19
H ow have I messed things up in such a huge way? One moment, Caleb and I are making out, confessing how much we like each other, and the next, he’s fleeing the city. This is not the space I had in mind.
I spend the next hour sobbing in bed while Teller holds me.
“What happened?” he asks when I pause to blow my nose.
I wave my wad of wrinkly Kleenex and tell him everything.
“I never should have said anything so early. Why did I expect a nineteen-year-old dude to take that news well?” I bury my face in my pillow to hide the onslaught of tears.
He’s silent for a few moments, then wraps his arms around me. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You were right to tell him. He deserved to know. And why wouldn’t you put yourself out there? He gave every signal that he was interested in you. How were you to know he’s scared of commitment and doesn’t believe in monogamy?”
I sigh, blowing my nose yet again. I may or may not have snotted on Teller’s shoulder. “I should have known, though. That’s who he is. He lives his life like that, not committing to anything or anyone.”
“There. What you just said. That’s proof that it isn’t personal. It’s not about you. He just isn’t in a place to commit right now. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t your soulmate. Maybe you’re destined to meet again?”
I want to believe that. I know that’s what my aunts think. But it’s hard to conceive of him coming around after that .
“Tel, the man literally fled the city because of me. There’s no way I have another chance with him. And I can’t even contact him because he doesn’t have a cell phone.”
“He has social media. He showed me a picture of something on his Instagram. You can contact him. He just won’t get it right away,” Teller assures me. “But for now, screw him. He’s an asshole for leaving you like this.”
My world may be crumbling, but I can’t help but laugh. Teller rarely swears, let alone passionately like that. “Yeah. Screw him.”
He watches me expectantly, like he’s waiting for me to break down and cry again. His instincts are correct. Everything in me wants to curl up in a ball and remain motionless for the foreseeable future, but then I remember where I am—in Italy with my best friend. I can’t let Caleb ruin this.
I sniff back my incoming tears and steel my spine. “Promise me we won’t talk about Caleb for the rest of the night?”
“Caleb who?” he asks without a beat, glancing down to check the time on his phone. “Shit. It’s almost seven. We’re late for the cruise.”
We officially miss the riverboat cruise.
When we finally arrive at the docks, red-faced, clothes plastered to our bodies with sweat, we’re notified by an employee that it already left.
It’s the least disappointing thing to happen to me all day, but I feel terrible for Teller. I assume I’ve ruined his last night with Riley, but he just looks at me and says, “You hungry?”
“Starving,” I say. After all that running, I could use some food. “What do you want?”
“I was thinking pizza. We haven’t had good Italian pizza yet, and I feel cheated.”
“All right. Commence mission Find Good Pizza in Italy.”
It only takes Teller a couple minutes to organize a list of the top-rated pizza spots in Florence. He explains his methodology of cross-referencing multiple “best of” lists, and we decide to head to the first one on his list. “This place is famous for their mushroom pizza. And it’s only a ten-minute walk.”
As soon as we arrive, it’s evident we’ve made a grave error. This restaurant is fancy. Like, the customers are dressed in suits and the hostess looks like a supermodel-from-Milan type of fancy. When we approach, me in a denim dress and Teller in khaki shorts and a T-shirt, she looks like she’s sucked a lemon.
“Do you have a reservation?” she asks, like our mere presence is an inconvenience.
“No, but we were hoping you had room for two?” I ask, tossing in a weak smile.
She shakes her head. “Our tables book months in advance.”
“Jeez. She really filled me with the warm and fuzzies. How about you?” Teller asks as we walk away.
I smirk. “Fancy restaurant, rude staff. It’s a rule.”
The next hour and a half is a whirlwind. We run from one restaurant to another, literally. The second restaurant is completely booked, the third is closed; then we finally get seated at the fourth, only to realize that it’s extremely out of budget.
I’m not sure why we’ve decided it’s some sort of race. We’re not on any time crunch or schedule. Perhaps that’s why it’s so fun. It’s like we’re on a pizza treasure hunt. It’s also the perfect distraction from Caleb.
“Guess it was a bad idea to try going out for dinner on a Saturday without reservations,” Teller says after another failure at the fifth restaurant. The sun has now drifted low in the sky. We’re leaning against a brick building, ready to give up, when I spot a deli across the street with a sun-faded photo of a meatball sub in the window.
It’s certainly not fine dining. The inside has cracked tile and scuffed walls, though the cheese, cured meats, and breads behind the display look fresh. The shelves are lined with local olive oil, balsamic vinegar, some dried pastas, and Tuscan condiments. Teller points to the chalkboard above the counter listing the day’s specials, including flatbread pizza, which he promptly orders.
We sit on the curb and devour our flatbread. The crust is light, fluffy, melt-in-your-mouth, with generous dollops of pesto and fresh mozzarella (for Teller). They even have a lactose-free cheese option for me.
“This is actually the best pizza I’ve ever had in my entire life,” I say, sinking my teeth into a juicy sun-kissed tomato.
“Same. This sauce is incredible. And the crust is the perfect balance of crispy and soft.”
“And it wasn’t even on your list,” I tease through a bite.
“I’m not sure why. The ambience is pretty top notch,” he says, watching a restaurant worker haul a huge garbage bag into a dumpster.
“I’m still sorry I had a life crisis and made you miss the cruise. It probably would have been really romantic. You could have done the Titanic pose with Riley.”
He draws his brows tight. “You wouldn’t catch me near the railing like that.”
“I should have known.”
He’s quiet for a minute as he watches the traffic go by. “Also, I’m not actually sure there’s anything between Riley and me.”
“Are you just saying that because she stole food off your plate like Nicola Rumford?” Nicola Rumford was the first girl Teller ever told me about, pre-Sophie. He was interested in her ... until she made a habit of vulture-ing his food before he was done with it.
“No, though that was a serious concern.”
“Okay, so if it’s not her eating off your plate, why don’t you think there’s potential? You guys seemed pretty cozy on our double date the other day. She kept touching your shoulder.”
He shrugs, thumbing his ear. “I dunno. She and Jenny are going their separate ways tomorrow, and it feels like the right time to end things. I’m not ready for any sort of commitment, anyways.”
“You still miss Sophie, huh?”
A heavy pause. “I’ve been thinking about it lately, and I don’t know if I miss her or being in a relationship more.” This throws me for a loop. “I miss having someone to have inside jokes with. To look at when someone says something dumb, weird things like that. And Sophie and I weren’t really doing that toward the end. We were just fighting all the time.”
“Really? But you guys seemed so in sync.”
“We were ... but things started to fall apart when we moved in together. Being long distance made things exciting. And then when we were around each other all day, every day, going to the same classes, extracurriculars, and parties—it was different.”
“Maybe you just had to get used to living together.”
“It was more than that. She was right, I think. We stopped enjoying each other’s company. It was like we ran out of things to talk about. And I don’t mean silence every now and then, because you know I don’t mind silence. It was all the time, days on end, where we didn’t have any meaningful conversation apart from what we were having for dinner.”
“Why did you stay with her all year, then?” I soften my expression for fear I’m coming across judgy.
“I wanted it to work. I got used to the security of having someone.”
“I get that.”
“You haven’t dated anyone seriously this year, have you? Aside from dick-pic guy?”
I tilt my head, feeling a little pathetic. “Not really. I’ve always felt weird about getting into relationships. I guess I’ve been holding out for The One, and I knew I hadn’t met him yet. It felt like wasting my time, and theirs. And it would be dishonest of me to not tell them they aren’t my soulmate, knowing it isn’t going anywhere long term.”
That’s why this potential delay with Caleb feels so pointless. Sure, I could date around like I always have. But putting a face to my soulmate makes the family gift all the more real. How can I focus on someone else with Caleb in the back of my mind? It’s like my life is in limbo until he comes around.
“I agree with you on that one. That would be a hard pill to swallow,” he says. A beat goes by where I think he’s going to say something else but instead tosses his pizza container in the trash.
After our curbside dinner, we wander along a bustling street filled with small bars and trattorias, my sandals clacking over the cobblestone until we come across a bar called Tuscan Tipples. Its blinking lights and multicolor mosaic tile caught my eye. There are vintage posters and an antique bicycle hanging from the ceiling. It’s not overly crowded, which I know Teller appreciates. The vibe is chill and relaxed, with a Mumford & Sons song playing over the sound system.
We take a seat at the bar and face each other, knees touching while an impossibly tall bartender takes our drink orders. He also hands us a food menu, which is one of those sticky plastic menus Teller hates, but he’s a good sport about it. We pass on the food and order our first round of drinks. Teller gets an Aperol spritz, and I get a glass of red, as well as two shots of limoncello for us. Before we know it, we’re on drink number six.