16
I t never occurred to me that maybe Teller and I weren’t meant to be best friends forever. The possibility of an expiration date on our friendship makes me want to crawl into a corner and cry. He was the first person to really listen to me, understand me, make me feel worthy. I can’t live in a reality where he’s not in my life.
That’s why, for our second-to-last day in Florence, I attach myself to his hip. It’s the better alternative to moping around and going over every possible scenario that could lead to our demise. Besides, as Aunt Mei said, premonitions and visions aren’t necessarily locked in stone. I can change the course of our friendship. And I will.
Based on Teller’s probing looks, he can tell something is off with me. But I don’t tell him about my vision, and I don’t plan to. Because Teller is Teller. He’s the type of person who tenses up for the entirety of a scary movie because he knows the jumps are coming. If I tell him there’s a possibility our friendship might end, he won’t be able to think about anything else.
Instead, I choose to live in the now, soaking up every moment with him. We spend all afternoon weaving through a sea of colorful vendors selling fresh produce, intricate jewelry, ceramics, and textiles. I’m pressured by a particularly aggressive vendor into trying an array of soft-cheese samples that taste like feet. Teller finds a nice belt and attempts to haggle. The vendor is uncharacteristically stubborn about the price, and Teller caves and purchases it. The sucker.
Riley and Caleb join to wander around the Basilica of Santa Croce. On the way, the four of us stop to listen to a musician playing “What a Wonderful World” on the piano. I watch, admiring how his fingers dance over the weathered keys like it’s second nature.
“Dance with me,” Caleb says, eyes twinkling.
His hand gently tugs mine, and the crowd seems to part as he spins me effortlessly. I feel like Olivia Newton-John in Grease , gracefully twirling, dress catching the breeze, billowing up with a perfectly timed gust of wind blowing through the market. In all reality, I probably look like an injured ostrich, but nothing could spoil this moment. Not even Teller watching me from the sidelines with an expression I can’t quite figure out. Then again, everything is a blur of colors. I can’t stop laughing as Caleb twirls me faster and faster until—
A jolt, followed by a clatter, stops us. When I look down, I see that the clasp of my purse has come undone after snagging on Caleb’s belt.
“Crap,” I mutter. When I go to yank my strap free, the bag tips and its entire contents spill out. Caleb and I watch, frozen, as my belongings scatter across the pavement, rolling every which way.
Before I can bend down to collect everything, Teller is already on his hands and knees. I’ve got to hand it to him—he’s fast, snatching my lip gloss and mints before a tourist in a floppy hat stomps on them with her chunky sandals.
“Thanks, Tel,” I say, grateful as he passes me the little bottle of hand sanitizer he gave me at the airport.
After the shock wears off, Caleb and Riley jump in to help, searching around for anything we may have missed. I hadn’t realized how much junk I’d accumulated in here. Cards, money, random receipts, a bottle of Tylenol, and random items like bobby pins and a nail file.
After everything is picked up, we head to the Basilica and walk around before meeting up with the rest of the group. On the way out, I spot a young couple relaxing on a picnic blanket. She’s nestled between his outstretched legs, back resting against his chest like she belongs there. He plants a tiny kiss on her temple. For him, she’s the view. It’s exactly the kind of love I’ve wanted all my life. The kind I hope to find. The kind Mom and Dad had. My fingers tingle with the urge to look at the photo of them in my bag, to remind myself. Only, when I check my purse pocket, it’s not there.
“It’s not here,” I mutter, my ears ringing as I frantically comb through my bag, praying it accidently got stuck between ID cards or lodged in a crevice. But the more I search, the more reality sets in. There’s no sign of the picture.
Did it fall out when my bag spilled in the square? The Basilica? Or worse, did it fall out somewhere in between and I didn’t notice?
It feels like the wind has been knocked out of me, like there’s a weight sitting on my chest, constricting every breath.
I can’t lose it. I can’t lose her. I have to go back.
“Guys, wait. I—I have to go back to the square!” I shout, panicked when everyone starts walking ahead.
“Why?” Caleb asks, eyes widening as he takes in my demeanor.
“My picture. It’s gone” is all that comes out. I don’t know how to explain without everyone thinking I’m ridiculous. I’m starting to hyperventilate. The tears sting my cheeks as I frantically root through my purse, praying it’ll appear.
I’ve lost a lot of things over the years: money, family jewelry from my aunts, even my passport. But this photo is the one item I’ve managed to keep close. The fact that I’ve willy-nilly dropped it, on a random street in a foreign country, fills me with an overwhelming sadness and self-loathing I can’t quite describe. It feels like a gaping hole in my heart. Like I’ve lost her.
“What picture?” Riley asks.
Teller sees I have no bandwidth to explain. “It’s a picture of her mom. Where did you last see the photo?” he asks.
“I don’t remember ... maybe when we checked into the hostel? I think I had it when I got my key card. But my bag spilled before we got to the Basilica and—I don’t know—”
“Could you print a new one?” Caleb asks. It’s a perfectly legitimate question. I could. It’s a copy of the original picture, after all. But this photo has been with me since I was twelve. I’ve treasured it, taken it everywhere, and I especially want Mom with me in Italy.
Before I’m forced to explain that no, I can’t simply replace it, Teller places his hand on my shoulder. “Lo, I’ll go back with you. We’re going to find it.”
I don’t know why, but when our eyes meet, I believe him. Against all odds, I actually think we’ll find it.
“We can wait,” Caleb offers.
“No, we’ll catch up with you guys back at the hostel. Don’t worry about me,” I call over my shoulder.
Teller and I take off running back to the square, though it’s more like a slow jog for Teller, given his stride is at least twice mine. Pure adrenaline and desperation keep me going through the sweaty blur of traffic and tourists.
All I can think about is that photo.
It takes a good twenty minutes to get back to where my bag spilled. In typical Teller fashion, he starts a methodical search. Meanwhile, I’m a total mess, scanning the ground aimlessly among thousands of feet. Twenty minutes of knee-scraping crawling on the hot, jagged cobblestone turns up nothing but a bunch of torn receipts and trash. The moment I’m vertical again, my vision starts to tunnel.
Before I even realize I’m dizzy, Teller’s arm is around my waist. He leads me to the edge of a trickling fountain and sits me down, digging out his water bottle from his backpack. “Here. You need to drink some water.”
“It’s okay, I don’t want to get my germs all over it.”
He gives me a look that says come on and extends it toward me. “You need it more than I do.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking it from his hands. The bottom of the water bottle is cold and refreshing against my hot thighs. I chug the whole thing in record time, only stopping when reality hits me again. “It’s gone, isn’t it?”
“We’re going to find it, Lo,” he says with conviction.
“How can you be so sure? We’ve looked everywhere. It’s probably miles from here, stuck in a gutter or on the bottom of someone’s shoe,” I say, lip trembling.
Normal Teller would nod and say, “Probably.” Normal, logical Teller would pronounce the statistical chances of finding it again basically zilch. But instead, he looks me dead in the eye and says, “We’ll search all of Florence if we need to, okay?”
Usually, I’m the annoyingly optimistic one. But if he, of all people, thinks we’ll find it, I can’t help but feel hopeful.
We widen the search, retracing our steps from the site of the accident to the Basilica. We continue in circles, long past sunset, until both our eyes are strained and our feet are blistered, and all hope is lost.
“It’s gone,” I say with a sinking in my chest. It’s gone forever and it’s all my fault.
I expect him to ramble about how I shouldn’t blame myself. That it’s just a photo, that my dad has a digital copy, that I can print a new one. But he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls me into his side and says, “I’m so, so sorry.”
It feels good, hearing that simple acknowledgment of my pain without all the attempts to look on the bright side. I’m grateful that he allows me to sit in my sadness, more than he’ll ever know.
I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes, embracing the stillness for what feels like forever, until he finally says, “You know, losing the picture doesn’t mean you’re any less connected to your mom.”
“It doesn’t feel that way,” I say. I’ll never be able to look at the photo again without the guilt of knowing I lost the original. I’ll never be able to run my fingers along its worn edges, remembering all the times it’s brought me comfort.
“Maybe you don’t have the picture, but you forgot the most important part.”
“What’s that?”
“The picture isn’t the legacy. Finding your soulmate is.”
I internalize those words for a few moments. He’s right. Sure, the picture is a huge loss. But what connects me to Mom goes beyond that. It’s exactly what Teller says. I’ll carry on her legacy by falling in love. That’s the real gift she passed to me, and I’m well on my way.
That kernel of optimism gives me enough strength to stand. “Thank you for searching so long, even though you knew we probably wouldn’t find it.”
He shrugs, pulling himself up. “It was one of the rare times you weren’t sure, so I figured one of us had to be.” I’m struck by Teller’s wisdom and kindness. He went against his natural inclinations—for me.
“You’re a good friend, Tel.”
He smiles, and damn. That smile. It nearly knocks me sideways. “Is now a bad time to say I was right about the money belt?”
I laugh, trying to hold on to this moment, cement it in my mind. There’s no way I’m letting him go.