Chapter Three
Rome is reminding me a little bit of Manhattan.
I think that as I lie in bed in my hotel suite the next morning. I’m not sure if the sun is up yet. The street I’m on has some tall buildings that block a lot of it until it gets high, but I can see the beginnings of light through the sheers on the tall window across from my bed.
It’s not quite as busy and not quite as loud as Manhattan, but it’s still both busy and loud.
Not this early, of course, though I can still hear muffled movement and hushed voices outside.
A glance at my watch tells me it’s just before seven.
That means the bakeries are opening. It’s been so hot that I’ve kept my windows tightly closed and the air conditioning on, but I know if I were to open one, the scents of freshly baked bread and pastries will already be wafting in the air.
Reggie is curled up next to my hip and snoring like a chain saw.
He was on his back not long ago, all four paws in the air, his body vulnerable to any outside attack.
I love that he’s so comfortable with me.
I don’t love that I’m going to be leaving him here again today, but I can’t exactly take him on a food tour with me.
I decide I’ll take him for a lengthy walk this morning, in the hopes he naps while I’m gone.
In no hurry to get up, I reach for my phone and see that Scott texted me while I was asleep. He and I both tend to forget the time difference, so he was sending me messages at two in the morning. The first one is very simple.
Update?
I sigh. I can’t help it. He’s doing his job. I am not doing mine.
His second message is easier to swallow.
Sorry about that. Got a call. Hit send before I meant to. Then a smiley emoji and a shrug. The next message reads, Hey there. How’s Rome? I am texting to see how the work is going and to ask if you have any updates. Also, I miss your face.
I lay there and chuckle, wondering how many times he went over that text to make sure he got it just right, just business-y enough, but also friendly, while making sure to ask his question. I type.
Can’t talk. Full of pasta and wine. And I find the emoji with the puffed out cheeks and send it. Then I send a second text. I miss you, too. Let me get up and moving and I’ll be back.
I feel immediately guilty for putting him off, but I don’t have much to report back, and I’m not sure I want him to know that just yet. Of course, there’s also the fact that I can’t keep it a secret forever.
I push my way out of bed and head out into the small kitchen in my suite.
There’s a coffeepot, and I set it to brewing before I hit the shower.
When I come out of the bathroom, Reggie has moved to my side of the bed, his head on my pillow like he’s a little furry human.
It’s freaking adorable, and I grab my phone and snap a couple shots. I also notice another text from Scott.
Stop stalling. I need an update.
I groan and let my head roll around on my shoulders. I can’t be mad at Scott—again, he’s doing his job—but I am mad at him. Because I’m mad at myself and I’m trying to point that anger elsewhere.
I toss the phone onto the bed and towel off my hair while I head out of the bedroom to grab my coffee. Without thinking, I open my laptop and have a seat at the desk to read what I’ve written so far.
It’s fine.
It’s not great. It doesn’t suck. It’s fine.
More groaning as I flop backward in my chair and blow out a long, slow breath. I’m not okay with “fine.” I don’t do “fine.” I’m a perfectionist, and the fact that I can’t seem to find my groove lately is seriously messing with my head.
I read it again, slam the laptop shut, and shake my head, then go back for my phone.
Doing some tweaking, but so far, so good. Not ready to show you yet, but soon. Promise. And then I overdo it on the emoji, sending a smiley, a wink, a typewriter, a pen, and a book.
I run my eyes over the message four, five, six times before I send it. Scott won’t like it, but it should appease him.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper into my empty suite, feeling a roiling in my stomach that comes with stress.
I’ve never been in this position before, and I don’t want to analyze why I’m there now. Instead, I turn on some music and, combined with the blow-dryer, drown out the thoughts in my head with noise. This is all stuff I will deal with later. Like tonight. Or tomorrow. Or next week.
Today, I have a food tour to go on.
I am at Serena’s place at 10:30 sharp, after having taken Reggie for a two-mile walk all around our neighborhood.
We didn’t go too far out of the way because many of Rome’s streets look alike and I didn’t want to get lost. So we went around blocks and backtracked and did laps of some blocks we’d already visited, but it’s good.
We also beat the heat, which was good for Reggie.
Now, he’s tucked up in the air-conditioned suite, probably curled up on the bed and snoozing, and I am ringing the bell outside Serena’s gate.
Her front door opens just as a large, black van pulls up behind me.
Serena and her houseguests all file from the house and out the gate.
We exchange hellos and good mornings as we all pile into the van, which I realize is basically a cab that fits all of us.
Serena sits in the passenger seat and the rest of us cram in.
I’m in the back row, sandwiched between Bethany and Sophie.
“This is gonna be so much fun,” Sophie informs me as we start driving to the place we’re supposed to meet our guide. “We go every time we visit Serena.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “How many times have you been here?”
Sophie looks across me to her mom, eyebrows raised in question.
Bethany furrows her brow as she thinks. “Three? Four?”
“Serena,” Sophie calls up to the front seat. “Are we gonna have Marina again?”
“I requested her,” Serena says. “So I hope so.”
“You’re gonna love Marina,” Sophie tells me. “She’s so freakin’ cool.”
I love her enthusiasm, and her excitement is contagious, and pretty soon, I’m looking more forward to this than I was earlier.
The drive doesn’t take long, and in a blink, we’re turning into a parking lot surrounded by what seems to be a bunch of little shops.
The driver hops out and opens the door, and we all spill out like clowns from a mini car.
Serena spins in a slow circle as she looks around. “I don’t see her yet.” She points to a red awning. “We’re meeting her there.” And without waiting, she walks in that direction.
“This is Trastevere, right?” Sophie asks as we fall in line behind Serena, who nods in answer to the question.
Sophie puts the accent on the “ver.” One thing I’ve noticed in my slightly more than a week in Rome is that pretty much all Italian words are fun to say.
They feel good in your mouth, I don’t know how else to describe it.
I don’t speak one single word of Italian, but I could listen to it all day long.
I find myself whispering Trastevere to myself.
Serena sidles up to me with a pamphlet in her hand.
“I don’t know why I have this,” she says.
“I know this tour by heart.” She hands the pamphlet to me, then waves above us at the awning.
“We start here, where we’ll have an appetizer of some sort.
Marina mixes it up for us, since we’re regulars now.
Then we’ll go here,” she points to the next name on the list, which says it’s a wine bar, “and have wine and probably cheese.” She continues down the list. “Then here for lunch and here for gelato.”
“Oh, my God, this sounds amazing,” I tell her.
I try to offer her money for my ticket, and she makes a pfft sound and waves me away.
Listen, I have plenty of money. Some would consider me wealthy.
But I don’t think my bank account would come close to Serena’s.
Still, I insist, and still, she waves me off.
“Absolutely not,” she says firmly.
Bethany catches my eye. “Are you trying to pay for your ticket? Yeah, don’t bother. She’ll have none of it.” And she smiles at me like knowingly. “Been there, done that, about a million times.”
Serena smiles at me. She’s got one front tooth that’s slightly turned, giving her face a unique look.
Today, her hair is piled on her head and she’s wearing white wide-leg pants and a flowy turquoise tank top.
Her earrings are also white and turquoise, and they dangle close to her neck.
She has her own sense of fashion, and I love that about her.
“ Buongiorno !” comes a cheerful voice from behind me, and when I see Serena’s face light up, I turn to find the source.
“Marina!” Serena says and opens her arms to hug the woman. They’re like long lost friends, hugging and rocking back and forth as they do.
“How are you, my friend?” Marina asks, and her English is better than mine.
Which is not surprising. One of my big concerns coming here was the language barrier since, as I said, I don’t speak a word of Italian.
But I had nothing to be worried about. So many young Italians also speak English, Marina being a clear example.
“Let me introduce you,” Serena says. “Or reintroduce you.” There’s no need, as Marina remembers everybody’s name and says them as she shakes hands with each person.
“And this,” Serena says, “Is my new friend Lily.”
Marina meets my gaze. Her hand in mine is warm and soft, and she’s absolutely stunning, but in that unassuming way.
Like she has no idea how fucking beautiful she is.
Her eyes are dark, like the darkest roast of coffee imaginable.
She’s in her mid-thirties, I’d say, with gorgeous hair, thick and nearly black, cascading over her shoulders like dark waves.
Her brows are wide and precise, and I get the impression that she doesn’t miss much, that those eyes take everything in, like they are now.
She’s taking me in, all of me, I can feel it.