Chapter 38
Thirty-Eight
Lexi
I can’t sleep. It’s not you, jet lag, it’s me.
I re-fluff the pillows propping me up in bed where I’m sifting through all the shots I’ve taken on my phone.
Narrow cobblestone streets with flowers spilling out of window boxes.
Water sparkling in the sun at Trevi Fountain.
The blurry keyhole on Aventine Hill. The Colosseum against a bright cloudless sky.
The wide Spanish Steps leading up to the church.
I think of Mark’s eyes turned on me with all that latent mischief behind his half-smiles.
Tingles run through my body and I stretch, letting them run their course.
“It’s different with you. It was always easy with you, from the first moment.”
“All this time, you thought I was engaged?”
“I think this belongs to you, Lexington.”
“Like I told you, I got your back.”
Focus, Lexi.
I need to have something ready for the bet. The heart of Italy could be anything, which is proof I haven’t figured it out.
Around three in the morning, I settle on a picture of the Basilica from St. Peter’s Square in Vatican City.
Iconic Rome, the heart of the Catholic Church, and it’s one of my better shots.
I spend an hour editing until it’s as gorgeous as I can make it, but I’m not confident at all.
I might get votes from religious Italians or points for a good shot, but this isn’t the heart of Italy. I feel it in my bones.
A building is not an experience, no more than Mark’s scowls are his heart.
But I’m out of time and this is all I’ve got. Better brace myself for losing.
I drift off just before dawn and wake to Julie pounding on my door at eight a.m. Regret that I gave her my room number sits on my tongue, foul and stale.
Oh, nope. That’s actual morning breath.
Groaning, I stumble to the door and unlock it, then head to the bathroom as Julie breezes in. “Someone stayed up laaate,” she singsongs, way too cheerful for having flown overseas yesterday.
“Editing the photo for the bet,” I holler through the door. I pop my head out and talk around the toothbrush in my mouth. “It’s on my phone—tell me what you think.”
When I emerge, showered and clothed in my favorite V-neck dress of white crochet lace, Julie is typing on her own phone.
“Did you open the picture? The last one in the album?” I drop my folded pajama shorts and silk camisole in the drawer.
“Mm-hmm.” She nods but doesn’t look up. “It’s good.”
That’s the same mediocre reaction I had, and I’m the one who worked on it. I flop faceup on the bed, arm across my face. I have the margin to be a little dramatic around Julie because nothing I could ever do will come close to her levels. “I’m not going to win the bet.”
“So? Is it that big of a deal?”
I sit up. “Yes. I want his pictures.” It’s a lot more complicated than that. I want to know Mark more through his pictures. I want to win, but more for bragging rights than proving something to him.
“But now you’re friends, you could just ask for his pictures.”
“I’m not sure we’re that kind of friends.” It’s been barely ten minutes since we’ve had all our misunderstandings cleared up. Seven days since we met in Boston. I don’t know what we are.
Julie is way too amused by my statement. “Uh, yes you are. You are the kind of friends where you can get away with anything. The kind of friends who will be kissing within . . .” She checks her Fitbit. “The next forty-eight hours.”
I scramble off the bed. “Why would you think that?” The idea has my heart prancing like an eager dog who thinks he’s going on a walk. Julie hasn’t met Mark yet, there’s no way her prediction is accurate. Calm down, pup. “What happened to gathering more intel before deciding about Mark?”
Julie puts her phone on the desk and yanks open the curtains at the balcony door. She spins, backlit by the morning sunshine, hands on her hips. “I did. I saw the picture he took of you on your phone when I was looking for the bet photo.”
There’s her intuition again, drawing massive conclusions from little material. She’s almost always right, but what if this is the one time she’s wrong?
“How’d you get all that from one picture?” Mark and I have barely even touched, and the subject of Us is taboo.
“It’s all about you, like he’s oblivious to anything else going on. Spanish Steps, one of the most famous Rome sites? Blurry. Other people? Blurry.”
I pull up the picture on my phone. “The pigeon and little boy aren’t blurry.”
“Lexi, the kid’s face is turned away and all the bird and boy do in the picture is highlight your enjoyment of people.
” She takes my phone and peers at it. “See how he angled everything so that streak of sunlight lands right at your feet? Either he’s the best photographer I’ve ever seen, or he likes you a lot.
This is what happens to artists when they love someone—their art reveals their heart way beyond their talent. ”
I stand there, mouth open. Julie isn’t usually the eloquent mystic.
She tosses my phone and it lands on the soft bed. “So start looking for airline deals.”
I attempt a lighthearted laugh, and it comes out awkward and horsey. Unconvincing. “Don’t you think it’s a little soon to be thinking like that? I’ve known the man for a week.”
I need her to talk me down from this ridiculous hope, not fuel it. But clearly the emotional half of my brain is emperor over the land because I keep talking, almost begging her to show me there’s a way. “Our whole acquaintance is based around this bet, and I don’t want it to end today.”
She shakes her head, smirking. “It won’t. Trust me.”
I giggle, my insides fizzy and full of eager energy, and grab my sunglasses and phone. “Julie? You’re hilarious. All that confidence from one picture. Let’s go, we’re due at the Pantheon in an hour.”
Her eyes snap to my sandal choice, simple black flip-flops that give my blistered heels the day off. “You’re not wearing your espadrilles? They’re perfect for that outfit.”
I screw up my face. “There’s aesthetically perfect, and then there’s friendly. You have no idea how badly those shoes have treated me.”
We stop at my regular coffee shop and then I lead the way across town to the Pantheon.
“Slow down.” Julie is ten feet behind me in the piazza, gold-rimmed sunglasses propped on her head, taking selfies in front of almost every building.
I can’t slow down. I’m bouncing on my toes, running into people, checking the time, and rushing through the Pantheon, which should clue me in on my mental state.
The truth is, I’m a little nervous. Not nervous I’ll lose. (I will.) Not nervous Mark will delete my tourist photos off my phone. (He won’t.) I’m nervous I’ll get carried away. Flirt too much, hope too much, forget too much.
I don’t trust myself around Mark. He breaks my plans, cracks open my defenses, and changes the mother-daughter Italy I always imagined into something new. Something even closer to my heart than my mom’s temple painting.
Honestly? I’m here for it. And that’s what spooks me.