Chapter 4
Four
Lexi
Sure, I said I needed to get away from this guy (and it’s not my fault we’re seatmates) yet here I am locking myself into a bet and furthering our acquaintance.
Despite his humor, excellent listening, eye-contact skills, and other intriguing features (his face, I mean his face), I’m safe now.
Because of that whole #TouristsAreTheWorst thing.
Mark angles closer to me, his voice eager like sparks on dry wood. “You’re on, Lexington.”
I meet his stare, though I feel the sudden prick of unshed tears. I go by Lexi, and only my mom called me Lexington. How did Mark even guess my full—oh, my passport.
“Hey.” His voice is a whisper, and his eyes search mine. “Are you okay?”
I’ve missed hearing that name so much. I want him to say it again.
But it won’t bring my mom back, even if it felt like home.
I clear my dry throat. “It’s Lexi. I go by Lexi. So how do I prove I’ve seen the real Italy?”
The cabin lights flicker and dim, an airline-imposed bedtime. Half the passengers are snuggled under their blue, static-machine blankets in cramped positions, trying for at least a few hours of sleep, the other half zombied out with their movies and music, noise-cancelling headphones in place.
Mark passes me the water bottle from the netted pocket in front of me and lowers his voice, matching the atmosphere of the dark cabin. “We’ll meet a week from today, and you tell me what the heart of Italy is.”
I take a drink, grateful we’re back to the bet.
“The heart of Italy? That sounds vague and open to interpretation.” And poetic.
In the shadows, I scan his features again, looking for a hint of artistry.
His strong jawline and stormy eyes belong to someone with his jaded outlook on travel, but the laugh lines and riot of curls tell a different story.
“I’ll know if you have the wrong answer.”
Oh, the smugness. “Whether I do or not, what’s to keep you from telling me I’m wrong so you win?”
He pulls back, frowning. “You think I’d lie?”
“I don’t know you at all.” Keep it that way, Lexi. I think of the stock photo that started all this, and I know how to win. “Let’s have the world decide. We’ll post two pictures on social media and ask for a vote based on who has captured the heart of Italy. Best photo wins.”
“I’m not on social media. It would be all your friends picking your version.”
I snap my fingers. “We can ask Ninth-King-of-Rome to run the contest. It’s an anonymous Instagram account of Rome photography that I follow. Whoever it is has about twelve-thousand followers. I’ve had a few interactions with the creator. This would be right up Ninth King’s alley.”
He stills, brow furrowed.
“Ninth king because they call Francesco Totti the eighth king of Rome. He’s a soccer—”
“I know who Totti is.”
As a foil to his stiff annoyance, I flash him my most chipper smile. “Okay, well, so do I.” See. I know cultural stuff too. That wasn’t from Wikipedia. “What are the stakes?”
“If you lose,” he says, his voice so close to my ear that I shiver—with annoyance, it’s annoyance—“every tourist picture you take of Rome this week needs my approval to stay on your phone.”
I cough on another sip of water. “You’re crazy.
” I don’t care how sure I am I’ll win, I’m not about to risk losing a record of my time in Rome.
And the fact he thinks whatever pictures I take will be ill-used, exploited, and mistaken because I’m just a tourist is maddening.
“What’s to stop me from uploading them to the Cloud? ”
He dips his chin. “Honor system. I trust you.”
Well, that takes all the fun out of loopholing him.
“And if I lose,” he continues, “I AirDrop every picture I have of Italy onto your laptop, including permission to use, edit, print, or sell.”
Whoa.
Wait, speaking of loopholes. “Do you have any pictures?” Not that I’m agreeing to these stakes.
He nods. “I’ve lived in Rome for six years.
I’m an architect and part-time photographer.
There are over ten thousand pictures in my Italy folder.
” He gives me a self-conscious smile. “Admittedly, a quarter of them are close-ups of architectural details. But the rest are shots of all my best memories there.”
Against my will, I’m impressed. Think of the banners, invitations, and backdrops I could create with a boatload of professional photos at my disposal, especially if we take our company international.
No more paying for subpar graphics or stock photos to capture the European aesthetic clients love.
It doesn’t faze me at all that he’s professional-level.
He obviously won’t be Photoshopping his submission for this bet since he’s so against staging and filters, and his type of raw photography is not going to win votes in the twenty-first century.
He must think by my silence I don’t believe him. He pulls his phone back out and before he opens his photos, I catch a glimpse of his boarding pass.
First class. Why is he sitting here by me in economy?
While he scrolls through his pictures, I examine his profile, like that would give me a clue as to who this man is who doesn’t believe in travel but trades out his first-class seat, who scorns the gorgeous picture of Rome but who loves photographing Italy, who invited me for a bite to eat but who gave up his name like it pained him to relinquish it.
“Are you supposed to be in first class?”
He pauses, his finger hovering over his phone. “No.”
“I saw your boarding pass.” Caught you lying is what I mean.
He sighs, glances at me, then returns to running through pictures on his phone. “There was an old man.”
“What does that mean?”
“He had long legs. If that were my grandpa—” He shakes his head and mumbles the rest without looking up from his phone. “He’ll be more comfortable up there than crammed into these seats.” Mark’s own knees graze the seat in front of him.
“So you offered to switch with him?”
Instead of answering, he clicks open a picture and gives his phone over for me to inspect it.
I pull it close, ignoring the brush of our fingers at the transfer. Despite his irritating opinions and blunt answers, there’s something complicated and arresting about what he’s revealed, as if a closed door cracked open and let out a shaft of light.
The cynic has a noble, tender spot.
The phone is still warm from his hand, and I gaze at the picture, my breath hitching.
There’s a little girl, white summer dress billowing out as she spins in a courtyard, head back in laughter.
Her dark hair is falling out of pigtails, a clear indication of a day well lived.
Behind her, a pale building with two green paneled doors, the paint scuffed, is draped in ivy hanging over the building’s corners.
The glee on the girl’s face and the way the late afternoon sunshine hits the door behind her .
. . it’s sharp and soft in all the right places.
I swallow around the lump in my throat. Whatever about this place has captured the girl’s excitement, it’s clear the pregnant woman off to the side is focused on her daughter.
It’s the same expression of satisfied joy my mom used to give me on our cheap adventures—corn mazes, yard sales, covered bridges, the library.
She always made places magical, and I want to follow in her footsteps. Starting with wherever this is. How hard could it be to find a green door set in a cream-colored building with ivy? I scout venue locations and notice details for a living.
He lifts the phone from my hands and stares at it for a second, his eyes softening.
He shoves his phone back in the seat pocket again. His expression shutters, and that shaft of light goes dark.
“Is that your family?” The question pops out before I can stop it.
“Yes. My cousin.”
A plan hits me. He said we would meet in a week, me with my answer. My trip is ten days. If by some wild chance I lose the bet and he vetoes any of my pictures, I have another few days to retake any shots I want. But I won’t lose, because Mom raised me to love a place I’ve never been.
“Deal,” I say before I can change my mind.
I offer my hand, and he shakes it. He was right about one thing. (And only one.) My stock photo is cardboard compared to the tangible Italy he captured with his camera, though it wasn’t a recognizable tourist destination.
But I’m not worried. He’s going to pit his raw photography against the daughter of a famous artist who has prepped for this trip for years and yearned for Italy her whole life? This guy has no chance.
“Trevi Fountain. At noon,” he says.
Out of nowhere, turbulence shakes the plane. A violent dip in altitude has me grabbing the closest stable thing, which happens to be Mark’s wrist on the armrest. Without—and I can’t stress this enough—thought or premeditation.
He raises an eyebrow at me, so I panic-quote. “‘You’re my last hope.’”
I really need to get that weird impulse under control.
He rolls his eyes and mutters, “Only hope.” Then, after a slight pause, that trademark half-smile appears. “‘Attachment is forbidden.’”
I snatch my hand away, my nervousness gone. He chuckles in the dark, too satisfied for my sense of justice. His Star Wars quote doesn’t fit the situation, so it’s not as brilliant and funny as he thinks.
I rest back against the seat, plotting his demise.
I’ll prove him wrong, and I’ll get his pictures.