Chapter 19
QUINN
JUNE — SIX WEEKS TO WIN OVER THE FACULTY
“Aperol Spritzes and bikinis!” I cheer as I burst into Inez’s room. “Three days of hot springs and calm Mediterranean waters.”
I pull up short when I realize my best friend’s no more than a lump under her bedspread. “Baby girl, what’s wrong?”
The blanket starts inching down. First, her fingers appear, then her tired eyes, and then her red nose. She sniffs and turns her face into the pillow. “I’m dying.”
“No! But Ischia!”
She huffs out a laugh. “There’s no way I’m taking a train down to Naples, walking around Pompeii in this heat, and then sitting on a ferry for an hour and a half.”
We fought for this assignment. Our program has weekend trips for the students, and each requires two university representatives for liability purposes.
Dr. Guarino and Andrea took the students to Venice and Verona the weekend we went to Tuscany.
Dr. Keck and Sydney are taking the students to Florence in a few weeks.
But we have an odd number, so when the time came to discuss the southern Italy trip—a stop at Pompeii for Colton to lecture before heading on to Ischia off the coast of Naples—Inez and I argued that we should both join.
Ischia’s a small island next to Capri, less touristy but no less beautiful.
It’s famous for its festivals—one for each patron saint, which may outnumber the actual residents.
While it’s less academic than some of the other trips, we argued attending one of those festivals is a vital cultural experience.
Plus, beaches.
But now Inez can’t pull herself out of bed and all that hard work’s gone down the drain.
“God, this sucks,” I say as I drop on the bed next to her.
“You’ll be fine. We only need two representatives, so it’ll still work with you and Colton.”
My heart jumps. Things between me and Colt have been back to normal this week, just as long as I ignore the way my stomach dips whenever he gets close. But a weekend away? It feels risky when we’re still on shaky ground.
“We need to find someone to replace me. It can’t be too hard to convince one of the other professors to go to a gorgeous island for a few days, right?”
“No!” she says with too much force. “I’d feel so guilty keeping you here. You’re going.”
“Like hell I am. If you’re dying, then I’ll be here feeding you soup until the end.”
She scooches up to the headboard and lays her head on my shoulder. “I love you. You know that?”
“Good, ‘cause it would be awkward as fuck if you didn’t when I’m obsessed with you.”
She laughs. “I’m not letting you miss Ischia. I feel like death, but I’m not actually dying. It’s just a crappy cold. You’d spend the whole weekend watching me sleep.”
“I’m committing to the Edward Cullen-level of creepy, and you can’t stop me.”
“Please go. I’ll feel horrible if you stay.”
I sit up, turning to get a better look at her face. She’s sweet and wonderful and, as an extension of that, has a terrible poker face. “You swear you’re okay?”
She smiles. “I swear I’m okay.”
I chew on my lip. “So, just me and Colton?” My voice is oddly high, and I see her eyes narrow.
“Yes.” She draws out the word like it’s a question. “Is that a problem?”
“Nope.” I pop the p at the end, and she raises an eyebrow.
“You’re lying! Why is it a problem?”
I groan and look up at the ceiling, unable to meet her eyes. There’s a very good chance she’ll make this into a capital T thing, but I’ve tried to keep it to myself for the past two weeks, and I’m losing my mind. “We may have kissed after we went dancing.”
Her squeal echoes through the apartment, and I’m beyond thankful that Colton’s out.
“What does this mean?”
“Nothing,” I say. “We’re attracted to each other, but we both agree we’re just friends and hooking up again isn’t an option.”
“Hooking up? You said you kissed!”
“And that wasn’t a lie. Then we touched a bit. Or, at least, he touched.”
And god, did he touch. His hands and mouth lit me up in a way I didn’t realize was possible. If that’s what he could do with a few kisses, what could he do if I got him between my legs? I can’t stop thinking about it, even though I need to.
I’m not going to mention my foray into voyeurism, or that all I can seem to hear is the way he chanted my name when he came.
She throws her body flat on the bed, thrashing and screaming like she’s undergoing an exorcism. “I knew you two would get together!”
“That’s not what’s happening here.”
“Why not? You two have so much potential. And I want you to be as happy as I am.”
She and Tomasso have been spending time together for literally two weeks, but I’m not going to point out that it isn’t some epic love story like she’s written in her head.
She squeezes my hand. “Why not give him a chance? You haven’t really dated anyone in the ten years I’ve known you.”
I cross my arms. “I’ve dated at least that many people in the same number of years.”
“You’ve gone out with people, but those connections have been about as deep as the frog pond in the Boston Common.” She raises her brows in challenge.
I cross my arms. “I dated Jas for almost a year.”
Inez grew up with Jas, and when Inez introduced me to her group of lifelong friends during our first year of grad school, I slid in seamlessly.
It was years before things started shifting between Jas and I.
Inez said she was cool with us dating, even though I could tell it made her nervous.
It hadn’t been a clean breakup, and I’d lost all of them except Inez, who now awkwardly schedules her social life around us.
She makes a skeptical mm-hmm sound. “Can we call that dating? More like exclusively hooking up. Jas only made it that long because she never makes a fuss about anything. The second you two started arguing, which is a normal part of a healthy relationship, you dumped her.”
I flinch at the description, even though it’s accurate.
It always goes the same way. I meet someone and developed feelings while everything is fun and interesting.
Then, we start arguing, or they cancel plans last minute or forget to call me back one day.
I start slowly spiraling and imagining all the ways they’re going to leave and disappoint me, and I cut it off before we can get there.
I recognize the pattern, know I’m doing it, but can’t stop myself.
Over the years, I decided that the frustration—and self-loathing, when I was unable to control my reaction—wasn’t worth it, which is why it makes more sense to focus on the fun.
Inez continues with her sales pitch. “Everyone deserves a great love! And with your best friend? How could you beat that?”
I groan and drop back on the bed next to her. “Why do you only hear what you want? I said we stopped!”
Inez purses her lips. “If you say so. But we’ll see what tune you’re singing after a romantic weekend in Ischia.”
I scoff. “A weekend with a hundred students. Who could resist that sort of romance?”
She sighs happily. “I love love.”
I throw a pillow at her face as I stand up. “You need sleep. One more word, and I’m staying home to smother you with my love and affection.”
She mimes locking her lips, but she starts humming as I walk away. It isn’t until I make it back to my room that I realize she was humming ABBA’s “When I Kissed the Teacher.”
The few hours it takes to travel south are uneventful. A short train ride to Naples, where I mostly switch between reading and counting heads to make sure no students wander from our train car, followed by a bus ride to Pompeii.
The sprawling archeological city stretches before us with Mount Vesuvius’s ominous presence looming in the background. We’ll spend a few hours here with Colton lecturing about the insight provided into ancient Roman culture by this city, frozen in time by a devastating volcanic eruption.
Like the rest of Italy in late June, Pompeii’s blistering.
The ancient concrete sucks in all the sunlight until we’re baking like Naples’s famous pizzas.
But the students stay engaged, equal parts stunned and horrified by the plaster casts of the victims, eternally trapped in their final moments.
I’m happily surprised by the level of respect they show—
Until we get to the brothel.
At the sight of the well-preserved frescoes over each door along the long hallway, their raging newly-not-teenage hormones go wild.
Each one displays a different sex act—boy, were the Romans creative—and the students can’t keep it together.
Eyes go wide. Giggles bounce off the ancient walls.
Frat boys mime the corresponding act for what they consider the funniest photo of all time.
I lean against the wall, watching them with Colton. “College students are disgusting. We were never this bad.”
He raises his eyebrows. “I’m positive I have a picture of you groping the ass of an ancient statue at Hadrian’s Villa. But please, tell me more about how they’re worse now.”
I nudge him with my shoulder and try not to think about how the contact sparks against my exposed skin. I also studiously avoid looking at the frescoes when I’m this close to my friend who I should definitely not be thinking about doing those activities with.
It’s a relief in more ways than one to make it back onto the bus.
I stand in front of the breeze pouring out of the AC vent until we reach the pier, determined to get one particular fresco out of my head.
The man on his knees for his lover, head buried between her thighs just like Colton said he’d have done if given the chance.
No. Bad Quinn.
An hour on the ferry, and we’re pulling up to one of my favorite places in the world.
Ischia looms ahead of us, the volcanic island rising out of the Bay of Naples like a gift from Neptune himself.
It’s the largest of the islands, dotted with small towns of colorful buildings, pristine beaches, and locals who are excited to meet the tourists who chose their island over the more popular Capri.