When In Rome...Find Yourself: A Sweet New Adult Romance

by Lena Mae Hill

  “I’m here,” she said. “In Rome.”

  “Oh, thank the Lord, you made it,” Winnie said. “I was so worried about you.”

  “Didn’t you get my text from London?”

  “Of course I did,” Winnie said. “I couldn’t sleep worth a darn last night, waiting for it.”

  “Sorry, Mom.”

  “You got in okay, though? No bad weather? How was the flight?”

  “It was fine,” Rory said. “Kind of scary, but not too bad.”

  “You’re taking your meds, right? Don’t forget to stay on Arkansas time for your schedule.”

  “I won’t forget,” Rory said, shuffling through the airport with her phone clenched between her ear and her shoulder. The group she’d been following went to a bar in the airport, but Rory was afraid she’d miss her ride if she stopped, so she stood outside the bar for a minute, contemplating her options. To her relief, she saw a sign that was in several languages as well as Italian, so she followed the English directions and found her way to the baggage claim.

  This wasn’t so hard. She could do this. After six weeks, she’d be a pro, and both she and her parents would know that she could handle life on her own.

  She looked around for her bags, checking her flight number several times. She had the right carousel, but the bags weren’t there yet, so she looked around for someone holding a sign with her name. Her mother had told her to use a fake name, so that no one in the airport would be broadcasting that she was a tourist named Rory Hartnett.

  A large black suitcase thumped out of the gaping mouth atop the carousel, causing her to jump. She took a deep breath and clenched her shaking hands into fists. And then she saw a dreadlocked guy about her age, wearing baggy shorts and a tie-dye t-shirt, holding a sign that read Stefani Germanotta. It couldn’t be. Someone else had chosen her fake name!

  Her eyes darted around the cavernous baggage claim. What if her host mother had taken the wrong Stefani Germanotta home? And she had no way to know if her host mother had already come and gone, or if she hadn’t arrived. All she could do was speed walk up and down the terminal, her heart stampeding through her chest, pushing past crowds surrounding each baggage carousel, eyes darting from one sign to another.

  Finally, in a panic, she pulled out her phone and jabbed at the screen with trembling fingers. She couldn’t call her parents. They’d freak out, too. But she knew exactly who would help her calm down.

  “Why are you calling me at this obscene hour?” Quinn groaned into the phone, her voice heavy with sleep.

  “It’s like eight in the morning where you are.”

  “Obsceeeeennnnne,” Quinn moaned. “Worse than I even thought.”

  “I need your help,” Rory said, glancing at the hippie with the sign, as if he might suspect her. But he was staring off into space. “I got to the airport, and there’s a guy with a sign with the fake name we picked out. But it’s a guy! It’s not my house mom. There must be another person using that name.”

  “There are a lot of Lady Gaga fans in the world,” Quinn said through a yawn.

  “Not helpful.”

  “You’re going to have to go talk to him.”

  “What? How? How can I do that, Quinn?” Rory snuck another glance, but the guy hadn’t moved a muscle since she last looked.

  “Go up and just tell him what happened. Ask who he’s waiting for, and he obviously won’t say a girl studying abroad, and then tell him that was your fake name, and wait with him, so you know he finds the right one. Your house Mom probably hasn’t even gotten there. Make sure he knows that there are two of you so he gets the right one.” When Quinn said it, it all sounded so rational and sensible.

  “Okay,” Rory took a deep breath. “Thanks.”

  “Text me later and let me know how it goes.”

  After they hung up, Rory took a few more deep breaths and squeezed her hands into fists. This was it. She was going to have to approach the guy. She bit down on her lip, willing herself to stay calm. He didn’t look too scary. He was skinny and short, maybe five foot eight, with light brown shoulder length dreads and what might possibly be a prematurely receding hairline, or just an exceptionally high forehead. And he looked kind of lost, still staring off into space instead of looking for Stefani.

  Before she could weigh all the terrible possibilities, she strode over to the guy. “Hey,” she said. “Hi.”

  “Heyyyy,” he said in this slow way, like the cliché stoner from a stoner movie.

  “Your sign?” she said, gesturing. “That’s who you’re waiting for?”

  “Are you Stefani?” He pronounced it like Gwen Stefani instead of Stephanie. It occurred to her that she didn’t actually know how to pronounce her fake name.

  “Um, so, I think maybe, well, maybe someone else took my ride, maybe this Stefani you’re waiting for. Because my host mother, see, I’m studying abroad, and I’ve never met my host mom, but she’s supposed to be here to get me. With that sign.”

  He peered down at the sign like he was reading it for the first time. “There’s two Stefani Germanottas?” he asked after reading it.

  “See, I didn’t think there would be, or that anyone else would use that name, so I used it, in case…you know, for safety reasons.” She was so hot, she thought her skin might start peeling like it did every time she went out in the sun for five minutes without sunscreen. “But now I’m thinking I should have used my real name.”

  “Yeah,” he said in that same stoner voice. “Lying isn’t cool.”

  “Um. Yeah. I know.”

  “So you’re not Stefani?”

  “Uh…no. But that’s what my sign says.”

  “Cool,” he said. “I think you’re the right person.”

  She took a step back. “Right for what?”

  “Your host mom sent me to get you,” he said, like he hadn’t done anything wrong at all, like he hadn’t let her ramble on and make a fool of herself for five minutes. “She doesn’t go out much. Or ever.”

  “Who are you?” Rory asked, her mind racing. Why had she told him all that stuff? He could be anyone, and now he had her background information so he could pretend to be someone related to her host mother, and then she’d leave with him and he’d turn out to be a serial killer, and she’d end up in the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea without eyeballs or hair. Or whatever calling card he had.

  “Oh, I’m Ned,” he said, thrusting out a hand to her and shaking his dreads back.

  She looked at his outstretched hand. “Okay, but first, tell me the name of the person you’re picking up. I can’t just leave with any random stranger.” She was so proud of herself she couldn’t help but smiling. She’d stood up for herself already, instead of just going along so as not to make a scene. Maybe she could do this after all.

  “Rory,” he said. “Uh, Hartnett, I think. Is that right?”

  Her smile vanished. She wasn’t sure what to do now. He’d gotten her name, first and last. That meant she should go with him. Didn’t it?

  “You got your stuff?”

  “I have a suitcase,” she said.

  “That’s not it?” he asked, nodding to her carryon bag.

  “No.”

  “Let’s get it then.”

  “How do I know—my host mother sent you?”

  “Her name is Theresa,” he said, like he was reminding her rather than convincing her of his identity. “She makes mean sugar cookies.”

  “O-kay…”

  “Oh, and she never leaves the house. She says she’s going to, but she doesn’t. Not like ever, dude.”

  “She didn’t tell me she’d be sending you.”

  “Well, here I am,” he said, following her to the baggage carousel. She got out her phone with the emails from Theresa. Just because he knew her name didn’t mean she trusted him. She made him give her the address, and she still called Theresa, who assured her that he was supposed to be there for her.

  “Where’s my bag?” she asked when she’d gotten off th
e phone. Most of the passengers on her flight had gotten their luggage and gone, leaving only two or three abandoned suitcases circling endlessly.

  “Dunno,” Ned said. “You sure this is the right flight?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” she said, twisting her hands. “It’s not here. What do I do? Do you think someone stole it? Or picked it up by mistake? Do we wait to see if they come back and exchange it for one of these?”

  “Does it look like these?”

  “No,” she admitted. “It’s Vera Bradley. Quilted, with flowers.”

  “I don’t know, dude. I don’t see it. Want to go check with the information desk?”

  “Yes,” she said, relieved that he was taking control of the situation, though he didn’t seem to know it. “That’s what we should do.”

  They made their way to the desk, where Rory stood mutely while Ned stared off into space. “Um, so I can’t find my bag,” Rory said when the man behind the counter’s face began to move from boredom towards annoyance.

  “Flight?” he asked in a German accent.

  She recited her flight number, and he tapped away at his keyboard. “Uh huh,” he said, then tapped away some more. “I see.” Tap tap tap. “Right. Right.”

  She glanced at Ned, who didn’t seem to notice the guy talking to his computer screen.

  “It seems to be in London,” the guy said at last.

  “London? What am I going to do?”

  “It will be sent over on the next flight,” the man assured her. “We’ll send it to you in a taxi.”

  What was happening? Everything had gone so well, and now it was all falling apart. Theresa hadn’t come to get her, and her bag had been inexplicably left in London, and who even knew why or when it would arrive or who might have shuffled through it while she was on her way to Rome.

  “So you got this chick’s luggage?” Ned asked, snapping out of his daze.

  “They’ll bring it to the house,” Rory muttered, her face warming as the man at the counter gave them an odd look. “Or we can wait…?”

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to drive off with this guy, who couldn’t keep up with a simple conversation. It didn’t seem like the safest option.

  “Nah, let’s go,” he said. “Theresa’s waiting for us.”

  Rory bit at a hangnail, but she didn’t see any other options, so she followed Ned out of the airport. To her relief, he wasn’t driving. He hailed a cab, asked the driver if he spoke English, and directed him to Theresa’s address. The cab driver was a wide-faced, Middle Eastern guy with a turban and a grey beard.

  What if he’s a terrorist?

  No, that’s racist. Of course he’s not a terrorist.

  She bit at one of her fingernails and glanced at Ned. He appeared content gazing out the window. Not at all like someone afraid their cab driver might be about to blow them all to hell.

  Italy doesn’t have terrorists, she assured herself.

  Do they?

  A twinge of pain alerted her that she’d bitten her fingernail down to the quick. She dabbed it on her leg, only to see a pinprick of blood when she lifted her finger. Oh crap. What if someone thought she’d gotten her period and leaked a tiny bit? But no, it was on her thigh. Still, it was pretty apparent on her pale pink skirt. It was growing, too. Spreading to the size of a pea.

  She examined the end of her finger, where a tiny dot of blood was welling up where she’d bitten too far. Her mother always warned her to stop biting her nails. How was she going to remember for six whole weeks in a new and foreign place? How was she going to survive six weeks in a new and foreign place? She’d barely left the airport and already, she was freaking out.

  Okay, deep breaths.

  “Heyyyy,” Ned said. “You okay?”

  Heat spread up her neck. When had he sobered up enough to stop staring into space and look at her?

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said, balling her hand into a fist. “Nervous habit.”

  “Oh, cool,” he said. “I have a lot of those.”

  A laugh burst out of her, so relieving that she couldn’t stop once she’d started. She couldn’t imagine this stoner had ever been nervous in his life. Ned was looking at her blankly, which made her giggle harder. She could feel how red her face must be, like the sunburn she’d gotten when she fell asleep on the beach after applying sunscreen that had passed the expiration date, and her whole body blistered afterwards.

  “Is she good?” the cab driver asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

  “I don’t know, man,” Ned said in his stoner drawl.

  “Don’t get sick in my cab,” the driver barked at Rory. “No vomit!”

  This made her laugh harder, until tears squeezed out of her eyes. Ned laughed uncertainly. The cab pulled over, and Rory thought they were about to get kicked out of their ride on the side of the street, and she managed to pull herself together.

  “I’m fine,” she said, wiping at her tears. “I’m sorry. Really, I’m okay. I’ll stop.”

  “This is Theresa’s,” Ned said.

  “Oh.” Now she felt like an even bigger moron as she dried her face. After Ned paid the driver, she climbed out of the cab with him. Looking up at the sliver of a house between other tall, narrow slivers, her nervousness returned. What if Theresa didn’t like her? What if she didn’t like Theresa? What was she supposed to say to her, anyway? Was she supposed to get to know her, ask for tours of the city? Or just stay out of her way as much as possible, trying not to be more of an inconvenience than she already was, a stranger invading her house for six weeks?

  CHAPTER three

  Ned was already walking up to the front door, so Rory followed. A fat cat was sitting near the front door eyeing them, its black fur glossy, a downy white chest looking soft as rabbit’s fur. Rory was allergic to cats, but she still admired this one’s dignified air. When she stepped closer to give it a quick pet, it hissed, bearing its needle-sharp teeth, then turned and streaked away.

  “Don’t take it personally,” Ned said. “That’s Tom. He hates life.”

  “Is that Theresa’s cat?”

  “No, they’re loose in the city,” Ned said. “They were brought here to take care of the rat problem, and now they’re kind of a cross between pets and pests. People take care of them, but they hate everyone.”

  “I definitely won’t try to make friends with him again,” Rory said, a little shaken by the cat’s menacing glare. She was glad she hadn’t touched it. It could have rabies.

  Ned opened the door without knocking and walked right in, and after a moment’s hesitation, Rory followed. The floors were a reddish hardwood, almost the color of Rory’s hair. The wallpaper was a winter white with faded, dusty-blue flowers. A short, round woman with wrinkled, tan skin, round spectacles, and salt and pepper hair came into the hallway then, her arms open wide. “You made it,” she crowed in a strong Italian accent, a big smile on her face. “Come here and let me see you.”

  Rory shuffled nervously forward, still clutching the handle of her bag, its wheels rolling noisily on the hardwood floor. “Hi.”

  Theresa hugged her hard, then held her at arm’s length to study her, like a long-lost aunt who hadn’t seen her since childhood and wanted to see how she’d change

  “With the red hair,” Theresa said, touching her hair. “The boys must be crazy for you.” She winked and released Rory at last.

  “Ha, yeah,” Rory said, her face warm again.

  “Come into the kitchen, we can talk while I bake. I’m making pizza tonight. Ned’s favorite.” This time, she winked over Rory’s shoulder at Ned.

  “He’s…staying for dinner?” Rory asked.

  “Of course,” Theresa said. “I feed him every night he’s here.”

  “Well, you don’t have to feed me,” Rory said. “The program, the study abroad office, they said you’d provide breakfast and lunch but I’d be on my own for dinner.”

  “That’s nonsense,” Theresa said. “Come and sit. I’m only making the dough now. It’
s too early for dinner.”

  “Right,” Rory said. She’d slept on the plane, but she was exhausted, nonetheless, and her sense of time was completely askew.

  She sat in the kitchen while Theresa punched down a ball of dough.

  “You make your dough from scratch?” she asked. “That’s dedication.”

  “How else do you make pizza?”

  “You buy a crust, I guess.”

  “That’s not pizza.”

  Rory glanced around the tiny kitchen, its wallpaper a faded, pastel yellow with sunflowers around the edges. Above the ancient stove was a row of porcelain sugar bowls, gravy boats, cream pitchers, and other seldom used dishes interspersed with ceramic figures of angels. In the center stood a ceramic crucifix with a tortured Jesus hanging on it.

  Oh, no. She’d gotten a religious one. But of course she’d be Catholic. Most people in Italy were. They had so many famous churches and cathedrals, and the Pope nearby in the Vatican. Her mother would hate for her to be staying with a Catholic. But Rory figured she didn’t have to tell her mother that part. There were plenty of things she’d kept from her mother since going to college.

  “So, who’s Ned?” she asked after taking in the room.

  “Ned is Ned,” Theresa said, not turning from her dough ball.

  “But is he your…son? Neighbor?”

  “He’s a boarder, like you,” Theresa said.

  “He’s staying here?” Rory squeaked. She hadn’t heard him leave, it was true, and he wasn’t in the kitchen. But she’d assumed he’d gone quietly into the city and disappeared forever. Not that she’d have to see him again. Not that she was living with him.

  “Don’t worry, there are rooms for you both,” Theresa said. “And don’t try to sneak in each other’s room when I’m not looking.” She smiled and winked at Rory again.

  Rory’s face flamed. “I won’t.”