Chapter 3
THREE
ZALEA | ROME
Jet lag feels like a personal attack. It’s been three days of staying up all night, falling asleep at six in the morning and waking up eight hours later feeling like the day is already mostly over.
Today, though, I refuse to let it win. I’ve been awake since two in the afternoon…
yesterday. But I’m positive I can make it through today as long as I can get my hands on some coffee.
I don’t normally drink it since it’s always so bitter, and torturous.
But desperate measures call for desperate times.
After a longer than necessary shower, I get dressed and make my way out of the hotel into the cool morning air of Rome, leaving my wet hair loose to air dry.
Since arriving here, I’ve only left my hotel room to grab food at a nearby family restaurant before heading right back.
But the first thing I notice is how much more beige everything is in the morning light.
I find myself craving colour as I walk with no destination, letting my feet decide, and it feels dangerous and thrilling all at once to not be following an hour-by-hour schedule anymore.
There are a ton of espresso bars every few blocks and I decide to stop at the first one I see that doesn’t have a line, even if I understand absolutely zero percent of the hand-written menu. The smell of espresso is the only encouragement I need to wave down the barista.
“Un espresso, per favore,”* I say, hoping my fake confidence will cover my horrible accent and the fact that that’s the only Italian I know.
On the flight here, I spent about thirty minutes on Duolingo trying to learn Italian before giving up and watching a replay of Eat, Pray, Love.
Learning languages was never my thing.
The barista barely looks at me as he wordlessly slides a tiny cup toward me, and I love that to him I’m not Zalea Evans, professional surfer. I’m just another random person with a small paper cup that no one spares a second look at.
I drink it in one go as if I’ve been doing this my whole life, and immediately regret that decision because my soul leaves my body for a moment.
“Jesus,” I mutter, wincing, as I lower the cup. Whoever tried this crap for the first time and thought “mmm, delicious” should be studied.
The woman beside me laughs. “First espresso in Italy?” she asks, amused, in a light accent.
She’s my height, with straight brown hair, and dressed in designed clothes.
“Is it that obvious?”
“You didn’t flinch until after,” she says with a grin. “That’s how we know.”
I smile despite myself as the warm espresso settles in my chest, and for a brief moment I don’t feel like a person who fled across the world with a half-formed plan.
“It’s actually my very first espresso,” I huff out a laugh, “like ever.”
She raises both her brows at me as she lowers her sunglasses, revealing her hazel green eyes. “Well, prepare for Italy to turn you into a coffee addict.” She shoots me a knowing wink.
“Hahaha, who knows! I hear anything is possible here.”
She stares at me, studying my face more closely and my mind races as I try to form a good enough excuse to deny a picture in case she recognizes me.
One photo of me leaked on the internet and my cover will be blown.
The world will know where I ran off too, which means Zale and Gabriel will, too.
And honestly, I’m not ready to face either of them yet.
“What brings you to Italy?” she asks, curious eyes finding mine.
I smile and look away, trying to hide the pain, before shrugging softly. “I’m not really sure. I guess I’m hoping to discover something about myself out here that I don’t already know.”
“Ah… ti sei un po’ persa,”* she says, turning her body to face me now. “Succede. A volte ci si perde, prima di ritrovarsi.”*
I frown, trying to recall if Duolingo taught me any one of those words.
Nope.
“I’m not sure what you just said,” I admit with an embarrassed smile. “I probably should have learned Italian before coming here, huh?”
“That would have helped you feel a little less lost.” She nods then grins at me. “How long are you staying in Italy?”
“Uhm, I don’t really know. I don’t have a return date in mind.”
“Perfetto!” She digs into her purse and pulls out a brochure for an Art Academy, sliding it over to me. “You must join my art program then.”
I pick it up, staring at the cover and noticing it’s in English.
Thank God.
“An art program…in Florence?”
“Si. You are giving me wandering artist feelings, and I’m sure you’ll learn Italian while taking this program too.”
“Wandering artist feelings? What does that even mean?” I mutter to myself as I flip through, noting that this is a one year program.
“Oh come on. What better way to find yourself than creating art in the land of la dolce vita?”
“I don’t know…I haven’t painted people since my compulsory high school art class.”
She clicks her tongue. “Art is more than just drawing people.” She reaches over and flips the brochure, pointing to an address in the city centre. “Come here tomorrow at noon and I’ll show you.”
And with that, she tosses a couple Euros on the counter, and walks away winking one last time.
The evening air smells amazing as I follow my nose down the narrow side street that leads to the tiny family restaurant I’ve been visiting since coming to Italy, tucked between two buildings.
There’s a faded chalkboard that leans against the wall, listing specials in a messy, looping script I mostly can’t read.
But I don’t need to read it because there’s only one thing that’s been on my mind today.
Gnocchi.
The hostess, a woman with grey-streaked hair, waves me up to the rooftop patio like we’re old friends.
I climb the narrow stairs until I reach the small but crowded patio.
Twinkle lights are strung overhead, casting halos around the heads of the people up here.
One of the reasons I keep coming back is because of how slowly everyone eats and talks here, like they’re in no hurry to be anywhere else.
It’s refreshing.
I slide into my usual corner table with a view of the city’s rooftops, allowing myself to finally exhale. A waiter appears before I can even open a menu and he says something in Italian that I don’t understand.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian very well,” I start, but based on his expression, he doesn’t understand English very well, either.
I quickly flip open the menu, scan the page until I find the gnocchi section, and point to the picture of the dish I want, hoping for universal recognition. He nods, writes something down on his notepad, and disappears.
I settle back, glass of water in hand, and watch the way the man at the table across from mine hands a small plate to his daughter, who carefully tucks a napkin into her lap. The way the couple in the corner shares a single slice of pizza, leaning in close to take turns biting—gross.
Life is so different here. There are no phones buzzing, or people rushing to finish a meal, everyone is living at a slower pace and intentionally being more present. That’s what my life has been missing—presence.
The waiter returns with a plate of pillowy gnocchi in a pale butter sauce and a small carafe of wine. When I take my first bite I close my eyes and have to hold back a moan. It’s warm, soft, and exactly what I’ve been craving. I close my eyes briefly, letting it sink in.
But I’m interrupted by the buzz of my phone. I don’t open my eyes, wanting to stay in the moment as I try to ignore it, but when it goes off for a third time I reluctantly pull it out.
“How the hell is this thing even on,” I mutter as I punch in my passcode. “I remember turning it off before I left my hotel…”
My appetite quickly fades as I stare down at the notifications. Missed calls from Gabriel and my brother, a couple from Eliana, and even one from my mother, though she doesn’t usually leave messages.
My chest tightens.
Gabriel’s name flashes on my screen as a call comes in and that alone makes my stomach twist. I want to pick it up, explain myself, but the truth is complicated.
I don’t want to lie, but I also don’t want to unspool everything yet.
I can feel him waiting, probably angry or hurt, but I need space to breathe in a city where no one expects me to perform or explain myself.
But regardless of my justification, there’s one person I feel like I actually owe an answer to.
My brother, Zale.
I thumb out a quick message.
Zalea:
I’m okay. I’ll call you when I’m ready to talk.
I hit send, then turn the phone face down on the table and stare out at the rooftops again.
“Freedom tastes like gnocchi and wine,” I whisper to myself.
I pour out the contents of the small carafe into my glass and I’m surprised to find it tastes stronger than I expected. I wonder if the Italians would judge me for ordering tequila instead. I shrug, laugh softly at myself, and wave the waiter over.
“Another,” I say, pointing to the empty carafe.
He nods with a smile and hurries off, and once again my phone pulls me out of the moment. It’s no longer buzzing, it’s now blaring loud notification chimes.
What the hell?
I quickly flip it over and nearly throw it when I see it operating on its own. I watch as the notes app opens and a message is typed out.
Answer your phone, Z.
Goosebumps crawl up my arm as I stare down at the three words, and I physically jump when my phone rings and Gabriel’s name pops up on the screen again.
He hacked into my phone?
I quickly type back a simple No.
Don’t start a game of cat and mouse with me, baby. You know I’ll win.
An uneasy feeling creeps in as I stare down at his warning, coupled with a tightness
Are you out of your mind?
Just a little bit.
I should report you for hacking into my private devices without my permission, Gabriel.
Don’t do something you’ll regret, Red.
I quickly put my phone on airplane mode and tuck it into the inner pocket of my purse. Gabriel Matthews will not bully me into answering my own phone when I don’t want to.
When the waiter returns, I pour my second glass and sip again, letting the city spin around me while I think about the way Gabriel expects pieces of me I can’t give him yet.
I let myself feel the guilt without trying to untangle it, because for tonight I exist on a rooftop, under string lights, with gnocchi and a second glass of wine, in a city that doesn’t know or care who I am supposed to be.
* Un espresso, per favore = One espresso, please
* Ah… ti sei un po’ persa = Ah… you’ve lost yourself a little.
* Succede. A volte ci si perde, prima di ritrovarsi = It happens. Sometimes you have to get lost before you find yourself again.