15
Florence
I wake up to a sharp nudge in the shoulder. “Lo, you’re drooling on me,” Teller whispers in my ear.
My eyes fling open. We’re still on the train to Florence.
I rub my lids, still exhausted from a late night of wandering Rome with Caleb. I fell asleep five minutes after we left, only waking up intermittently to the sound of Caleb’s voice. He’s a row ahead, pointing out small villages of historical significance, the Tuscan vineyards, olive groves, and quintessential rolling hills.
Mortified, I wipe the side of my mouth. “Shit. Sorry. I fell asleep on you again, didn’t I?”
“You can sleep on me all you want, so long as you keep your drool to yourself,” Teller teases, passing me my water bottle.
“I’m so tired,” I say through a yawn, gratefully taking the water. “Long night.”
I’ve told Teller all about my rendezvous with Caleb, but I’ve never told him we made out in the garden, or in the middle of a random sidewalk, or a little bit in Caleb’s room the second night. Even though Caleb and I have started holding hands when we’re out and about, revealing more to Teller feels too ... personal, which is strange, because up until now, I’ve always been open with him about my relationships.
“What time did you get back?” Teller asks.
“Around midnight. I went to the roof and FaceTimed my dad first.”
He raises a brow. “How’s he doing? I bet he misses you.”
“Nah, he’s living his best life. Playing pickleball, apparently.”
“I like pickleball.”
“Isn’t it for people north of fifty?”
“Am I not basically a fifty-year-old on the inside?” he asks, unironically reaching under his shirt to tug his money belt down.
“Valid point.”
“Who’s he playing pickleball with?” Teller asks.
Good question. “I actually don’t know.”
“Maybe he’s seeing someone.”
I snort. “Doubtful.”
“Has he ever dated? Since your mom?”
“No. Never.”
Dad has been single since Mom passed, even though my aunts have encouraged him to date. Every time the topic comes up, he gets solemn and tells us about someone who went on an online date and wound up chopped up and buried in someone’s potted plants. Aunt Ellen once told me it’s his coping mechanism, that Mom still has his heart. Maybe she always will.
Romantic as the sentiment is, it reminds me of Cousin Lin. Just thinking about the reality of eternal loneliness is heartbreaking. One day, I’ll eventually move out and Dad will be all alone, eating dinner at our dining table every night. Maybe he’ll start eating on the couch in front of the TV. Just him—and Brandon and Brian.
“It makes sense that he wouldn’t date,” Teller continues. “He was raising a daughter all on his own. I’m sure dating and having friends was the last thing on his mind for a long time. It’s probably hard to get out of that mindset even though you’re nineteen, especially since you’re still at home.”
He’s not wrong. Dad has always done his best to be involved. He showed up to every extracurricular, every school event. He dropped me off at school and supervised my homework after dinner, trying his best to keep me on track when I’d inevitably get distracted. For anything he didn’t know how to handle, he’d call in my aunts for support. Lucky for him, I was a pretty independent teenager, but I always knew he was there if I needed him.
That’s something Teller and I bonded over—our dads being our primary caregivers. Teller’s mom is very much alive, but she pours her everything into the coffee shop, working early mornings and into the evenings when they couldn’t afford more employees. His dad held down the fort at home, cooking meals, refereeing, and chauffeuring the boys around. He wasn’t resentful either. Every time I saw him, his forearms covered in suds from washing the dishes, he seemed happy.
“It was kind of weird, though. Our conversation.”
“How so?”
“Well, he got really awkward when we talked about my mom and Caleb.”
“Understandable. His daughter did fly halfway across the world searching for her soulmate. He could be anyone. A murderer.” Teller glares at the back of Caleb’s head suspiciously, and I roll my eyes. “Just kidding. Anyway, sounds like it was a weird conversation. Maybe talking about your mom makes him sad. And he doesn’t want you to see him sad.”
“That’s possible. But it felt like something bigger, something specific. I can’t help but feel jealous. It’s like ... he’s hoarding all these memories with her. My whole life he’s been like this. Most of what I know about my mom comes from my aunts.”
“Have you ever told him it upsets you?”
“No.”
“How come?”
A heaviness gathers in my throat just thinking about it. “I feel guilty, I guess. I don’t want to upset him. I think most people assume I’m not really impacted because I was so young. I’ve always kind of had to pretend I’m not sad about it.” One time, a teacher said to me point-blank, “You’re lucky it happened when you were too young to understand.” Apparently, Mom’s family felt the same, assuming I didn’t know what was going on, putting on fake smiles, pretending like everything was okay. Their logic was, the happier they appear, the easier it’ll be for me. They couldn’t have been more wrong.
Teller shakes his head. “Sure, it’s harder on them in the sense that they have years’ worth of memories with her. But in my opinion, the sadder thing is that you were robbed of time with her, and your own memories.”
His words strike me in the gut. No one has ever framed it that way before, or validated my feelings. “That’s why being here, in Italy, means so much. It feels like I’m building a memory with her, in a weird way. It’s how I felt when I used to watch all those rom-coms ... I don’t know why, but they made me feel connected to her.”
“It makes sense. They reminded you of your parents and all your family stories.”
I nod. “That’s exactly it. Thanks, by the way.”
“For what?”
“Understanding me. I’m not an easy person to understand.”
He shakes his head, eyes catching mine. “I disagree. I think I understand you pretty easily.”
He does and I’m so grateful. I can’t help but smile. “That’s why you’re my best friend. Forever.”
Call me crazy, but there’s just something about weaving through a dense crowd—a chaotic flurry of strangers who find themselves in the same place at the same time, all sharing the same itch to explore and discover.
We’ve been in Florence for three days, exploring cathedrals, museums, and galleries until our feet are swollen and blistered. But today is particularly exciting because Caleb, Teller, Riley, and I are going on our first double date.
It was my idea. I proposed it so Teller could get to know Caleb a bit better, and for me to spend more time with Riley, without Jenny. She tends to overshadow Riley in group situations.
“I think you and Caleb will really hit it off,” I told Teller, sounding more confident than I felt.
“You think? He’s different than me. And not just in looks.”
“ We’re pretty opposite.”
“Touché.”
Frankly, they’re vastly different. But if they’re going to be such integral parts of my life, I can’t imagine them not getting along. That’s why laying the foundation for their friendship is crucial.
Still, I’m taken aback by a pinch at the sight of Teller’s hand, resting low on Riley’s back as they walk ahead of us. Maybe it’s the heat. Definitely the heat.
Luckily, our first double-date activity is a cooking class indoors.
We enter a nondescript building a couple streets away from the hustle and bustle. Inside, it’s lined with long stainless-steel tables arranged in a big square. Chef Guidice is exactly what I’d pictured. A classic white chef’s coat stretches around his stout frame. He has a bighearted smile that immediately makes you feel at home. His dark eyes light up as he greets us and tells us about his background. It all started with his family’s trattoria.
The four of us listen intently as Chef Guidice demonstrates how to make fiori di zucca fritti (fried zucchini flowers stuffed with cheese), guinea fowl cooked with grapes, and then dessert—a tiramisu. We watch closely, copying the way he whisks the velvety mascarpone and delicately arranges the ladyfingers in the dish. When he pours the espresso, it reminds me yet again of the scent in my vision.
When our class is over, we wander around the medieval quarter, listening to the street artists play cheerful piano tunes. Lemon granitas in hand to quench our thirst, we duck in and out of random shops to take breaks from the beating sun. We try on every hat, admire every watercolor postcard and cheap trinket and fridge magnet of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
Every inch of the cobblestone is packed with tourists in wide-brimmed hats, eyes alight, armed with maps and cameras, licking messy drips of gelato off their forearms. I can’t help but think this is what life is about.
Perhaps the best part is witnessing Caleb in his element. He finds joy in the little things, like stopping to listen to the buskers, the vendors selling goats’-milk soap and mini jars of homemade pesto from Cinque Terre, even the pesky pigeons that dive-bomb us as we attempt to eat street meat. Caleb takes everything in like it’s the first time, despite having been to Florence three times already. It occurs to me that this is what makes him so likable—his genuine passion for discovery, finding something new and exciting everywhere he goes.
The restaurant is a cute little place with rustic wooden tables and red-leather booths. The walls are adorned with art depicting vineyards and black-and-white photographs of celebrities who have visited through the years.
Despite being together all afternoon, we haven’t had much opportunity to talk—or maybe I’ve just been too caught up with Caleb. While Teller and Caleb have stilted conversation about the Roman empire, I get to know Riley a bit better. She’s an aspiring schoolteacher from the Midwest, and she recounts a bunch of funny stories about student-teaching third grade. She likes horseback riding and painting in her spare time, has a particular interest in Formula 1, and also loves Coldplay, which is just further proof that she’s potentially Teller’s perfect match.
“Did you know Riley is a Coldplay fan too?” I ask Teller.
His eyes light up. “Seriously? Everyone hates on them. Including Lo.”
“What?” Riley looks offended.
“I actually really like Coldplay,” I correct. “There’s just a time and a place for their super depressing songs.”
The waitress comes around and we put in our orders. I watch as Riley leans in toward Teller, double-checking the menu to make sure they’re ordering the right pasta dishes. Teller must be an amazing boyfriend. He always thinks of others before himself. Always does everything he can to make sure his person is happy and comfortable.
“I hope it’s good,” Riley says.
“It’s a bit of a tourist trap, but it’s not bad,” Caleb says over the soft melody of the Italian music.
“I’m loving this place.” I’m delighted by the open kitchen, where chefs are deftly tossing raw noodles in the air, spinning them into the perfect thickness and shape.
“You love everything,” Caleb says.
Conversation is pretty casual after our food arrives. Riley tells us about how she and Teller toured the Palace and spent some time at a nearby park. I watch as Riley drums her nails on Teller’s shoulder as he talks. He isn’t usually a fan of unnecessary touch, but he doesn’t seem to mind this. In fact, he looks quite relaxed with her. I don’t recall him being so calm with Sophie. But perhaps the most annoying part is the goofy smile plastered across his face whenever he looks at Riley. Something about it bugs me, like the tiniest, itchiest mosquito bite. It’s not enough to ruin your day, but it’s always there. Simmering. Itching. In fact, the only time he’s not smiling at her is when she steals a piece of prosciutto off his plate. I cough, unable to contain myself.
It’s strange, Teller and I being here with our significant others. It’s always been just the two of us, minus the few times Sophie was around. And it strikes me that as we enter our twenties and have more serious relationships, it’ll never really be just us again. I doubt we’ll be hanging out alone and going on trips together when we’re married and have families of our own. I’m not entirely sure I’m ready to say goodbye to the old Teller and Lo. The idea turns my stomach, and I have to set my fork down.
At one point, Riley asks Caleb about all of his travels. Riley gets excited when he mentions Asia. Apparently, she spent a summer teaching English in Korea. This sparks a ten-minute convo about street food while Teller drinks glass after glass of water, and I just sit there picking at my pasta.
“So you two.” Riley gestures toward Teller and me. “How long have you known each other?”
Teller’s eyes meet mine, like he’s expecting me to respond first. But I don’t. “Um ... since the summer going into tenth grade. We met working at a movie theater. She was only wearing one flip-flop,” he explains, midsip.
“Why only one flip-flop?” Caleb asks. He leans back in the booth, legs outstretched.
“Long story,” Teller and I say simultaneously. We both look at each other, only to realize Riley and Caleb are still waiting to hear more.
“Anyway,” I say before clearing my throat. “We went to the same high school and I haven’t stopped bugging him since, even though he decided to be a jerk and move away for school.”
“What are you in school for again?” Caleb asks him.
“Data science.”
Caleb leans in to give him a high five, which Teller accepts, albeit confused. “Props. I could never work a nine-to-five office job. I think I’d jump off a cliff. No offense. We need people like you keeping the rest of the world afloat.” I know Caleb is trying to be complimentary, but I’m not sure it’s coming across given the tightness in Teller’s lips.
I can’t actually tell whether Teller likes Caleb or not. Teller holds his cards close to his chest. Even if he dislikes someone, he’s pretty discreet about it. I can usually tell he’s annoyed if he gets really quiet or avoids them, but with Caleb, he’s not showing any aforementioned signs. Then again, I can barely tell if he likes me most days.
“I don’t see it as boring, actually,” he says.
“Nothing exhilarates Teller more than a spreadsheet,” I say, shooting him a reassuring smile.
“And you guys have been able to stay in close touch even though you’re at different schools?” Riley asks.
“Only because she won’t leave me alone.” Teller gives me a playful smile. I know he’s kidding, but that stings a little.
Actually, it stings a lot. Only, it’s not just a metaphorical sting. It’s the literal feeling of pin prickles on my back.
And that’s when it registers. I’m somewhere else—mentally, that is. I’m in a lush green field. The tall grass sways in the wind, revealing clusters of daisies and a kaleidoscope of wildflowers.
It’s just like when I was mid–make out with Mark B. in the frat-house basement. Technically, I’m still sitting next to Caleb, but instead of looking at my plate, or Teller and Riley across the table, this crystal-clear image of a field has hacked my brain.
A deep, familiar laugh rings out beside me over the hum of cicadas. I’m not alone. It’s Teller, walking next to me. We’re talking, laughing, though I can’t discern what we’re saying. It’s comfortable, familiar, this gentle back-and-forth, the little knowing looks that fill the space. The way we don’t need to say anything at all to understand. The way we know each other better than anyone else.
As we continue through the field, Teller’s pace quickens. He’s walking so fast. I can’t keep up. I shout, “Slow down!” and he stops, turning around to face me. Only now, there’s something different about him. There’s something different in his eyes, and it’s more than general annoyance. It’s cold, distant. Disdain?
We stand, staring at each other in heavy silence. It doesn’t feel the same, me and him. Seconds ago, I could tell him everything. But now there’s only tension, an invisible barrier between us. That’s when I notice the wildflowers and daisies have transitioned to dense, thorny bushes, their sharp edges scratching and digging into my skin with every minuscule movement.
“Teller?” I scream, trying to reach for him, only to realize the ground is spreading between us, pulling us farther and farther apart.
I try to step, but the ground is uneven and shifty, like it’s about to give way. And it does.
I’m standing in total blackness. Teller is still there, only he’s not. He’s a blur of images and snapshots. He’s happy, strolling through campus, hand in hand with someone who looks like Sophie. He’s driving his Corolla, arm out the window, singing to the radio. He’s in a suit on his wedding day. He’s playing in a sunlit yard with children.
I’m just an observer, watching helplessly as he lives his life entirely without me. There’s a heaviness in my chest that feels like loss, weighing me down. I couldn’t get to him if I tried.
And then it’s black again. He’s gone and I’m alone. I can barely breathe. I think I’m going to lose him.
“Lo?” someone shouts. Something warm nudges me in the shoulder, snapping me back. It’s Caleb, waving his hand in front of my face.
Teller and Riley are watching me, perplexed. A surge of relief washes over me. Teller isn’t gone. He’s very much here ... at least, right now.
“You good?” Teller asks.
“I—uh, yeah. Sorry. I just zoned out,” I say, brushing it off. He doesn’t seem convinced, eyes lingering over me for an extended beat as I replay it all in my mind. Was that another vision? It certainly felt like it did the first time, only this one was much more vivid. My aunts used to tell me about their visions all the time. They were random, symbolic, mostly to do with other people—and they were always right.
The rest of the double date goes as well as it can. There’s a short debate over whether cereal should be considered soup, and then the waiter comes with the bill. I think Riley can tell I’m a little off, because she asks to see pictures of Brandon and Brian. She seems genuinely interested, and frankly, I’m grateful for the distraction.
Everyone else decides to have a nightcap at another restaurant nearby, but I opt to hightail it back to the hostel. I need to call Aunt Mei. She picks up immediately.
I describe everything in detail, from the field to the images of Teller at the end. She asks clarifying questions, like whether I was in my body or watching as a third party, because apparently these things matter.
“Do you think it was actually a vision?” I ask, holding my breath. After so many years wishing for this ability, I now find myself wishing the opposite. Could it have just been a silly figment of my imagination?
“You said it was clear, vivid, right? That it randomly struck you and pulled you out of the moment?”
“Yeah.”
“Then it sounds like a vision, based on what you’ve described,” she responds.
I take a shaky breath. “What does it mean?”
“It could mean a few different things, but the most obvious interpretation would be that there might be distance between you and Teller in the future.”
“Distance,” I repeat. “I felt like a total bystander in his life. Like I wasn’t part of it at all. Like we didn’t even know each other.”
“That would make sense. You haven’t seen him much since he moved away, right?” Mei confirms.
“Technically, no. We’ve texted ... here and there.” Well, I’ve texted. I’ve always wondered whether Teller and I would still be friends had it not been for me constantly reaching out. In those rare times he actually did text me back, it’s usually because I texted first. I’m convinced we wouldn’t have talked all year if I hadn’t initiated. Same with when we first met. If I hadn’t forced him to talk to me, would we have just been casual coworkers? Would we have just gone our separate ways at school? Will things go back to the way they were when he returns to college and gets back together with Sophie? Likely.
I’d intended for this trip to bring us back to the way things used to be. But maybe it’s really marking the end of an era. Though maybe that era is already long gone.
“Does this mean I’m losing him?” I finally ask.
There’s a long pause. “Friends come in and out of our lives for a reason.”
I can’t help but laugh, because if I don’t, I might cry. “That sounds like one of those motivational quotes. About footprints in sand and shit.”
“I’m sorry. I know it’s not what you want to hear,” she says quietly.
“But it can change, right? I can change it?” I ask hopefully.
“It’s possible. Things aren’t set in stone. But it’s also important to let things take their natural course.”
“But it’s not natural. Me and Teller not being friends,” I argue.
“It’s one of those crappy parts of life. Not everyone we love is meant to stay. You and I both know that.”