“If memory serves me right, I tried to warn you.”
“Well, my memory doesn’t serve me at all … except …” The image of his leaning down and kissing me flits through my head.
“What do you remember?” he coaxes.
“Did you … ?” I shake my head and pain shoots through my skull as my brain sloshes. “No, forget it.”
Even if he did, it doesn’t mean anything, right?
“I have something else I’d like to show you,” he tells me after a second. “Since there’s no tour next Friday, I was hoping I could steal you away for a few hours.”
“Ooh! Mystery.”
“It’s not all that mysterious, I’m afraid, but I thought you might find it intriguing.”
“What is it?”
“There is a traveling exhibit of Pompeian artwork housed at the National Museum this month.”
“Oh my God! Are you serious? Why didn’t they tell us about that at school?”
“I can’t speak to your professor’s motivations, but I can speak to mine. I’ve been wanting to see it but thought I’d wait for you to get back.”
“So, Friday?” I confirm. “It will still be there?”
“Through the end of January.”
“I am so in.”
“Excellent. I’ll see you then. And happy birthday again.”
When he disconnects, I roll my face back into the pillow. My plan is to sleep until class on Monday, and if my head hasn’t stopped throbbing, maybe Tuesday.
Chapter Seventeen
WE’VE BEEN TO the National Museum before, of course. It was one of the first places Alessandro took me. They have three rooms in the back that, when we were here in September, had a traveling display of second-and third-century pottery. We make a beeline for those rooms.
“I really want to go to Pompeii before I leave,” I tell Alessandro as we walk into the exhibit. “I’ve seen Florence and Venice on my class trips, and I get to see Corsica next month”—I smile at him—“so thank you, but I’ve never been south.”
“It’s only three hours by train to Pompeii,” he says. “We could go.”
It’s everything I can do not to jump up and down and clap like a five-year-old. “That would be unbelievable.”
We spill into the first room and take our time perusing the artwork. Mt. Vesuvius buried Pompeii under volcanic ash in A.D. 79, so all this art is from the first century or earlier. And it’s incredible. There is statuary and painted pottery and a few frescoes that were removed from crumbing walls and preserved. Each piece has a plaque with a bit about its history and where in Pompeii it was found, complete with pictures. We spend the next two hours working through the first two rooms.
“This is just beyond cool,” I say over my shoulder to Alessandro as we round the corner into the third and smallest room. He grasps my arm just as I run into a sign propped on a stand.
He grins as I gasp. “Best to contain your enthusiasm long enough to watch your step. I sincerely doubt your credit-card limit would cover damage to anything in this room.”
“Sorry,” I say, righting the sign, then turn to the room.
Directly in front of me is a statue. It’s mostly just a pair of torsos with legs, because the heads and arms have fallen off, but there’s no mistaking what they’re doing. The naked man’s torso is seated on a stump, and his huge erection, which has definitely not fallen off, is pressing into the half-dressed female torso from behind.
Something stirs between my legs, and I can’t look at Alessandro.
“Well, that’s something, isn’t it?” he says, and when I finally get up the nerve to glance at him, he’s lifting his eyebrows at me, half a smile on his lips.
“Um … yeah. Something.”
I turn my flaming face to the wall, and on it is a fresco of a man and woman going at it doggie style. “Oh my God!” I say, and turn away. “What the hell did that sign say, anyway?”
I walk back and look at it. In both Italian and English is a warning that the exhibit in this room contains erotic art. “No kidding,” I mutter. “Let’s go,” I say to Alessandro, but he’s moved deeper into the room. “Lexie, this is art. I’m interested to see it.”
“Really?” I say, stepping back into the room.
He turns to me and lifts an eyebrow. “People have sex. Does that embarrass you?”
If I were here on my own, I’d want to see this for sure. He’s right. These are authentic ancient pieces that I couldn’t see anywhere else. But I’m not here alone. I’m here with a very sexy man in a white collar who may or may not have put my drunken ass to bed on my birthday last week and kissed me.
“It’s just … I—”
He grasps my hand and pulls me to his side. “This is fascinating, Lexie. Read this,” he says, pointing to the plaque next to a picture.
The picture was taken in Pompeii, so apparently this fresco is still there, in the House of Vetti. It’s an image of Priapus, the Greek god of fertility. Jutting out from under his tunic is an erection that would hang to his knees if it weren’t resting on a scale in front of him, where he’s apparently weighing it.
“It says frescoes and statues of Priapus were common in the doorways of ancient Roman households,” Alessandro says, running his finger over the words on the plaque. “It was considered good luck to stroke the penis upon entry.”
Oh. My. God. How is it that I’m standing here with an almost-priest listening to him talking about “stroking the penis upon entry”?
“Yeah … wow,” I say, turning away and pressing my hands to my flaming cheeks. “That’s … um … fascinating.”
He moves to the next piece: a mosaic from the baths, so the plaque says, of a woman on her back giving the very horny man (judging by the size of his erection) kneeling over her a hand job.
My face is just about to burst into actual flames.
I move ahead of Alessandro and scan each piece, pausing just long enough so he’ll think I’m really looking at them. I’m waiting in the second room when he finally comes out several minutes later.
“I think that paints an interesting portrait of human nature, don’t you?” he asks.
“Yeah. Definitely.”
“It hasn’t changed much in two thousand years.” I look at him to see if he’s messing with me, but he’s looking over a mosaic on the wall, his expression serious. “Have you seen enough?” he finally asks, turning his attention to me.
I’ve seen more than enough. “Let’s go.”
WHEN SAM CALLS while I’m making dinner, I’m surprised. She texts me occasionally, and I work pretty hard to steer the conversation away from Trent, but she’s never called me here.
“I scored tickets to take Trent to see Ed Sheeran on Thursday in San Francisco,” she shrieks into the phone when I pick up.
“Trent loves Ed Sheeran.” My face pinches against unexpected tears as I remember all times he sat with his guitar on the edge of my bed and sang “The A Team” to me. I’ve always thought of that and “Someone, Somehow” as our songs.
“Duh! That’s why I got the tickets—and a reservation at the Hyatt. It’s going to be a night he’ll never forget, culminating in mad animal sex that will rock his world.”
I breathe deep. This is what I wanted. Trent and I have an agreement—which means he’s going to see other people. “He’s going to flip,” I tell her. And hope I’m not.
BUT I DO.
I spend the next week obsessing, imagining them together in ways I’d rather not. Friday morning, I sit in class and keep looking at my clock, doing the math. San Francisco is nine hours behind Rome, so right now it’s … eleven o’clock last night there. The concert is probably breaking up right about now. Are they walking to the hotel? Will they stop for a drink on the way? Maybe a scotch?
Damn. Stop it!
I can’t torture myself over this. I’m moving on, building a new life with new friends. It’s been six months since Trent and I slept together. It’s ancient history, and he’s moving on too. It’s al
l good.
It’s all good.
It’s all good.
If I say it enough, maybe I’ll start to believe it.
The truth is, I’m loving my life here. I love the time I spend with the kids at the Vatican, and I love hanging out in the cafés with my classmates drinking espresso and eating pastries. I love getting lost on purpose in the charmed streets of Rome and making some new and marvelous discovery—a crumbling marble fountain tucked away in a lost alleyway; a hidden catacomb; a quiet, undiscovered flower garden just steps off the beaten path. I love taking a panini and my sketchpad to the bridge and sketching the artists along the Tiber as they sketch their Roman scenes. I sketch the awed tourists stumbling over the cobbles at the sprawling floral market in Piazza Campo Dè Fiori. I sketch the sad, homeless man on the corner next to the tired street musician with his guitar. I love Rome. I love my classes. My professors are great. And I’m even starting to love Abby.
Things are looking really good for that internship at Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Antica too. I was super nervous about it until Alessandro wrote me a letter of recommendation, which I think might help push me over the top of the other candidates.
His ordination is less than two months away and sometimes when we’re talking about it, he goes all quiet and contemplative. I guess it’s normal that he’d be reflecting on his decision a lot right about now. I mean, this is it. He’s promising his life to God. No wiggle room. It’s not like he can say a month or two down the road, “Hey, God? Sorry to bag out on You, but I think I changed my mind.” Though, he swears the decision was made months ago when the bishop called him, and he took his vow of celibacy. He says it’s the vow he’s already taken that binds him to the Church.
And I’m happy for him if this is what he wants.
I really am.
I am.
I look at the clock. Ten past eight. How is time moving so slowly? I count on my fingers just to make sure I’m right. Yep, it’s ten minutes after eleven last night in San Francisco.
Is he kissing her?
No. I’m not going to think about it.
Our Vatican tour that afternoon keeps my mind off it, for the most part, and Alessandro and I catch a quick bite after. So it’s not until I get Sam’s text that night: Your stepbrother is the fucking master of my universe, that the fist around my chest tightens again.
Does it mean they slept together? Did she rock his world? She sounds pretty rocked.
I can’t even text her back. I feel myself implode, and all I can think about is how much I miss him. I miss curling into his arms and telling him about my day. I miss knowing he’ll always be mine—that no one will ever know me like he does. I miss his lips and his hands. I miss his heart and his soul. I miss every part of him.
I feel so empty. Can a person die of emptiness?
I GOT ALL my assignments from my professors and turned them in early. I feel moderately guilty about skipping out on class for three days, especially since Alessandro says there’s not much historical art to see, but it’s Corsica. With Alessandro. For three days. With Alessandro.
It’s a beautiful day for February—warmish with a bright blue sky and nary a cloud. I’m breathing in the fresh air, which is only this fresh after it rains like it did last night, when a taxi squeals around the corner, spraying the puddle there onto the side of the building, and careens down my street. I leap back from the curb into my doorway when it jumps the sidewalk before stopping right in front of me.
A tall man in a sapphire blue button-down shirt and jeans steps out of the back, and I wonder what he’s doing in my little alley. The bar won’t be open for hours, and there’s not much else down here.
I stay tucked into my doorway in case the taxi driver decides not to leave any survivors on his way out.
“Do you have your passport and student visa?” I hear Alessandro’s unmistakable silk voice ask, and, when I look up, he’s standing right in front of me, smiling. “We’re going to France, and they won’t let you back into Italy without them.”
“What are you wearing?” I ask, stepping onto the sidewalk and staring at him.
He looks down at himself, spreading his arms slightly to the side. “I think they are called clothes.”
His blue button-down is open at the collar and tints his charcoal eyes, making them look indigo. The shirttails are loose over faded jeans that fit him perfectly. And, God, he’s hot. “You look … amazing.”
He lowers his lashes, but I see a smile twitch his lips as he takes my bag and bangs on the trunk, which the driver pops open. “I’m glad you approve.” He slides my beat-up suitcase in next to a black leather duffel, then, with a hand on my back, escorts me to the backseat of the taxi.
“Why the change?” I ask when he opens the door and ushers me in.
“I’m on holiday.” He settles in next to me. “I am really looking forward to this.”
“Me too,” I say, but the too comes out as tooAH when the cab jerks forward, jumping the curb, and knocks the wind out of me. “So … your family … they’re okay with my coming?” I ask to distract myself from my impending death around every corner.
“Mémé is overjoyed.”
I settle deeper into my seat, turning to face him. “Tell me about her.”
One shoulder lifts in a shrug, a gesture so casual that it surprises me a little. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Alessandro this relaxed. He wears it well. “She’s a typical grandmother. She loves to dote over everyone around her”—he smiles at me—“which you will soon find out includes you.”
“You’re close?”
His nod is pensive, his lips pursed. “It took some time, but we became close.”
I’m thrown against the car door as we fly around a roundabout, knocking the wind out of me again. “You were sixteen when you moved in with them, right?” I realize as I say it that I sound a little hysterical. Just don’t look out the window, I coach myself.
Alessandro, on the other hand, is cool as a cucumber. He nods.
“How was that … moving in with your grandparents?” Just keep talking and don’t look out the window.
“For me, it meant I didn’t have to fend for myself anymore. In all honesty, it was a relief, but Lorenzo didn’t see it that way. He was only there a few months before he left.”
“Was that hard on you … after everything you’d been through together?”
“Mémé took it harder than I did. Lorenzo was angry, and there was nothing anyone could do to change that. I hoped he would find the peace I did in God and the Church, but he didn’t.”
I lean back into my seat and look at him for a long minute, temporarily forgetting that I’m careening down the narrow, cobbled streets of Rome in Deathcab. “How did he die?”
Alessandro flinches, and I wish I could take the question back. “He was shot by a grocery-store owner in Toulon during a robbery.”
“I’m sorry.”
He sinks deeper into the seat next to me and squeezes my hand. “I’ve made my peace with it.”
I settle into his side, and he loops an arm over my shoulders, and somehow the rest of the ride doesn’t seem quite so scary.
“We’re flying in that?” I say, digging in my heels and putting on the brakes as soon as we step out of the terminal onto the tarmac. I should have known the deal when there was no jetbridge, but I wasn’t really thinking about what size plane we were flying in. I was too busy trying not to show Alessandro how freaked-out I was that we were flying at all.
He grasps my hand. “What’s wrong?”
“That,” I say, pointing at the tiny little plane that everyone else is climbing into without batting an eyelash. “Is there a train … or a bus?”
“Corsica is an island, Lexie.” His voice is calm, but amusement dances in his eyes.
“Okay, a boat then? There has to be a boat, right?”
“Yes, there is in fact a boat.”
I’m starting to hyperventilate and lean my hands on my knees. “Can we
take the boat? Please?”
“This is about your fear of heights?”
“And my fear of plummeting from them. Yes.”
“Can I coax you onto this very airworthy vessel if I promise to distract you?”
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
“How?”
“With my quick wit, infinite capacity for engrossing conversation, or if all that fails, with these.” He pulls a small white paper bag out of his satchel and hands it down to me, where I’m still stooped over, trying to catch my breath.
I open the end of the bag and hold it over my nose and mouth, watching it inflate and deflate as I hyperventilate into it.
“That wasn’t quite what I had in mind,” Alessandro muses.
When I can finally breathe, I stand up and look into the bag. Currant croissants. Four of them. “Hope you didn’t want any of these because I just loogied all over them.”
“Are you ready?” he asks, his eyes flicking to the plane.
OhGodohGodohGod.
He loops an arm through my elbow, and we shuffle slowly toward the plane. It takes me a few minutes to climb the stairs, and Alessandro puts a hand on my head, reminding me to duck when we get to the door. I step through and look over my surroundings.
On the jetliners I’ve taken back and forth to San Jose, I’ve been able to sit far enough from the window that I could pretend outside didn’t exist. Not here. There are twelve rows of three seats, two on one side and one on the other. We’re last on board, apparently, because the harried-looking flight attendant rushes us up the narrow aisle to our seats, in row five—on the two side, thank God. Alessandro gestures for me to slide in. I just shake my head and point to the aisle seat. The flight attendant barks something at us in Italian, and Alessandro purrs something back, then slides into the window seat. I sit next to him and buckle up. He twists his arm through mine and grasps my hand, and I don’t resist.
When we lurch into the sky a few minutes later, I feel a joint in Alessandro’s hand pop under my death grip. “I think I broke you,” I mutter, trying to lighten my grip a little. “Sorry.”
“I am yours to break.” He peels his hand out of mine and circles me in his arms, pulling me tight to his side. I turn my face into his shirt, and he strokes my hair.
A Little Too Far Page 18
