Chapter Thirteen Cammie #2
“I’ve never been in a theater box before,” I whisper as I take in the elegant trappings, all red velvet and gold accents, keeping with the color scheme of the rest of the magnificent building.
“Doesn’t it feel like you’re a historical romance character, awaiting a night of scandalous handholding with your secret lover, protected from the view of your fellow patrons of the opera? ”
In his own damask-upholstered chair beside mine, West grimaces. “In all honesty, I was getting more of an Abe Lincoln vibe.”
I gasp, then sputter as quietly as possible, “Oh my god, what is wrong with you?”
He holds his hands out to his sides. “What, like it’s too soon? Not every historical figure had positive experiences with theater boxes, Cam.”
Shaking my head, I try to turn my attention back to our guide and try harder to push the twitching corners of my lips downward, muttering out of the side of my mouth, “Forget I said anything, please.”
“But I guess in both our versions, the night ended with a ba—”
“Weston!”
A quick jog across the street—seriously quick, to avoid the many motorbikers who apparently believe stoplights don’t apply to them—takes us to the Galleria Umberto I, a massive Industrial Age structure housing shops and cafes at street level, offices and residences higher up.
Sunlight streams through its glass-domed ceilings down to the mosaic floors and countless eye-catching, neoclassical-style details on the walls and windows in between.
It’s the most spectacular location I’ve ever seen for a McDonald’s.
West and I have just been to a bakery a few storefronts away, where we bought sfogliatelle, delicious Neapolitan pastries made from thin layers of dough stacked into a clamshell shape, filled with sweet ricotta, and topped with powdered sugar.
We agree we aren’t going to be Those Americans who get McDonald’s in a city with such a rich cuisine…
but then he sees a menu item called a “Parmesan snack” and can’t resist.
“I don’t know what I expected,” he deadpans a few minutes later, returning to the table where he left me, holding a small, half-unwrapped brick of solid Parmesan cheese.
I pause in brushing off the powdered sugar and flaky pastry crumbs that now cover my shirt, then laugh at the outcome of his investigation. “The name didn’t lie.”
With some of our energy restored, we decide on a whim to join a Naples Underground tour.
Neither of us knows what to expect as we descend over a hundred feet below the city streets, and at nearly every other turn in the long wooden staircase, I check in on West. He insists that he’s fine, that he’ll tell me if that changes, but a part of me has begun to worry that this day has gone too well, relative to our last time in Naples together.
If he decides to make another break for it, I don’t want to chase him up hundreds of stairs.
And unlike the last time, I would very much chase him.
Just about anywhere, I’m beginning to think.
It’s like now that we’ve cleared up the reasons for our distance the last few years, I’ve fallen hard and fast back into the effortless friendship West and I had, rediscovering how much fun life can be when we’re together, and I never want to lose this again.
It’s hard not to run a dozen steps ahead and imagine all the adventures we could have in the future, when we’re back at our respective school homes and get to bring each other into these separate lives we’ve built.
To imagine how much brighter mine will be, with him back in it.
It’s beyond exciting—and beyond terrifying, because I’m still not quite convinced I get to keep him.
But all my complicated feelings and fears fade into the background for a while as I’m swept up in the unexpected highlight of my whole day.
Our Underground tour guide leads a dozen or so of us through the long and complex history of Naples by way of the rocky earth beneath it all.
We walk through cavernous rooms with walls that still bear markings from ancient tools the Greeks used to mine rock to build the city they called Neapolis; narrow tunnels that were part of the ancient Roman aqueduct system, which was still used into the nineteenth century; and finally, the makeshift bathroom stalls and anti-fascist graffiti from the tunnels’ time as World War II bomb shelters.
I feel breathless, invigorated by the time we exit to the tour company’s gift shop, but instead of hitting the city streets for fresh air, I want to return underground.
To spend much more than one brief hour retracing my steps and those of everyone else who used these spaces for all number of purposes over thousands of years.
To run my eyes and hands over every scratch in the rock walls, every marking on the floor, learning what I can about their meaning, who made them, what else they tell us about life at the time they came into existence.
To hear every story that’s been long buried deep under the bustling city.
“Doesn’t it just blow your mind?” I say to West, raising my voice to be heard as we navigate a busy shopping street, working our way toward the nearest bus stop.
I can feel myself talking his ear off, see his eyes getting glassier, but it’s like I can’t stop.
“That we were occupying spaces carved out of the earth before Ancient Rome existed? The way a place like that can endure and evolve as civilizations rise and fall right above it, and humans continue to find ways it can meet their needs, tying them to all the other humans across the centuries, it’s—Hey, you good? ”
West blinks back to focus on me from where his gaze had gone distant and, if I’m not imagining things, a little panicked.
His nod is too quick, his “yep” too squeaky.
He can’t hide that his head is doing the swivel thing that I noticed last time we were in a crowded part of town, like he’s trying to take in the overload of sensory details around him but not really absorbing any of it.
I step from his side to walk ahead of him a little, parting the sea of people in our path so he has more space to breathe.
I reach a hand behind me and say over my shoulder, “We’re almost out of this alley.
Then it’s just a block or two to our stop.
” My worry eases when his clammy palm slides over mine and I clasp it tight, all the way out to the cross street, with its wide sidewalks and way fewer souvenir-hungry tourists.
I give West’s hand a final squeeze of reassurance before letting it drop. “That was intense. Sorry if I added to the overstimulation with all my rambling,” I say with an awkward laugh.
He rubs both hands over his face and blows out a breath before shaking his head and looking at me, his eyes thankfully focused and clear again. “No, it wasn’t you. I just…It was getting hard to breathe in that crowd. I’m okay now.” With a shy smile, he adds, “Thanks for looking out for me.”
“Of course. I only wish I’d noticed sooner, instead of being so caught up listening to my own voice.”
“Hey, stop that,” he chides. “I don’t blame you—I’m a big fan of your voice, too.”
I bump my shoulder against his while mentally sending a wish out to the universe or whoever else is listening: Please, please let me keep him.
We reach our bus stop just as one of the tour buses is approaching and find seats in our go-to top-front spot.
I sink into the hard plastic chair, suddenly feeling the soreness in my feet now that they’ve stopped moving.
I’ve almost forgotten what we were talking about, when West says, “That tour really brought out your Dr. Lovett Junior, huh?”
He gives me a teasing grin that makes me want to duck my head into my T-shirt like a turtle retreating into its shell, but sadly, I have no such anatomical hiding place. I’m stuck with covering my eyes with my hands.
“Oh god, no,” I groan.
West chuckles and bumps his shoulder against mine. “What? I love that you’re so passionate about history, ancient civilizations, all of that. It’s amazing that you found your thing so early and grew to love it more than ever.”
His words send reality crashing into me like a double-decker bus. A reality I haven’t fully let him in on, I realize. But we’re on a long stretch of the route heading to the outskirts of the city, so it’s as good a time as any to open that door.
“Yeah, uh, about that,” I begin, fixing my gaze on the road ahead, now following the coastline. “I’m not really sure it’s ‘my thing’ anymore.”
West’s head rears back so aggressively, I see it in my periphery. “I’m sorry—did body snatchers get to you in the last five minutes? Because the girl who was just reciting verbal love letters about a bunch of holes in the ground is basically a next-generation Indiana J—”
At the sharp look I shoot his way, a smile splits his face wide and he points an accusatory finger at me.
“Ha! See? That was a test, because the Cammie Lovett I knew was a staunch believer that Indiana Jones, while giving the field a badass reputation, was less of an archaeologist than a glorified looter, and she was quick to correct the record whenever his name came up.” He pauses, brow furrowing as his gaze drifts sideways.
“She was also weirdly into Harrison Ford, even as older, present-day Indy.”
One thing about me that hasn’t changed and never will, much like Harry F’s hotness.