Chapter 7
Seven
Lexi
Twenty-one hours later, I pinch myself on the arm. I’m finally in Italy. The two things standing between me and Rome are my checked suitcase and a real cup of coffee, then I’m off to the Eternal City.
The varied suitcases ride around the luggage carousel like bored kids on a subpar fair ride. I’ll recognize mine right away—a brand-new blue suitcase sporting a bright turquoise scrap of fabric around the handle.
The other travelers lug their bags off the carousel. Fewer and fewer suitcases make the rounds. Mine isn’t here. Probably took off for a vacay in Fiji at the first sign of delay in Frankfurt.
At least we shipped Mom’s painting ahead of me.
Thanks to my obsessive precautions, I have tonight’s outfit in my carry-on—my gold sequined skirt, white silk blouse, and heels for the formal, private function to welcome the festival artists and rehearse the main events.
Everything runs smoother when people know where they’re supposed to be and when.
But if I don’t get through luggage claims in time, I won’t be there at all.
I spin toward the lost baggage office and find a familiar tall, dark-haired man in the doorway.
You have got to be kidding me.
I haven’t seen him since we split ways in Frankfurt, except when the family with the little girls rushed onto the plane at the last second. Mark twisted around to where I sat a few rows behind him and gave me a small, relieved smile, as if he understood how worried I was about them getting to Rome.
I’m half asleep, equal parts panic and numbness. I don’t have the energy to fight—with him or with my conflicted interest in him—but there’s little avoiding him now.
With a defeated groan, I trudge over, joining Mark in the short line. He half turns and his blue eyes widen. “You too?”
I nod, taking the paper form and a pencil stub from the officer. Mark and I move to a standing-height table. I blink, hoping the words sharpen. They don’t. My heavy arm won’t even raise to the desk. Sleep is a black hole, and I’m an inch away from its gravitational pull.
“The first line is asking for your full name.”
I gaze up at him, not registering what he’s talking about. He taps the line on my form with all the patience of a hockey player in the penalty box. “Your full name, here.”
I study the paper again. Oh. It’s in Italian, and Mark with the Opinions of Shallow Tourists assumes I can’t read it. Because he thinks I lose my passport, choose outfits based on a Hepburn movie, and can’t lift my luggage up to the overhead bins.
Fine, that’s all true, except I do know Italian.
When I said I’d been preparing for this trip my whole life, I meant it.
My mom used to drop Italian words around the house the way other mothers blow soap bubbles for their kids.
She wasn’t fluent, but she knew enough to give me a taste.
I studied online starting in middle school, took every class available through high school and college, and have met with an Italian tutor in Boston twice a month for the past year.
All for the Walker girls’ trip that would happen one Magical Someday.
If she were here, we’d turn this mishap into an adventure. If she were here, I would muster up the energy to fill out this form. We would be cracking up. She could borrow a pair of my socks because she always forgot to pack them.
I open my mouth to set Mark straight, but he angles his completed paper so I can see how to answer each part. You know what? It might be fun to keep my knowledge of Italian to myself for a bit. So instead, I read his answers.
His full name is Mark Russo. His phone number is a weird string of nine numbers that isn’t American, but his Rome address is pretty straightforward.
He sees I’m not moving. He spins my blank form to face him, sighing with ill-concealed exasperation.
“Here. Full name: Lexington Walker. Flight: same as mine,” he says to himself as he fills it out with strong, block letters.
Legible handwriting, almost artistic. “Luggage number. They probably put the sticker onto the back of your passport. Do you still have your passport?”
I give him a slow, unamused blink. He looks innocent, those sleepy eyes behind his glasses, hair a wild mess of curls, but he’s not.
He knows exactly what he’s insinuating. Without moving any muscle more than necessary or taking my eyes from his, I lift my passport from my bag and slap it onto the table.
He flips it over and copies out the number. “Address of stay?”
I pull out my phone, open the hotel’s confirmation email, and he writes the address with one loud, disapproving cluck, as if I’m staying in the wrong part of town. Then, before I can stop him, he’s sent himself a quick message with my phone so he has my number.
“You think I won’t show up for our bet?” I muster up enough energy to defend my honor.
He drops my phone and passport into my gaping bag, stacks our forms together, and shrugs.
“You look like you’ll stand there until your legs give out.
Great start.” He passes the papers to the elderly employee collecting them, then turns back to me.
“Seriously, are you going to make it to your hotel?”
“I am perfectly capable. I’ll be in my Uber in minutes.” I lift my chin and stand straight, poised, shoulders back. Then ruin my bluff by swaying.
He grasps my elbow with one hand and my carry-on with the other since he only has the one bag slung around his shoulders. “Let’s go, Leaning Tower of Pisa.”
I would yank my arm out of his grasp except I’m not sure I can stay upright without it. And tell no one, but his fingers are gentle and warm and pleasantly firm.
We step into the Mediterranean sunshine and pause.
My first sight of Italy is worth all the travel.
Sure, it’s just an airport, but I drink it all in.
The miniature cars, the abundance of scooters, the salty tang from the sea .
. . I let out a tiny, delighted squeal. I’m here for my mom, but I can appreciate Italy’s charms like a regular tourist.
Mark looks from me to the scene in front of us and back to me. His expression is intense, almost jealous. Italy doesn’t belong to him, I feel like saying, even if he’s been here longer.
“You can head out.” I don’t need his pathos tainting the summery Italian mood.
“I’ll wait until you’re settled in your Uber.”
I get it. He’s trying to prevent me from collapsing on the sidewalk. If I land in the hospital with a concussion, the Italian taxpayers are the ones who will bear the cost of an exhausted tourist. He’s such a hero to the people.
On the road, headed toward us, a man on a large motorcycle honks and waves at someone emerging from the airport exit. He isn’t slowing at the crosswalk, where a teenage girl is walking, head buried in her phone.
“Ao’! Attento!” I holler at them both, flailing my arms.
The man jerks his gaze back to the road and swerves, a ribbon-width away from plowing into the girl. His heavy bike skids toward us, tilting, inches from falling horizontal and crashing.
Mark grips my shoulders and whisks me behind him, backing us both away from the street, but the driver regains control and the motorbike comes to a safe stop.
Everything stills, except my heartbeat. Few people in my life would protect me like that, and maybe it was instinct, but it meant something to me.
That will wake a body up.
Mark spins, eyebrows sky high, his jaw slack, and stares at me. “You speak . . .”
I nod, but he’s not done. “Not only Italian . . . Romanesco.” He runs a hand down his jawline.
Ten bucks he’s having trouble connecting the useless, clueless tourist he thought I was to this version of me, one with a few slang phrases in her arsenal.
“So—why did I fill out your form at luggage claims?” The way he says it makes it sound like I forced him to do it, arm twisted behind his back, instead of him taking over on his own.
I put my hands on my hips, angling my head with a silent really? The fact that his help was an act of (annoyed) compassion will not be discussed.
“Maybe less assumptions about me next time?” My Ford Fiesta pulls up to the curb with the perfect timing of a movie scene (except it’s a bit paint-chipped and ratty). I drop my carry-on in the trunk and slam it shut. “See you in a week to collect my spoils from winning the bet.”
He’s still staring when I hop in and shut the door. The driver is blocked in for the moment. No one can inch forward since a family is rushing across the street, and they plow straight into Mark, hugging and shouting just outside my window.
The cars begin to move, and I twist in my seat.
Mark lifts a little boy to his shoulders, both of them giggling.
The smile on Mark’s face isn’t the cautious but interested half-smile he gave me when we first met, or the teasing, goading grin from Frankfurt.
This is wide and open, and I feel instinctively it’s reserved for the special few, the kind of delight one works ages to receive.
My driver pulls away, but not before I’m blinded.
I stare out the back-seat window during the hour-long ride to my hotel. Ancient walls, gorgeous bridges, and sunshine bathing every stone until it glows, and all I see is Mark’s breathtaking smile.
If he ruins Italy for me, I’ll never forgive him.