29
C an you believe Mei accused me of having feelings for Teller?” I rake my brush through my hair a little too hard. Bianca and I have been FaceTiming for the past half hour while she waits in the doctor’s office to get her new foot cast.
“Um ...” Bianca pauses, face freezing.
“You still there?” I can’t tell if it’s the Wi-Fi.
Apparently not. “Yeah. Sorry. I just ... the entire time I’ve known you, you haven’t shut up about Teller. Like, you will use any opportunity you can to bring him up.”
I scrunch my face into the camera, lowering the volume in case Teller overhears through the door. It’s a small place. “Not true.”
She rolls her eyes so hard, I’m afraid they’ll disappear into her skull. “Basically, any time we pass a bathroom, you bring up unclogging the toilets at The Cinema. Any time a depressing song comes on, you talk about how Teller would like it. And don’t even get me started on movies—”
“I don’t have feelings for Teller, okay?” I say.
It is ridiculous, after all. Teller and I are just friends.
Just.
Friends.
“I mean, sure, there was chemistry when we hooked up. And sure, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. But the other night was the result of almost a month of forced proximity. Being on vacation. And they always say it’s easy to get emotionally attached after sex, especially to someone I’m scared of losing.”
Bianca opens her mouth to say something, but I can’t stop rambling. “Also, lest we forget, I haven’t hooked up with someone since Mark B., forever ago. Maybe that’s all it was, me craving to be touched, desired in that way. I desperately wanted that with Caleb, and when he left, I needed to channel that energy elsewhere. Teller just happened to be available.”
Bianca slow-nods. “Right. Absolutely no feelings to be had over here.” I can tell she still doesn’t believe me. Not that it really matters. I don’t have to prove anything.
“Anyway, we need to get to the real matter at hand.”
“And what’s that?”
“Things are still weird since we hooked up.”
She shrugs. “Maybe you’ve been going about this the wrong way. I mean, you’ve been avoiding each other.”
“He’s been avoiding me,” I correct.
“You’re currently hiding in your aunt’s room,” she points out. “Too much distance has probably made things way worse. There are too many opportunities to fill in the blanks, make assumptions.”
“B? You’re a freakin’ genius,” I say, blowing her a kiss before signing off.
She’s absolutely right. If I know Teller like I think I do, space only makes him spiral into a negative vortex. Maybe what we really need is a reminder of how things used to be. A reminder that we can be us again.
“You sure you don’t want to stay in with your dad and Mei tonight? You were on the go all afternoon,” Teller says, walking a step behind as I lead the charge into town.
“Tel, we’re in Positano. We’re not staying in and playing dominos like old people,” I say, charging toward our destination.
Teller peers into the brightly lit courtyard. It’s lined with white canvases on wooden easels. “Painting?” He throws a skeptical look in my direction, but I pull him along.
Keeping on trend with our vow back in Florence to do touristy things, I found us a last-minute painting class on Airbnb Experiences. Random? Absolutely. Neither of us are particularly artistic, but I figured a night of creative expression, surrounded by other tourists, ought to loosen us up.
Our teacher, Robert (pronounced Ro-bear ), is very serious in a jaunty beret and paint-splattered apron. He tells us to channel our “inner Picasso” by painting each other.
“Let the colors speak to you!” Robert says, dramatically waving an imaginary paintbrush.
Truth be told, if I’d known we were painting each other, I probably wouldn’t have booked this particular class. Sitting across from Teller and examining each other’s faces is making me itch and sweat.
I do not have feelings for Teller.
Still, I’m making good headway on my portrait. I’ve settled on my favorite Teller expression. It’s his half smile. The one he does when he’s genuinely content. Like when we fell into a rhythm stacking cups at The Cinema. Or when Coldplay came on the radio. The expression is always fleeting, lasting no longer than a few moments. Because Teller is Teller. He’s always thinking ahead, calculating cost benefits, logic-ing his way through life.
Our eyes meet at the same time. He seems to be studying me, but looks away like I’ve spooked him. “How’s the painting going?”
He swallows. “Um . . .”
Before he can finish, I stand up and peer over at his canvas. It’s entirely blank. “You haven’t even started? Am I that ugly that you can’t even paint me?” I tease.
“The opposite, actually.” He hesitates, clean brush at his side. “I’m trying to plan it all in my head first.” He approaches painting like he approaches life, with caution. I shouldn’t be surprised.
“Let the colors speak to you,” I say in my best Robert voice. Robert shoots me a look, and I wish I could melt into the floor.
Teller smirks.
“It doesn’t have to be good, Tel. No expectations. Look at mine. I think I really captured your essence here.” I turn my canvas toward him and he smiles.
“Wow, I look like ... Shrek, but with irresistibly sexy hair.”
I snort. “You do have some nice flow.” Credit is due where credit is due.
He tilts his head to look at me from another angle, and I reach over and dab a thick glob of blue onto his canvas. He quickly dabs my hand. I fire back with red to the forearm. Eventually, our entire arms are covered. Even my nose.
A well-dressed woman sitting behind us lets out a loud sigh and glowers, shaking her head like we’re children goofing off in church. Robert notices and makes his way toward us. I work down a swallow, certain he’s going to kick us out. “Art has no boundaries!” he declares, which sends Teller into a fit of giggles.
Finally, Teller puts brush to canvas. Turns out, he’s not half-bad. Instead of attempting a realistic painting, he does a rough sketch in black paint using a skinnier brush. It’s messy, like ...
“Like sunshine,” he says, eyeing it with pride.
By the time the class is over, the paint has hardened on our arms, so we head to the beach to wash it off.
“Thanks for dragging me out tonight,” he says while letting the cold waves crash over his arms.
“The night isn’t over. I’m hungry,” I say as we shiver our way off the beach, soaked shoes in hands. I never thought I’d see Teller walk barefoot in public. I store a mental image to remember this moment. How far we’ve come from the day we met.
“Same. But I’m not really in the mood for Italian. Is that an asshole thing to say?”
I let out a sigh of relief. I’d been wondering the same. Am I a massive brat for being in the country with the best food, only to secretly crave McDonald’s? Most certainly. “I’ve been thinking that for the past week, actually. I might throw up if we eat pasta again.”
Thus begins are search for non-Italian food. Unfortunately, Positano is not exactly a global-food mecca. The one sushi bar we found on Google closed an hour ago. And we realize that we can’t walk into a restaurant covered in bits of paint and shoeless.
So we make our way back to the Airbnb.
I open the fridge and my findings are bleak. There’s a dusty container of tomatoes, a forgotten jar of capers in the far corner, and some fresh mozzarella and cured meat from the market that Mei picked up. “I think we can probably make something out of what’s here, though it will be ... Italian adjacent.”
Teller doesn’t look bothered as he washes the remaining flecks of paint off his hands. “I’ll eat anything at this point.”
We start slicing the meat and crushing the tomatoes, only to realize that without a paste, it’s just a watery, chunky mess. Still, it’s too late to abort. We’ve already invested too much. So we toss the tomatoes in the pan, adding the cheese, slices of cured meat, and capers.
Teller tilts his head, stepping back to get a better look like an art curator. “This looks disgusting.”
“It’s not all about presentation,” I say, hoisting myself atop the counter with a bowl, ready to tuck in. “This is going to be epic. I know it.”
Teller’s assumption is confirmed. It’s absolutely awful. And yet, we act like it’s the best thing in the world, muttering every variation of “ Mmmm ” and “ Wow ” after every bite. And giggling.
“The savory hints of ... these thick tomato chunks really offset the saltiness from the sliced meat,” Teller says in a thick British accent, doing his best Food Network–judge impression.
“You can really taste the depth of flavors here. Loving the subtle undertones of ... um—”
“Desperation. You can really taste it throughout.”
I lob my head back, laughing, only to bang it into the cupboard.
Teller chokes on his bite of food. “Are you okay?”
I nod through a fit of laughter. I can’t seem to stop.
To wash down the terrible excuse for a dinner, we attempt to make mug cakes in the microwave. They turn out deflated and burned, seeing as we don’t have nearly enough of the ingredients. Still, we eat them (praising the shit out of them for good measure) while splayed on the couch, searching through the wide array of old DVDs under the TV.
“No way. I can’t believe they have this,” Teller says, brandishing a sun-faded copy of Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark. The Cinema did a whole Indiana Jones marathon a few weeks after I started working there. Teller and I watched every single one, completely out of order.
We slip the disc into the dusty DVD player and smile through the cheesy dialogue and overly serious expressions.
“Not gonna lie, Harrison Ford was pretty sexy,” I say, feet resting in Teller’s lap. “The satchel is really working for me.”
He swings me a look. “Okay, it may look cool, but it’s a prime target for thieves. The strap could snag on a branch in the jungle. He’d have been better off carrying his valuables in a sensible money bag.”
I snort and give him a soft kick. “He can’t fit his notebook and ammo in a money bag. And in an emergency, he certainly isn’t going to lift his whole shirt to dig it out like a dweeb.”
There’s nothing quite like witnessing Teller laugh. The crinkle of his eyes. The way he shoots his head back in a roar. It’s joy personified.
“This is fun,” he says, and I couldn’t agree more. For the first time since Tuscany, it feels like us again. The old us.
It reminds me of being back at The Cinema. Just the two of us, best friends, driving home with grape Slurpees, rehashing bizarre customer encounters, quoting iconic movie lines. It gives me hope that if we can get through these next few days, any lingering weirdness will be but a distant memory. A strange blip in the timeline of our lifelong friendship.
“I never told you about the day I applied to The Cinema,” I say, tracing my finger over my tattoo. I’d avoided telling him that first summer, mostly so he wouldn’t think I was sappier than he already did. Until now, there wasn’t a time that seemed right.
He eyes me with curiosity. “No, you haven’t.”
I take a deep breath, picturing my fifteen-year-old self. “I was feeling really lost. I’d just moved away from the house I grew up in to a whole new neighborhood. I was disappointing my aunts and just ... overall upset that I didn’t have this connection to my mom that I wanted so badly. My dad was working all the time, and I figured since I didn’t have any friends, maybe I should get a job. So I printed off a bunch of résumés one morning and walked around the neighborhood, handing them out at random fast-food places. I’m pretty sure I actually dropped one off at your mom’s coffee shop. Anyway, I saw that The Cinema was advertising The Wedding Singer .”
“That movie with Adam Sandler?”
“Yup. That was my mom’s favorite movie. I only know because my aunts told me. She used to watch it over and over because she had a massive crush on Adam Sandler.”
Teller crinkles his eyes. “Wow. That’s a choice.”
“Right? But if you look at my dad, it makes sense. She liked them a little dorky.”
He tips his head. “Okay, good point. Before you keep going, I feel like I should tell you: I actually remember putting those letters on the board. Halfway through Wedding , it started hailing. Hard. Like, golf-ball size. I had to stop and wait for it to finish.”
That revelation hits me in the chest. “Okay, so this was the morning after. I remember some of the cars nearby were damaged from the hail. Anyway, I looked in the window to check the showtimes. But then I saw the Help Wanted sign, so I left a résumé with Cindy.”
“So you literally saw a sign.”
Literally. One that Teller had put up himself. “I know it sounds dumb, but I guess I’ve always thought it was my mom who led me to you. Like she knew I needed a friend. A good friend.”
“No. It doesn’t sound dumb at all,” he says, eyes a little glossy. I can tell he’s genuinely touched. “The only thing that gets me is that your mom would choose me, of all people? Why not someone way cooler?”
“I didn’t need cool. I needed ...” I pause, voice faltering. “I needed you. You made me realize how much I loved talking to people. That letting people in was worthwhile.”
“Honestly, same, Lo. Most people just think of me as another Owens brother. The one no one remembers the name of.”
“Like I said, you will always be the superior Owens brother to me.” Our eyes snag and hold for a beat. Teller doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. I see the gratitude in his soft gaze. I know that means a lot to him.
“Well, I need to brush my teeth. I can still taste the capers,” he says, gently shifting my legs off him.
“Yeah. It’s getting late. We should probably go to bed.” I stand and try to hide my mild disappointment with a stretch. He follows me down the hall toward my bedroom, which is right across the hall from the bathroom.
He leans in and whispers, “I can hear Mei snoring from here. No wonder you can’t sleep.” I’m standing so close, his breath tickles my ear, and my body tingles.
Shit. Maybe things won’t be going back to normal.
“Right? It’s so loud,” I say, skin getting hot. God, I wish he would touch me again.
He runs his hand over the back of his neck, contemplative. “You’re welcome to stay on the pullout if you want to.” He squeezes his eyes shut when he realizes how that sounds. “Not in that way. I mean, unless—I just meant so you can get a good sleep. That’s all.”
My stomach barrel-rolls and I study him, trying to discern what he meant by that. Did he just invite me to stay in the same bed as him? Or is he simply extending the offer as a courtesy? It’s impossible to say. His breathing isn’t all heavy and labored like the other night, but it’s also not entirely casual.
We linger in the hallway, just inches from each other. The frayed thread between us pulls tighter than before, in dire risk of breaking. If I really wanted to, I could close that distance. Why can’t I stop thinking about kissing him again? My heart hammers in my chest and I wonder if he feels it too. A million thoughts race through my mind. The way his hand felt squeezing mine. The weight of him over me as we joined together.
No.
We’re supposed to be going back to being friends. Being us. We can’t let this become a habit. If it does, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to break it. And it may be the thing that breaks us.
“It’s okay, I’ll survive,” I whisper, already regretting the decision.
He just nods, like I knew he would. Teller would never push.
“Okay, see you tomorrow.” His gaze flicks down to my lips and he reaches for my finger, pulling me toward him. But he doesn’t pull me in for a kiss. Instead, he wraps his arms around me and holds me with just the right amount of pressure. Somehow, this feels even more illicit than a kiss, with our bodies pressed together. I bury my face in his neck and inhale that clean, gentle Teller smell. In his arms, my insides bubble with a feeling I can only describe as happiness in the purest sense.
“Good night, Lo,” he says into my hair, voice low and husky.
I want nothing more than to pop onto my toes and kiss him, and I think he wants me to.
I blink up at him as our breaths meld, waiting a second for things to feel awkward again. For the alarms to go off inside me, reminding me how fragile our friendship is. A jolt to warn me what will happen if we dare cross that boundary again.
But it feels startlingly safe and steady. So safe, I feel at home. Even when we’re thousands of miles away.
But as his face moves closer to mine, I panic. What the hell are we doing? After last time, we’d been stilted, awkward, avoided eye contact. And while now things feel normal, we’ve only slapped a Band-Aid on a fresh wound. Crossing the line again will only deepen the scarring. At what point will the damage be irreversible?
“Um, well, good night!”
He steps back, seemingly amused. “Good night, Lo.”
In an effort to retreat as fast as possible, I somehow manage to stumble over my own foot.
“You almost fell,” he says with a soft chuckle, stabilizing me by the arm.
I’m falling, that’s for sure. Only it’s not for my soulmate.