Chapter 36
CALLUM
The next morning I wake up with a fully functioning arm. I was smarter last night than I have been and shifted Asha a little so my arm was above her head under her pillow. I get all the benefits of keeping close to the Wee Sunshine, with none of the physical pain.
I didn’t take her up on her rolling advice, because at the end of that, she would be too far away.
“Are you ready for another travel day?” I whisper into her mass of hair. She’s got so much of it I have no idea what I’m actually talking to, whether it’s the back of her head or the front. But her ears are somewhere in the middle, so at least there’s that.
Asha sits up and stretches. The covers fall and I drink in the sight of her naked torso in movement. This wake-up I could get used to.
“What?” I know she said something whilst she was stretching, but I didn’t catch one single, solitary word of it.
“I said, the kids were out late, so they’ll be tired today.
That means a smooth bus ride with everyone napping.
” She smiles at me with sparkling eyes. Like the way the sun hits the Mediterranean Ocean off the coast of Greece.
That means I’ve amused her. I don’t quite know what I said, but I won’t argue with the results; she’s beautiful when she’s laughing at me.
“Let’s see if Charlotte is going to sue us for not handling her laundry.”
“You should stay away from her and let me handle it,” Asha says as she gets out of bed. I’m graced with gorgeous views of her curves before she disappears to the bathroom.
“Probably for the best.”
We pack our bags in less time than it takes most long-term couples to decide on a place to eat dinner at. This being our job, we’ve got the mechanics of packing up a room down to an art, and we’re still downstairs before anyone else, even though we took a wee detour kissing on the bed.
Although she deserves most of the credit for pulling away from the kiss so we could be on time. If it were up to me, we would have let the group deal with the rest of the trip themselves, while we enjoyed our one room, one bed, and a great view of the Alps.
Everyone else also makes it on time, if tired, and we get on the bus.
Charlotte even looks too hungover to say anything to Asha about the laundry.
The drive is blissfully quiet and the stops, including at the border, are efficient.
Asha takes the tour speech in Milan, giving enough history that makes even this historian happy, which I think is her intent, because she winks at me when she’s done.
“All right, Best Group Ever, you can see the first skyscraper in Italy, the first shopping mall in Italy, Da Vince’s Last Supper, or see the Duomo with its 3,400 statues—and 135 gargoyles. Or all of that if you’re efficient, in shape, and hydrated.”
“I have information sheets for anyone who wants them,” I say, holding up my stack of papers.
We disembark from the bus, and Asha pulls Charlotte aside, probably telling her about the Milan plan. Charlotte looks happy, taking Asha up on it and forgetting about the laundry, and she and Maria take their bags off the bus.
“They’re dropping like flies,” Asha says to me, watching the women leave.
“They’ll be back. Unfortunately.” I mumble the last part because I know Asha will think it’s hilarious, and she doesn’t disappoint.
“You’re right. The baby birds have to fly the coop sometime. If you love something, let it go, and if it comes back—”
Kevin interrupts Asha before she can throw out any other aphorisms. “Where’s the best bar, fearless leader?”
He’s consistent. And look, I’m not opposed to a drinking tour through Europe, but why pay the money to go on a tour that’s focused on history and then ignore it?
The bars here can’t be that different from the bars at home.
Red Bull and cheap vodka is Red Bull and cheap vodka wherever you order it.
Maybe Asha really is on to something with her specialized tours.
I’m about to respond when Asha takes the question.
“I get it. Europe is a lot of fun, and so are its many varied drinks. But how about you at least see the Duomo first? You don’t even have to go inside, but there are wild sculptures on the outside.
Lions attacking people, lots of #AbGoals.
All on a church! And then there’s a place that has wine and some very good pasta on one of the side streets.
See a little bit of Milan, and I think you’ll enjoy it.
Or you can go straight to the restaurant, which has views of the Duomo from its outside tables. ”
“All right. I guess it was an expensive plane ticket.” He sounds about as excited as a small child being told to eat some broccoli, but he does trudge off in the direction of the Duomo after he gets the name of the restaurant.
“Why even come to Europe? They can drink in America. They can go to Canada or Mexico for a lot less if they just want to drink with people who have accents.”
“The wine and food here are amazing. Even if someone isn’t interested in history or art, I can see the appeal. I try to keep track of restaurant recommendations for Italy, but in reality, I don’t need to. I’ve never had a bad meal here. And I’ve had a lot of meals here.”
“Is that a contender for one of your custom tours?”
“Oh, yes. But I can’t lead it, because I do like walking around and seeing history. Despite how many times I’ve been to a city. Like how I really want to see the Duomo today even though I’ve already seen it, because it’s got so much going on that there’s always something new to notice.”
“You’ve been to a lot of places,” I say as we start walking to the square. If she wants to see the cathedral, then that’s where we’ll go. “Where is someone supposed to take you if they wanted to give you a nice trip?”
“Oof. That’s a tough question.”
At the busy square, tourists are craning their necks to take in every detail of the immense edifice that took 500 years to build.
While we’re looking, she says, “I would be happy to go anywhere. Somewhere close, somewhere I’ve already been, someplace new.
It’s more about who I’m with and what we plan to do once we get there.
Because even someplace old can feel new seeing it with someone new, like you, me, and Milan right now.
I can also see an old place alone, because I’ve probably changed since I saw it last, or it has.
But also Machu Picchu. I want to see Incan ruins and llamas, and I haven’t been yet.
And Egypt with the pyramids and temples and cow-headed columns.
How about you? Where should someone take the man who’s been everywhere? ”
“Since I haven’t been everywhere, somewhere I haven’t been would be nice. But I’m also most interested in Irish history, so I would travel around Ireland, visiting obscure villages, big houses, museums, and historic sites across the country,” I say.
“That sounds like a nice road trip. I still remember when me and a college roommate were studying abroad in London, and we wanted to do a road trip up to Scotland to Inverness, I got the most shocked looks from the rental car guy. It’s only nine hours total, and we made multiple stops along the way.
He reacted like we told him we were going to drive straight on to Athens. ”
“People don’t drive as much in Europe. Not when planes and trains and even buses are so easy,” I say.
“That’s fair. But a road trip can be pretty fun.”
“We do road trips. Occasionally.” And I hope she understands the tone I’m using for that sentence means I don’t find them as fun as the woman in front of me does.
The woman who’s looking up at the statues on the facade of the church, beginning to hold a “best calves of the statues” competition, giving me updates on every competitor as her eyes travel across the building.
Apparently, the top contender so far is St. Bartholomew, since he’s so dedicated to this competition she’s running that he is showing actual calf muscle.
I don’t point out that he was flayed because he converted the king of Armenia to Christianity and not because he wanted to impress Asha many years in the future, because now I’m 92 percent sure that she knows that information and is doing a bit for her own, and possibly my, entertainment.
Maybe this group trip has been better than other trips I’ve taken. The group isn’t particularly smart or easy and Europe is no more beautiful than it has been in the past.
It’s because of Asha. She’s the only thing that’s different.
Damn it, I love Asha Kapoor.
That’s inconvenient. It’s poor timing, with the impending firing. And even if one of us wasn’t going to be fired, how would we live together? Am I going to find glitter in my pockets whenever I put a jacket on? Is my room going to be lit with a unicorn-shaped table lamp?
And what, she’s just going to make me smile all the time? Make me laugh and carry on when I’m having a bad day? Will I start being charmed by these tour groups?
Horrifying prospects, the lot of them.
But I don’t think telling myself not to love her is doing much either.
Asha is looking at me in question, clearly having no idea what I’m thinking. Would she even welcome my love? Maybe she wants someone she can chase butterflies with. Not catch them, of course; just frolic around a field with them. Purposeless, is what that is.
“I’m not chasing butterflies with you. I draw the line.”
She rears back, and I realize what that sounds like if someone isn’t privy to the thoughts in my head.
“What?” she asks, taking a full step away from me and almost crashing into one of the many tourists behind her. I grab her hand and pull her slightly forward until the tourists moves, then let her go again.
“Nothing,” I mumble. “What were you saying?”
“I was going to ask if you and Bartholomew had the same ab regimen, but now I think you need some food in you. You might be getting hit by the end-of-tour fatigue.”
“Yeah. That’s it.” It’s better than the truth, even if it is still embarrassing in its own right. This is my job, I should have more stamina than this. But nothing has prepared me for being in love with Asha Kapoor.
“It’s a good thing that pasta in Italy is magic.”
“Is gelato in Italy also magic?” I’m on to her now. Must be a side effect of all this love nonsense.
“How did you know?” She threads her fingers through mine and leads me away from the square and away from the tourists, so we won’t run into anyone when we eat.
“I had a hunch.”
We have a quiet lunch in a restaurant that has so much atmosphere with candles, red-and-white checkered tablecloths, and mouthwatering smells, that I’m surprised an Italian nonna doesn’t come out and scold me for not eating enough.
The food is delicious, of course. Italy always has the best food on the trip.
We take a leisurely walk around the town, where Asha stops at some truly tacky souvenir shops.
And because I love her now, I have to buy this junk for her, because it makes her happy.
She tries to protest, but she stops complaining when I throw in a pen with a little cloth Italian flag on top of it that waves when she writes with it.
We get to the bus before any of the group gets there, and Asha laughs and waves her pen-flag around as she checks everyone in as they trickle back.
At least if she loses her senses and makes a life with me, I know getting her gifts will never be expensive.
She’s just as enthralled with a three-euro pen as most women would be for diamonds.
I wonder if she reacts this way for all gifts across the board, or if I get her diamonds she’ll actually go into cardiac arrest.
The rest of the drive requires more stops than usual (the group quite enjoyed their first taste of Italian wine in Milan, and I’m sure they’re passing bottles they bought around in the back like high schoolers), but we finally make it to the Venetian hotel.
The hotel in Venice is one of the nicest on the trip, for history lovers at least. The other hotels are modern chains chosen for price and convenience and the occasional central location, but this hotel is in a historic building from the fourteenth century, decorated with period appropriate furnishings, and a spectacular courtyard.
Now I don’t have to imagine how the people who made Venetian and Italian history lived, because I’ll be living in it for the next few days.
And I guess the hotel is romantic, too. If people are into that sort of thing.
We get everyone checked into their rooms, and then we’re left with two keys, standing in the lobby as everyone else waits for the elevator.
“I guess we have two rooms this time,” Asha says lightly, holding up her key. “You’re probably happy to get your space back. And your arm.”
I’m not. “Suppose so.” I grab her suitcase and then my own. “Let’s get you upstairs.”
“I can carry my own suitcase,” she mumbles, but more to let the lobby and me know than to get her suitcase back, because she doesn’t even stretch an arm out to get it before turning and walking up the stairs.
I follow her up and stop in front of her door.
“Here I am,” she says, needlessly.
“I’m a floor above.”
“Right. Probably should let you go.” But she doesn’t make a move to the door or for her suitcase.
“Probably should go.”
“Ooor, you could stay. Here. Tonight. In my room.”
“Or I could stay.”
Asha opens the door and walks through, leaving it open for me to make the final decision. As if there were a choice. As if I could walk away from that invitation.
I’m physically incapable.
So I walk in, closing the door behind me.