Chapter 1 #2
He looks away, talking to the statue instead of to me. “Sometimes… I want to question the status quo. Do what I think is right instead of what I’ve been taught is right.”
“What’s the worst that could happen if you do?”
“I’ll let people down, lose their trust.” He pauses and then adds, “Not know who I am if I’m not who I’m expected to be.”
It scares me just how well I know what he means. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this connected to someone this quickly. And that’s scary too, like holding something impossibly delicate, just waiting for it to fall apart.
“And what’s the best that could happen?” I ask.
He looks at me contemplatively without answering.
I teasingly poke his arm. “What happened to seeing the truest potential instead of the most negative outcome?”
He cocks his head, watches me for a moment, then says, “I needed to hear that. I feel like meeting you today was meant to be.”
Meant to be . It does feel that way. But I’m not about to admit it. “I don’t know. That sounds an awful lot like something a kidnapper would say.” I jokingly back away.
He lifts his fingers toward his mouth as if to continue the decimation of his nails, but he catches himself, lowers his hand, and instead says, “Come out with me for a drink.”
My heart is thumping so fast. I want to say yes. But there’s a small tug at the back of my mind telling me that he’s too handsome, too sophisticated to actually be interested in very average me . I can’t help but wonder if he’s taking interest for another reason. He does know an awful lot about Renaissance history….
No. I’ve given him no reason to suspect who I am. He’s asking me out for real.
“A drink sounds lovely,” I say.
When we exit the museum, the sun has mostly set. The days are short during these winter months.
Mom would not be happy. Me going out with a boy was definitely not something she had in mind when she agreed to let me go on this assignment during my winter break. To alleviate my guilt, I send her a quick message saying that I’ll call her before I go to bed. I’ve been good about calling her daily, though I don’t know why I bother since she’s always too busy to talk. I also text my aunt who I’m staying with to let her know I’ll be back late.
Apparently, in addition to art, Michael is also extremely knowledgeable about Florence, and as we walk to a restaurant he recommends, he tells me about the different churches and piazzas we pass. We stop a few times to listen to buskers filling the squares with their crooning covers of every generation’s greatest hits. I even hear a rendition of “Mona Lisa Smile,” the single that skyrocketed Kor from playing the underground Columbia University music scene to the top of the Billboard charts last year. He’s still pissed about it, considering that everyone thinks it’s a love song, and he insists that it is not a love song.
But even though I know Kor’s intention with the song, I can’t help but find it romantic when the lyrics You’ll see whatever you want to see, her truth is whatever you want it to be pull Michael’s gaze to mine. And when the line If that’s what you seek, then she’s sure to beguile, but don’t lose yourself in her Mona Lisa smile draws his gaze down to my lips, I don’t think I’m reading this wrong. I’m pretty confident I’m getting kissed tonight.
Michael leaves a jangle of coins for each busker before we move on. I like that. I like a lot of things about him.
When we’re not talking, there’s a comfortable quiet between us that buzzes with possibility. I watch his hand, which swings beside mine. It’s constantly animated, stretching, tapping, emphasizing his words. If I shift just a little, our hands would inevitably brush against each other the next time he swings his arm. I imagine the thrill of the contact, but I don’t step closer.
We arrive at the restaurant, and it’s crowded with people enjoying their meals, nursing glasses of wine and plates of decadent carbohydrates. The room is small and echoes with the sounds of live piano. Really good piano. I breathe in the smells of crusty bread, simmering sauces, and melting wax.
Michael is familiar with the necessary choreography to get us a cozy, candlelit table with a bench facing the music. He slides in next to me and asks me if I want anything to eat or just a drink.
“Just a glass of red wine,” I say, trying to sound like the type of girl who might actually have a preference between red and white grape water. It must work well enough because no one asks to see my ID.
While we wait for our drinks, Michael asks, “What instrument do you play?”
“How do you know I play an instrument?”
“I can tell,” he says. “I have a sixth sense when it comes to pretty musicians.” Grin. Dimple. Eyebrow raise. His eyebrows have more expression than my entire face. “Also, you’re tapping your fingers along with the music in a very telling way.”
My cheeks warm. “I play guitar, but I’m hardly a musician. I’m really bad at it.” Despite growing up surrounded by multiple musicians, this is true. I’m even worse at the other instruments I’ve dabbled with. I try to hold off the descending wave of mediocrity and focus instead on the part where he called me pretty.
“I play guitar too,” he says.
“Yeah, I had a feeling.” His hand is resting on the table next to mine, and deciding to be bold, I trace the callouses along the tips of his fingers. The kind earned by the intimacy of stringed instruments.
He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’m… not bad at it.”
“I bet.” Who knew I had a thing for Adam’s apples? I very much do.
My fingertips are still touching his, and he gently twines our fingers together. His hand is strong and warm, and everywhere our skin touches feels sensitive, like the nerves are directly connected to my tightening belly.
The waiter arrives with our wine, and Michael raises his glass while keeping one hand linked with mine. “To seeing the true potential despite the flaws.” We clink our glasses. In the candlelight, his brown eyes look almost amber from beneath his thick, long lashes. His thumb is tracing circles on my palm, spreading heat along my skin. My breathing starts to go wonky.
It feels a little too intense, so I pull my hand away. I also instinctively work to calm the tingling sensation in my hands. The tingling is something that often happens when I’m nervous or excited, but I don’t want to worry about that right now, even though it has everything to do with why I’m in Florence in the first place.
I take a sip of wine. It’s tart and, honestly, not very tasty. But definitely better than the craft beer that Kor likes (and that I pretend to like to impress him). I take another sip and feel it warm my empty stomach and my excited nerves.
“You seem really familiar with the area,” I say to Michael. “Do you live here?”
“No. I live quite far away.” He doesn’t elaborate, and his expression tells me I have reason to be curious.
“Where’s far away?”
“I doubt you’ve heard of it,” he says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Why is he being cagey?
The gemstone in his earring glitters in the candlelight, and I feel a fizzing in my blood, a return of that nagging feeling from earlier. He approached me first. He won’t tell me where he’s from. He knows more about Renaissance history than the average college guy.
No. I’m being silly. He asked me out because I shamelessly flirted with him. Do I really find it so hard to believe someone would want to go out with me without ulterior motives?
“What about you? Where are you from?” Michael asks, diverting the attention away from himself.
I shake off the feeling that this is anything other than what it is. “New York City,” I respond, and take another sip of wine. “How did you know about this place?” Maybe it’s the alcohol in my blood that encourages me to shift closer to be heard over the rising noise in the room, so close our thighs press together.
Michael leans even closer to answer. His breath tickles my ear. “I’ve been coming here for the pianist. We’re considering recruiting him to the school where I work.” His nose is so close that it brushes against my cheek. But I don’t respond to the physical touch because I’m confused by what he’s said.
Recruiting for a school? It’s too much of a coincidence.
But also, if he’s not a college student, how old is this guy?
I’d assumed around nineteen. The fact that he was clearly older than me had felt exciting, but how much older is he actually? I try not to stare as I reassess. Full head of dark hair. Crinkles around his eyes, but only because he’s smiling. There’s certainly a maturity about him that I hadn’t noted before. Suddenly, he seems kind of ageless, and I feel panicky. How old does he think I am? Will it matter? I really don’t want to ruin this.
“So, you’re a teacher?” I ask.
“I guess you could call it that. What do you do? I’m guessing you’re still in school.” His smile is wide, and by the way he says “school,” I know he means college and that he’s not going to be comfortable when he realizes I’m only a senior in high school.
“Um… yeah, still in school. I’m on winter break,” I respond.
“What are you studying? Wait, let me guess… art history?” Still with that smile and those oh-so-playful dimples. I really don’t want to, but I know I need to tell him.
“Actually, um, Michael, I’m still in high school.”
His thigh that is pressed against mine tenses. His eyes widen, and he assesses my appearance much like I did his a moment before.
“How old are you?”
“Almost eighteen.” Depending on what constitutes as “almost.”
“Oh.” He sits up straight, shifting over so none of his body is in contact with mine. I feel cold air replace his warmth. “I should’ve… I just assumed… I mean, a smart, beautiful—uh, traveling on your own…”
The bench is small, and we’re still very close, and the music is loud, and it’s just too much for me. I stand, my napkin fluttering to the floor. “Maybe let’s go outside and get some air?”
“Good idea.” As Michael leaves some euros on the table, I rush into the cool night. He follows behind me tentatively. We dodge a couple of smokers and lean against a stretch of the cast-iron gate. The leaves of a dying potted plant sag along the rails, crunchy and brown. I busy my fingers by massaging the stem of the plant. Michael starts to nibble his nails, then catches himself and instead pulls a Swiss Army–style multi-tool from his pocket. He flips the bottle opener open and shut, open and shut. We both look at the ground instead of at each other.
He called me smart and beautiful.
I’m too soft, too frizzy to meet the standard definition of beautiful. I have some nice features: large brown eyes and a button nose, a butt that’s too big, or just right, depending on who you ask. Average pretty. But I understand that there is a distinct difference between pretty and beautiful.
Unfortunately, “average pretty” has never been good enough for Kor, but Michael seems to like it.
Not that it matters anymore. The disappointment burns deep. I guess I should have known Michael was too good to be true.
“So how old are you?” I finally ask him.
“Twenty-one.”
Okay, that’s not that bad. I went out with a senior during my freshman year of high school, and he must be about twenty-one by now. Kor’s already twenty. But the active distance Michael is keeping between us makes it clear that my age is a hard no for him.
I continue fiddling with the plant, wrapping it around the bars of the gate. It brings that tingling warmth to the skin between my fingers, a feeling I’m so used to suppressing that I immediately remove my hand from the leaves. I don’t quite know where to look or what to think as the silence descends between us, the buzz from earlier now completely unbuzzed, doused with a cold bucket of awkward.
The easy thing to do would be to walk away. But I can’t. No matter how disappointed I may feel right now, the fact that Michael is here to recruit students is not something I can ignore. I need to establish whether he’s who I’ve been sent to find.
Despite my instincts warring against the action, I reach out to touch the plant again; I can use it to help confirm my suspicions. I normally try to avoid the tingling in my hands at all costs, but now I do the opposite and let it flow freely. As I do, I pry for more information.
“Twenty-one seems pretty young to be a teacher at a graduate level,” I say. There’s no way he’s teaching anyone younger; that piano player had been a full-on adult.
Michael blushes at this and looks down as he says, “I was the youngest, uh, graduate in my field in the past two decades.”
Handsome, sweet, and a prodigy. Figures.
I’m itchy with nerves as I feel the warmth still flowing from my hand into the plant. I can’t help but hear my mother in my head warning me that someone is watching, my father telling me to take deep breaths and hide it.
But when Michael glances at the plant curling around my fingers, his eyes light with wonder.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Just adjusting the stem so it will have better sunlight in the morning.”
“Ada, look at the vine. It was practically dead a few moments ago. Now it looks one sunny day away from pollinating.”
“I’ve always been good with plants,” I say. It’s true, but that’s not all this is. This is me using the abilities that make me different. The abnormality that, if I play my cards right, could get me the invite I’ve been sent across the globe for. The curse that, until recently, I was convinced no one must know about but now may finally prove useful for something.
Michael’s eyes are rapidly roving over me, but not in a suggestive way; it’s more… clinical.
“Do you heal easily?” he asks.
Alarm ignites in my gut. This line of questioning practically confirms my hunch. The answer to his question is “yes.” Though I’ve injured myself many times, it’s never been serious. Like the first time I went snowboarding and crashed into a tree but was completely fine, or when I cut halfway through my finger with pruning shears and didn’t need stitches.
When I don’t answer, he presses on. “Does your hair grow fast?”
Yes again. My wavy brown hair, and my nails too, no matter how often I cut them, constantly seem to grow, grow, grow. I have always suspected that these traits are symptoms of what makes me different, but the only way Michael could guess these things is if this rendezvous was less of a coincidence than I thought.
I still haven’t responded, but he senses the affirmative in my gaze.
“Eureka,” he says in a quiet voice. His playfulness has been replaced with seriousness, and now he looks older. More his age. “I’ve been coming to this place every night this week to recruit a pianist when I should’ve been looking for you all along.”
I should be excited by this; instead, my stomach is heavy with disappointment. I just wanted to go on a date with a cute boy.
Not a boy, I remind myself. A man.
And over the course of our flirtatious banter, I have learned almost nothing about him. I don’t know where he’s from or what he’s really doing here in Italy.
Which probably has to do with why I was sent to Italy.
My pulse picks up. I’m so close to what I came here for, but I’m also scared. I’m alone at night with an older stranger, who I accepted a drink from, who’s watching me like I’m a science experiment. I need some space.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I say.
“Oh, okay. I’ll wait here for you.”
I reenter the restaurant and wind my way through the throng of people to the hallway in the back. A draft from the service entrance to the parking lot chills me as I push through the bathroom door.
I go to the sink and press cool water to my flushed cheeks. The door creaks, and I twist around, but no one’s there. The hair on the back of my neck rises, and I turn off the water. The faucet continues to drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I see movement in the mirror, but when I whip around again, there’s still nothing. I reach into my pocket for my phone, fumbling to unlock it, too scared to even breathe.
A large arm snakes around my torso. Panic jolts through me as my phone drops and skitters across the tiled floor. I push against my attacker and almost manage to slither out of his grasp, but then pain explodes behind my eyes as I’m struck on the back of my head. Everything goes fuzzy around the edges.
That’s when I’m shoved into a box.