12
Rome
N o one can say we didn’t do Rome.” Teller waits for me as we take our final steps up the rocky incline atop Palatine Hill.
“We did the shit out of Rome,” I manage through a thick wheeze, drawing a smile from him as he passes me his ginormous water bottle. It’s unfair how out of shape I am compared to him.
“I’ve been to Rome three times and it still takes my breath away,” Caleb says, admiring the scattered remnants of what were once towering columns of the Roman Forum, one of the many ancient ruins sprinkled throughout the city.
I can see why. Venice was enchanting and serene, but Rome is alive. Regardless of whether it’s seven in the morning or three in the morning when we stumble back to the hostel, its narrow streets are always bustling with people. Everything is grand and ornate, even run-of-the-mill apartment buildings with their rustic terra-cotta planters weaving greenery around wrought iron railings.
We’ve covered a lot of ground in just three days, touring all the attractions on Mom and Mei’s original itinerary, like the Vatican, the Spanish Steps, the Pantheon, Piazza Navona, and the Galleria Borghese.
It would have been fun with just Teller and me, chuckling like fifth graders over marble statues with huge packages. But it’s all the more enjoyable with our group. We travel together like a well-oiled machine. Teller and Jenny are the planners, Caleb balances their type A–ness with his laid-back we’ll-get-there-when-we-get-there attitude, often convincing us to avoid a typical tour in favor of a more authentic experience. Lionel provides comic relief, while Riley and I are the social butterflies who make sure everyone is having fun. And to be straight up, Teller and I are way too naive to do this whole backpacking thing alone. We’re lucky to have experts like Jenny and Caleb to guide us.
“Who would have thought us little nerds would both have dates in Rome?” I say to Teller, belly-flopping on the bed, shoes on, buzzing with nervous energy at the prospect of being alone with Caleb for the first time. While we’ve gotten to know each other over shared cups of gelato, exploring shops, and wandering random little alleyways, it’s always been in a group context—until tonight.
“Mine isn’t a date,” Teller says, ironing his T-shirt and a pair of jeans to perfection.
When we found out our hostel had a private room with two double beds and our very own bathroom, Teller did a celebratory dance. It’s certainly no Ritz, or even Best Western, but it’s clean—at least, his side of the room is. Mine looks like a cyclone tore through, then doubled back for more carnage. Clothes, sandals, souvenirs, and makeup are strewn everywhere.
“She asked you for dinner and a romantic walk along the Tiber. That’s a date,” I point out, rolling out of bed to pick out my outfit. I decide on a blue gingham mini dress with a square neckline.
“It’s a casual walk that just so happens to be in a stereotypically romantic setting,” he argues. Despite his denial, I can tell by his vigorous ironing that he’s excited.
“Are you going to finally tell her you don’t share food?” I tease, dipping into the bathroom to put my dress on. Every time we stop to eat, Riley asks Teller for a bite of his food. He’s too polite to admit he does not , under any circumstances, share food.
“That was one thing about Sophie. She never asked to share food.” This is the first time in a while he’s brought her up.
“Speaking of Sophie, I got a quick shot of you walking with Riley at the Colosseum in my Stories. Sophie ‘liked’ it.” Sophie’s been viewing all my Italy Stories and liking all my posts. No comments, though.
I assumed that would cheer him up, but when I emerge from the bathroom, he’s frowning at his ironing. Ugh. He definitely still misses her.
Must switch gears before he spirals. “Any advice for me tonight?”
He shrugs, inspecting his jeans. “Uh, be yourself?” he suggests.
I park myself on the floor in front of the mirror with my makeup bag. “Real helpful, Tel. Shouldn’t this be the part where you coach me on how to act? What to say? Where you tell me I should tone down my quirky style?”
“I like the way you dress, aside from those elephant-print pants you bought the other day,” he says.
I toss a foundation-blender sponge at him. “Those pants are adorable!” Frankly, they’re not really my style. But I’ve seen so many backpacker girls wearing them, I felt compelled to get a pair too.
“And what do you mean by ‘coach’? In what world do you think I’m qualified to give relationship advice? In case you forgot, my people skills are in the toilet.”
“Teller, you were with Sophie for three years. Clearly you have game,” I point out, dabbing shimmery eyeshadow on my lids.
He flops back on his bed and props himself up on his side, watching me. “You overestimate me.”
“You’re super romantic,” I remind him. “Remember that time you borrowed my starry night projector and set up a whole makeshift bed and movie for Sophie in your living room? Or when I helped you arrange that elaborate scavenger hunt all over the neighborhood?”
He bites the inside of his cheek and sighs, like the memory has taken a year off his life. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Always.”
“I hated doing all that. They were so stressful. I was always trying to think of something big to top the last one. It was impossible to genuinely surprise her. Actually, on Valentine’s Day last year, we got into a fight and she told me she hated all the huge gestures. She thought they were hokey and desperate.”
“But she loved them,” I say, recalling the first birthday I helped Teller plan. I’d been there for the surprise, releasing the balloons and hitting Play on their “song” (Ed Sheeran, which surprised me since Teller once told me he didn’t trust his face). The whole reveal was quite cinematic, with Sophie crying and dramatically leaping into Teller’s arms.
“She acted like she did because she felt like she had to,” he says.
“I don’t get it. What girl wouldn’t want a huge gesture like that?”
“That’s the thing. It’s proof of how little I actually knew about her.”
“Okay, but that’s kind of bullshit. You were together for three years. She should have been honest with you,” I say, gripping my makeup brush, angry on Teller’s behalf.
He shakes his head. “She was right, though. I knew she wasn’t the kind of girl who watched rom-coms. She wasn’t mushy or interested in talking about her feelings. So why did I expect her to be comfortable with all these public, grand gestures? It never made sense, and I was too self-absorbed to even notice or care.”
I know I won’t change Teller’s mind on this anytime soon. When he’s stuck in a vortex of self-loathing, it’s nearly impossible to pull him out. So I pivot. “Okay, well, my point still stands. You have game, even if you don’t think so.”
“Coming from the girl who could make friends with a rock. But thanks, Lo.”
I check my full reflection in the mirror, and my findings are grim. I seriously need to brush my hair. Blot my forehead. Maybe change my entire outfit. “Do you think I need to be more—”
He cuts me a serious look and sits up. “This isn’t a nineties rom-com. You look great. You don’t have to change a thing.”
“Even my tendency to bring up my dead mom?” I ask. I’d told Caleb about my mom out of the blue while we were walking through the Borghese.
He tilts his head. “Okay, yeah. It might have been preferable to ease him in there. But you’ve never really been the type to beat around the bush. If he really is the one, he should probably get to know the real you, not a sanitized version.”
“He is the one,” I say, finger-combing a tangle at the back of my head. I ignore the zip down my spine when our eyes meet in the mirror and look away. What is going on with me? I really need to get some air.
Teller stands, brushing the wrinkles from his shorts. “Okay. Any idea what time you’ll be back?”
“We’ll see where the night takes us,” I chirp, motoring around to grab my earrings from my suitcase.
He blinks. “Oh, okay.”
It’s only after I see Teller’s face that I realize how that sounded. I didn’t mean to insinuate anything sexual happening tonight—not that I’d be against it. But backtracking and explaining would probably just make it sound worse. The room suddenly feels smaller. Too small, like the four walls are closing in, inch by inch. With only the hiss of the cooling iron to quell the silence, Teller busies himself on his phone while I hurriedly put in my earrings. I do a quick check in the mirror. My dress isn’t horribly wrinkled or tucked in my underwear, and my eyeliner isn’t too aggressive. Check.
I’m grateful for the distraction. This is the first time on our trip that sharing a room feels awkward. Despite the fact that Teller and I talk about pretty much everything, there’s one line we’ve never crossed. We don’t talk about sex. Sure, we’ve waded close to the fire, talking about dick pics and sexual things in general, but never specifically about one another doing the deed.
I growl into the mirror, unsure whether I’m more frustrated by the unnecessary images of Teller flashing through my mind or my hair. It refuses to cooperate, as per usual.
“You okay?”
I blink away the images. “I hate my hair. I never should have cut it,” I whine, trying in vain to press down a piece that keeps flopping the wrong way.
“Why? It looks ...” He falters.
“Like an inverted triangle? I’m all too aware.”
He doesn’t deny it. “Um, maybe you should put it up?”
“I tried. It’s too short and I’m not good at fancy styles.”
“Maybe I can help.”
I level him with a look. “Do you secretly know how to do hair?”
“Well, no. But I’m sure I can learn. There has to be something online. An instructional video or something.”
There are. Millions. I do a quick search for the account Dad used to do my hair when I was little and find a cute french braid that folds into a bun. I pass him the phone. “It looks easy enough,” he says.
I gather some bobby pins and hair ties and sit with my back facing him on his bed.
“Um, you’ll have to come a bit closer,” he says.
I shimmy until my back hits his leg. “Good?” I ask, ignoring the warmth tumbling down my spine.
“Yup.”
I close my eyes as his fingers comb through my hair, a bit unsure.
“If I pull your hair or something, just tell me,” he says, his breath tickling my ear.
The air shifts and my entire body goes hot at his fingers brushing against my neck. All this thinking about sex has gotten me feeling tingly. What would it be like if I just turned around and kissed him? Nope. Thinking about Teller like this is dangerous and highly inappropriate.
Not that it means anything. These thoughts. They’re born out of natural curiosity, right? I can snap back to real life and push them aside like a pesky little celebrity crush and go on about my day.
“Oh, I will. And anyway, I’ll be careful with Caleb. Always am,” I assure, working down a swallow. “And you too.”
“I’m not planning on having sex with Riley,” he says, sweeping my hair back and separating it into three sections. Tug, pull, tug, pull.
“Why not? You deserve some wild vacation-rebound sex.” I cringe. I sound like Bianca. There’s a part of me that secretly hopes hooking up with Riley will help him get over Sophie sooner.
“Wild vacation-rebound sex?” he repeats.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to pressure you. I know you’re not into that kind of thing.”
A beat passes. “You don’t know that.”
“I—I don’t?”
The pull loosens as he finishes tying a bun. I turn around slowly to find his lips pressed together, like he’s holding in a wicked smile. “All right, all done.”
My whole body flares with heat at the thought of Teller having hot rebound sex. In fact, I actually fan myself and spin around, groping for a hair tie I tossed somewhere on the bed. Clearly I’m the one who needs some vacation sex.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah!” I squeak, toting my hand mirror to the bathroom. Shockingly, the braid actually looks half-decent. It’s not as tight as I’d like, but it’s a hell of a lot better than the inverted triangle. “You missed your calling,” I yell, lingering in the bathroom. If I look directly at him, I might spontaneously combust.
“You okay in there?”
“Yeah! Just, uh, looking for my purse.”
“It’s out here.”
I manage to avoid eye contact as I shuffle out, then pretend to riffle around in my purse.
There’s a tap against the sliding glass door of our room. It barely registers until I hear it again. It’s too rhythmic to be a fluke. “What was that?” I ask.
“It sounded like a ... rock?” The mattress squeaks under his weight as he stands to inspect. “Lo, you’re gonna want to see this,” Teller says, peeking through the sheer drapery.