if it has to be a Leafs fan.”
I’m grateful for his support, if only for a flash before giving him a quick kick in the shin. “Way to ruin the moment, Owens.”
He smirks and tosses an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his side. “Seriously, though. I can picture it. You guys getting married, moving to an off-grid hut somewhere tropical and remote with no cell service, living off the land with your little barefoot kids.”
Honestly, that sounds pretty perfect. Alfie steers us around the corner and back into the main canal. My breath hitches as I take it all in. The illumination of the buildings, the burnt oranges and yellows playing off the glassy surface of the water like fire. The melodic serenade of other gondoliers singing in the distance.
Regardless of all the headache we went through to get here, even Teller can’t deny that this is pure magic.
“Hey, Tel?”
“Yeah?”
“Now we can say we did Venice.”
A bubble of laughter escapes his throat—mixing with mine.