21
Tuscany
W hat the fu—”
That’s what I wake up to the next morning.
Teller woke up to a sore finger and a lot of regrets. “Why did you let me do this?”
“Nothing could have stopped you, Tel. You were a man on a mission,” I say, recalling him confidently telling the tattoo artist what he wanted without so much as a blink. “And now you have a nice reminder of me on your finger, forever,” I remind him.
That seems to placate him, slightly. Though he still stares at the tattoo like it’s a bug the entire train ride to Tuscany.
“According to my GPS, the hostel looks like it’s pretty close to the train station,” I say as we haul our rucksacks from the luggage area of the train.
“Well, actually, I booked us another place,” Teller says, passing me my rucksack.
I roll my eyes. “Why? I thought this one was up to your standards. Did you go down the rabbit hole reading one-star reviews again?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. I just found a better place.”
He’s weirdly chill about this “better place” the entire long taxi ride there. Unlike the original booking, which was close to town, this one is deep in the rolling hills of the Chianti countryside.
It isn’t until we pull up to the gates that I understand where we are. I recognize the name on the wrought iron sign immediately.
Villa Campagna.
Where Mom and Mei stayed. And it’s just as stunning as Mei described, surrounded by a landscape of lush green rolling hills dotted with rows of grapevines as far as the eye can see. The building is covered with leafy greenery stretching all the way to the terra-cotta-tiled roof.
“Holy shit, Tel,” I manage over my gasp. “How did you know?”
He shrugs. “You mentioned it. The night I came back to town.” I recall talking about it briefly in passing. I can’t believe he actually remembered.
“We aren’t staying here, are we?”
He nods. “We are.”
“But how? This place is like, hundreds of dollars a night. We can’t afford it—”
“Consider it all your birthday and Christmas presents for the next ten years combined. And before you say anything, the booking is nonrefundable. After you lost the photo, I figured you might want to feel closer to your mom,” he adds, eyes softening.
I can barely pick my jaw up off the ground. “I—I literally don’t know what to say.” It’s by far the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.
I’m still wrecked over Caleb, but being here, exactly where Mom stood so many years ago, is sure to dull the pain.
We traverse the grounds, passing workers tending to the vines, harvesting grapes. The owner’s name is Roc. He’s young, in his thirties if I had to guess. Based on his band tee and corduroys, he strikes me as more of an IPA-and-kombucha guy than a wine connoisseur, but Roc definitely knows what’s up. He takes us on a tour of the underground wine cellar before we even check into our rooms, explaining the diverse varieties of grapes they grow in great detail.
The inn is warm, decorated with art and dark-wood antique furnishings that remind me of pieces at the estate sales Aunt Mei used to drag me to as a kid. I can see why she and Mom loved this place so much.
Eager to rest before dinner, Teller unlocks our door, stopping so abruptly, I nearly crash into his rucksack. “Um ... I think they messed up the reservation.”
“What?” I peek over his shoulder.
The room is cute and minimalist, with cool tile floor and a quilted bedspread. Behind heavy wooden shutters is a sun-drenched balcony boasting a sprawling view of an olive grove. A queen-size bed adorned with at least seven throw pillows takes up most of the middle of the room. And that’s when it hits me. There’s only one bed.
My skin tingles at the thought of sharing a bed again. But unlike that single bunk bed in Venice, the prospect of sharing this bed feels ... different somehow.
“Uh, I’ll go check at the front desk,” I say, backing away slowly.
Roc confirms this was not a mix-up. “My sincere apologies. I assumed you were a couple. We don’t actually have any more rooms with two beds available. But there might be a pullout couch in the basement. Let me check if we still have it—”
Teller gives me an uneasy look that screams so much for splurging .
I shake my head, making the best of the situation. “It’s fine, really.”
“Is it?” Teller asks.
“Why not? It’s a big bed. No big deal. Honestly, I’d sleep in a sleeping bag on the lawn if it means we get to stay here.” It really isn’t an issue, especially when we’ve already shared a twin.
Teller runs a hand over the back of his neck, surveying the room. “Right. It’s totally fine.”
It really is. Fine. At least, I think so.
“Welcome to Tuscany, everyone, also known as the heart of Italy,” Noreen, our adorable five-foot-nothing tour guide says once everyone has deboarded the bus. “Tuscany is mostly famous for its—”
She widens her eyes like a cartoon character and places her hand around her ear for emphasis, waiting for someone to fill in the blank. Gotta give props for the gusto.
Everyone is giving their best soulless, blank expressions, so I shout, “Wine!” which she seems to appreciate.
“Yes! Very good. The vineyards, the wine, the world-class olive oil. But Tuscany is also known for its delectable artisanal cheese, including Pecorino, made from sheep’s milk. That’s why we’ll be spending the morning at one of my favorite places, Cascina Formaggio Toscana.”
I can see why it’s one of her favorite places. The villa is a stone farmhouse surrounded completely by olive groves. Noreen introduces us to an older gentleman in brown overalls named Louis, the owner of the farm. She translates his Italian into English as he leads us around the lush estate and through the pastures of sheep roaming and munching on grass. In between, they converse in Italian, and I’d wager Noreen has a massive crush on Louis based on how many times she touches his elbow.
“These are the true stars,” Louis explains, pointing to the pasture. “Sardinian sheep. They provide us with the milk that’s the heart of our cheesemaking process. If you’re feeling frisky, you can see if they’ll let you scratch behind their ears—they’re quite the charmers.”
Louis tells us about their generations-old techniques for cheesemaking, including milking the sheep and the intricacies of curd formation. We even get to watch the workers demonstrate how each cheese wheel is carefully curated and topped with Louis’s secret blend of herbs and spices.
Clutching handfuls of cheese samples, we meander through the fields, where Louis discusses sustainable farming. We’re trailed by a big black farm dog named Jeanie who begs for cheese slices—her favorite snack. I give her nearly all my samples so I don’t get a stomachache, and so does Teller.
Then we head to an enclosure containing a herd of alpacas. There are about seven of varying sizes and colors, and all named after Shakespearean characters. To my delight, we’re allowed to walk them on the pathways. I steer a brown one with massive teeth named Malvolio, and Teller walks a smaller white one with a mushroom cut named Horatio.
“I’m not sure we could have picked a better activity for you. You haven’t stopped smiling since we got here,” Teller says, giving Horatio a nice pat on the back.
“Playing with dogs, sheep, and alpacas? You’ll have to drag me out kicking and screaming. Sorry, there are no ponies.”
“Ah, that’s okay. I have my pony calendar now.” His lips tug in the slightest grin.
“Who needs Playboy when you have ponies?” I tease, attempting to tug Malvolio away from a patch of weeds. He won’t budge, so we stop and let him graze.
Teller gives me a gentle elbow. “Have you ever thought about starting a hobby farm or something?”
I tell him about my conversation with Caleb, about getting a big piece of land for rescue animals. “It’s just ... it doesn’t seem realistic, does it?”
Teller thinks as we resume walking. “Maybe not right now. But you could get a job at a local rescue, or the humane society.”
“Maybe. I’d probably love it. Though I’d be tempted to adopt every dog.”
“I could definitely see you ending up with like, twelve dogs.”
I run my fingers through Malvolio’s thick, woolly fur. “Forever alone with ten dogs and ten cats. That’s my future.”
Teller shrugs. “That sounds like your ultimate fantasy.”
I laugh because otherwise I’ll cry. “Maybe my true soulmate is a dog.”
He swings me a look. “Well, if you’re still alone and miserable at fifty, I’ll marry you.”
Blood rushes to my ears, singeing the tips. Did he really just say that? “Even if I have all those dogs and cats? You would not. You would die of allergies.”
“Not if you get poodles and those naked cats. I’d name one of them Vlad,” he says with a grin. He’s far too relaxed for someone who’s just declared they’d marry me.
“I feel like you’d be great with a sphynx. They’re high maintenance like you. Did you know they need suntan lotion so they don’t get burned?”
“I did not know that, and somehow that makes me like them even more. Even if I’d still be allergic to their saliva.”
“Okay, deal. If we’re both single at fifty, we’ll move to the country and adopt poodles and sphynxes.” I think about that for a moment, just Teller and me. It’s strange and a little illicit, thinking about a future with anyone but Caleb. Still, it’s reassuring, knowing that Teller has no intention of not being my friend. Most of the time, marriage pacts seem depressing, but given the alternative of being forever alone and ridden with bad luck, it’s the best life plan I’ve had yet, even better than side-by-side houses.
“Deal.”
“My aunts seem to think things will work out with him. Caleb, I mean. They keep saying if he’s meant for me, we’ll find our way back to each other.” I explain that soulmates don’t always come together easily, which he quietly absorbs. “It’s worked out for everyone else in my family, except Cousin Lin and Great-Aunt Shu.” If it doesn’t, I don’t even want to think about what that says about me.
“You won’t end up like them, Lo,” he assures me.
After our alpaca walk, we snake through rows of vibrant grapevines stretched out in perfectly straight lines. The sun is starting to set, and the leaves catch the sunlight, casting a mosaic of shadows.
“Thank you,” I say over the buzz of a bee hanging out on a cluster of grapes.
“For what?”
“For being here, for supporting me.”
“How are you doing?” he asks, studying my face closely.
I sigh. “I miss him, I’m not gonna lie. But you’ve really helped take my mind off things. Thanks for booking this place, by the way. It’s really special. I feel more connected to my mom here, in Tuscany, than I ever have,” I admit, taking in the rolling hills.
“It’s the most worthwhile expense so far,” Teller says, looking me in the eye. In the light, his eyes look the color of honey, speckled with flecks of forest green. “Seeing you sad is the worst thing in the world. If I can make you laugh by eating random pizza on a curb and making an ass of myself at the pub, I will.” It hadn’t occurred to me that he went out of his comfort zone just for me. “And if anything, I should be thanking you.”
“For what?”
“Everything. Bringing me that cheer-up kit. Making me come on this trip. Adding some excitement to my life. I even got a tattoo because of you! But mostly, being my friend.” My heart soars. It means everything to hear him say that, especially after this year, not knowing where I stood in the lineup of his life.
“Always.”
After the tour is over, we head back to the villa. Our afternoon is spent under the shade of a pergola, getting to know the other guests. We’re seated at a long rustic, wooden table with wine barrels repurposed as seats, where Roc provides never-ending samples of various reds, whites, and even rosé. We hit it off with a pair of bleached-blond middle-aged friends, Loraine and Nettie, who are taking full advantage of the samples, their giggling clear evidence.
“How long have you two been friends?” I ask.
“We were roommates freshman year of college,” Loraine explains. “Me, Nettie, and Marta.”
“Don’t forget Becs,” Nettie adds.
“Oh yeah. But she was barely there. I think we saw her three times total. She mostly stayed with her boyfriend.”
“Anyway, when my parents first dropped me off, Loraine had gone for lunch or something, so I snooped through her things. She had a bunch of crocheted face cloths and this huge photo of Jesus in a gilded frame on her bed, so naturally I assumed she was some basket-weaving ultrareligious type.”
Loraine slaps the table and snorts. “My mom gave it to me. And to be fair, I hadn’t been to a party or even had a boyfriend at that point. Net corrupted me.”
Nettie rolls her eyes. “The first night, we went to the campus bar, and she made out with two different guys. That basically describes her next four years.”
“Honestly, they’re such a blur,” Loraine admits.
I can’t help but smile, already jealous of their long-time friendship, exactly what I so desperately want for Teller and me. “It’s nice you guys have stayed so close. Do you live in the same city?”
“No, actually. Loraine moved to SoCal, and I’m in upstate New York. But we make a point to see each other once a year.”
I make a mental note to pitch that to Teller. We may have promised to see each other twice next year, but what about all the years after that?
We eat dinner with Nettie and Loraine, which is homemade truffle gnocchi paired with various wines. Even Teller is enjoying himself thoroughly. I didn’t know he was such a fan of wine. By the end of the night, Tipsy Teller has reappeared. He’s animated and wildly competitive, playing Trivial Pursuit against Loraine and Nettie. So far, they’re crushing us, mostly because they’re more familiar with the slightly more dated pop culture. And Teller is pretty useless in that category, aside from music.
“Okay, last question for the win. This one is music,” Nettie says, covering the back of the card to prevent Teller from peeking (Sober Teller would never). “Which British band released an album titled A Rush of Blood to the Head in 2002?”
Teller slams the tabletop as though there’s an invisible buzzer. “Coldplay!”
Hysterical, we jump up and down, clapping our hands together like maniacs. When Nettie confirms it’s the correct answer, he closes his hands over mine and squeezes, holding them for a beat.
“It’s his favorite band,” I explain to a confused Loraine and Nettie, who smile and congratulate us, but not before challenging us to a rematch tomorrow.
“Thank god you have terrible taste in music,” I say, utterly winded as Loraine and Nettie head off.
He tips his head back in a laugh. “Guess what we’re listening to when we get back to the room?”
“Only one song. Choose wisely,” I say, unable to hide my grin at his enthusiasm.
He places both index fingers over his temples, thinking long and hard. “‘Viva La Vida.’” He nearly knocks over my glass with his elbow in excitement.
“You’re very drunk.”
“So are you.”
I think he’s right.