by R.S. Grey
My mom never makes me wear sunscreen!
It smells!
You got it in my nose!
I’m trying to pay attention to Lorenzo as he explains that the Forum served as a hub for political and social activity, but I’m also trying to keep sweat from actively blurring my vision. I angle my little guidebook so it partly shields my eyes from the sun and remind Brandon and Chris that they aren’t allowed to wander off on their own.
“Boys, stick with the group please” is what comes out of my mouth when in my head I’m raging at them to behave because it’s too damn hot out here to be policing middle schoolers.
Suddenly, that bonus doesn’t seem like enough money to be here. Couldn’t we have visited such wonderful destinations as Siberia or Antarctica? I hear the northernmost tip of Alaska is lovely this time of year.
Gabriella and Ashley huddle together with their Trinity kids, who all have battery-powered misting fans and cooling towels around their necks. I watch with envy as Gabriella angles her fan toward her face and closes her eyes, basking in the chilled air.
Meanwhile I’m chafing in places the Roman sun don’t shine.
Noah appears by my side and tries to pass me his water bottle, and I stare down at it like it’s last month’s leftovers I just found in the back of my fridge.
“Your mouth was on that.”
“You’re going to dehydrate,” he says, nudging it closer.
I hold up my hand. “I’ll take my chances.”
He sighs as he lifts the bottle to his mouth. I watch him guzzle down a long swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
I suddenly feel lightheaded.
Maybe I won’t have to fake an illness tonight after all.
“How long is your boy going to make us stand out here?”
I straighten my shoulders. “Lorenzo is not my boy.”
“We should have visited this place in the morning so we could have avoided the crowds and the heat. We could have swapped the schedule and had the kids do their Latin lesson in the afternoon.”
“Quit complaining. You’re supposed to be appreciating history. I, for one, am delighted to be here.”
“Uh-huh. Is that why you keep looking longingly at the exit?”
“I’m merely checking to make sure none of our kids try to escape.”
He sniffs derisively. “Not like they’d make it far. They’d pass out from heat stroke by the time they made it to the end of the street.”
Just then, Lorenzo strolls over, beaming and seemingly totally unaffected by the heat. “Audrey, come. Walk up front with me. I want to show you some of the ruins.” He holds out his arm for me to take, and when I hesitate, he looks over at Noah. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Noah shoots daggers at Lorenzo’s crooked arm. “Actually, Lorenzo, I think we should get these kids into some air conditioning. Audrey here’s about to faint.”
Annoyed that he’s lumping me in with the thirteen-year-olds, I step forward to take Lorenzo’s offered arm a little more forcefully than necessary.
“I’m fine, I promise. I mean…sure…it’s a little toasty out here.”
“Toasty?” he repeats with confused brows.
“Oh…yeah, toasty. Like hot.” I fan my face for emphasis.
He leads me to the front of the group. “Ah, yes. Rome is very toasty in July. Do you need to rest? We can go to the benches over there.”
The benches he’s pointing to are in full sun, and I bet if I touched my hand to the concrete, it would sizzle.
“No, no. Let’s keep trudging along. Don’t want to lose the kids’ interest.”
Turns out I didn’t need to worry about that. Their interest is long gone. When the complaining hits a crescendo, we have to cut the tour short and head back to the school. Noah suggests we catch a bus, but Lorenzo insists it’d be a waste of time.
“Rome is a city made for walking!”
We’re a bunch of sad Eeyores—defeated, sweat-stained, and sunburned—when we hobble through the gates of St. Cecilia’s half an hour later.
Noah tells the kids to get some water and take a load off before dinner.
I take my robe and toiletries to the bathroom, yank aside one of the shower curtains, and turn the water nozzle until it’s on the coldest setting. Conscious that Noah could walk into the bathroom at any moment (something I live in constant fear of), I undress inside the shower and hang my clothes on the hook out on the wall. Icy water spills down my back and I turn to let it cover my face and chest. It’s not enough; when I look in the mirror after I’m done with my shower, my face is still flushed. I’m cooked through. Well-done.
I guzzle water in my room and lie down on my bed until I have no choice but to get up and get ready for my double date. With all the energy zapped from my bones, I couldn’t care less about what I wear, which works in my favor because I have very few “going out” clothes here with me in Rome. Okay, who am I kidding—I have very few “going out” clothes back home either. I was doing some last-minute shopping for the trip, getting the essentials—a mini travel-sized deodorant and mini travel-sized vibrator—when I strolled past a trendy boutique and saw a mannequin wearing a simple black silk dress that looked effortless and cool and juuust sexy enough for me to pull off without feeling like an idiot. The price tag made my eye twitch, but the hot girl behind the counter told me they were having a sale and now here I am, on the streets of Rome, looking like a genuine fox. Or so I keep telling myself.
In truth, the sun really took it out of me today. I’m the kind of tired where one night’s sleep won’t cut it. I need someone to whack me over the head with a two-by-four so I’m out for five to ten business days.
Even with a fresh face of makeup, I still don’t feel like myself. I’m considering just taking the L and canceling, Noah be damned, but then the rest of my group spills out of the gate of St. Cecilia’s and the time for backing out has officially passed.
Chapter Eleven
“Woo! Gang’s all here!” Gabriella says with an excited little shimmy. “Ashley is all set with the kids, so we’re good to go.”
“Have you been out here long?” Lorenzo asks, stepping forward to kiss my cheeks.
“Just a few minutes.”
In truth, if I’d stayed in my room a second longer, I would have fallen asleep on my bed. It was so inviting. Even now, thinking back on it sends a little ripple of pleasure down my spine.
Noah hangs back near the gate and doesn’t greet me, at least not in a way that’s socially acceptable. Our stare-off works for us, though. He’s wearing a dark green linen button-down with the top two buttons undone. Enough of his toned chest is showing that I feel like I’m supposed to avert my eyes. He’s done that wonderful thing with his hair where it’s combed back and styled just a bit. He looks like a playboy on a backpacking trip through Europe. There’s a poor girl pining for him at every port.
I have no idea what he thinks of me in my short dress and heels. He’d have to be under the influence to give me a compliment, and even then, it would be backhanded. But, the fact is, this is a first for us. He’s never seen me dressed like this. My spaghetti straps are oh so thin. The hem of my dress is flirting with the top of my thighs. My hair is down and straight and dark as night. My sunburn has left me with a warm summer glow. I hope internally he’s having to give himself a pep talk to keep it together. Don’t fall in love with her, Peterson. She’s still enemy #1.
“So,” Gabriella says, gathering the group’s attention and then looking to Lorenzo for backup. “We got to talking, and we think we should skip the stuffy sit-down dinner and head somewhere with a bit more—”
“Excitement,” Lorenzo supplies.
Gabriella claps with glee. “Yes! Are you two game?”
Noah tucks his hands into his pant pockets and shrugs, and since it doesn’t look like he’s going to back down, I quickly agree to go along with whatever they have planned. Though, honestly, I like the sound of a stuffy sit-down dinner. I don’t need to go
to that Michelin star place or anything, but I haven’t eaten since noon and my stomach is empty with a capital E.
“This way,” Lorenzo says, taking my hand and tugging me along the sidewalk.
I look back over my shoulder to see Noah gesturing for Gabriella to go ahead, and they fall in line behind us, side by side. He doesn’t take her hand like Lorenzo did with me, and I wonder if she’s disappointed by that.
“You’re going to love where I’m taking you.”
“Will we…uh, be walking the whole time?”
I’m already regretting my choice in footwear.
“It’s not far. I promise. If you get tired, I’ll carry you.” He winks, and I give him a little laugh because it’s obvious he expects one. In truth, I wish he’d hail us a cab and save me the trouble of teetering on these uneven cobblestones. What is it with him and eschewing modern transportation?
I wince when I almost roll my ankle, but he doesn’t notice. He’s telling me all about his cousin.
“He sells motorbikes, but I could talk him into renting us a pair. They’d be pretty beat up, but I’m good with repairs. We could take them up the coast, camp out, live off nature.”
Wow. Did someone give him the template for my nightmare? “Live off nature”? That’s a catchy phrase I want to see hanging over the organic vegetables at Whole Foods, not my life’s motto. I like amenities.
But Lorenzo is waiting for my answer, so I give a noncommittal nod then refocus my attention on the ground in front of me to keep from breaking a leg.
The place Lorenzo and Gabriella agreed upon is a tiny bar slash nightclub. It is poppin’, and when we walk in, I immediately realize my dream of a dinner is not going to become a reality. It’s basically standing room only in here. People crowd into every possible space, filling up tables and bar stools and a small dance floor. They spill out onto the street, but it’s clear Lorenzo wants to be in the action as he leads us into the throngs of people.
“Do they have food here?” I shout over the pulse-pounding music.
“Yeah! Tons!”
So far all I see are bar almonds coated in mystery dust (could be Italian herbs, could be the dead skin cells of the hundred bar patrons that came before me).
“Let’s definitely order a few things. I’m starving!”
“Sure!” Lorenzo shouts back at me.
His first order of business is finding us a table.
He lights up when he sees people he knows, and he spends a while going around to say hello to everyone in the group. After some convincing, they shove over on the long banquette bench that runs the length of the wall and clear some space for us. I end up beside Lorenzo on the bench. Noah takes the chair beside me at the end of the table, and Gabriella gets the chair across from me. We’re all squashed together and there’s really not enough room, especially for Noah who’s totally cramped but can’t scoot back because there’s another group sitting right behind him. I try to give him space by tilting my body toward Lorenzo, but then Lorenzo grinds his foot into my toes and I wince.
Noah’s huge hand finds my bare knee under the table, and I leap a foot in the air.
“Relax,” he says, chiding me. “I’m just tugging you this way so you have room.”
He pulls me toward him, and when my knee is touching his and he’s satisfied with my placement, he lets go. But let me be perfectly clear: as he releases my leg, his hand does this decadent slow drag across my skin and I have a hard time keeping a straight face. Tingles spread from my head to my toes and he’s watching me. He KNOWS.
It’s a knee-jerk reaction, I tell myself. It could happen to anyone.
“This is a good setup, right?!” Lorenzo asks.
Gabriella beams. “It’s amazing! I love little dives like this. Should we start with a round of shots?”
Lorenzo flags down a passing waiter and slips him a few euros as an incentive for quick service, which actually works, because he hurries back a few minutes later, his tray laden with shots of clear liquor and…are those coffee beans floating on top?
“This is sambuca,” Lorenzo explains. “Sometimes you’d take the shot with seven coffee beans which represents the seven hills of Rome. But tonight, I asked him to do three coffee beans for health, happiness, and prosperity. Watch.”
He nods toward the waiter, who ignites each of the four shot glasses in an impressive display. Bright blue flames dance over the liquor and the people around us cheer. Once the coffee beans are toasted, the waiter extinguishes the flames and passes the shots around to us.
“Cin cin,” Lorenzo cheers.
“Cin cin,” we repeat, clinking glasses before we all down the shot.
I’ve never had sambuca before and had no idea what to expect. The overwhelming taste of licorice is offset by cinnamon and vanilla, but then it hits my empty stomach like a two-ton boulder.
If it’s possible, I’m drunk that moment.
“Another?” Gabriella asks, half-turning in her seat to flag down the waiter.
“Let’s get some food first,” Noah suggests, and though I normally live to contradict him, right now he and I are on the same page.
Gabriella tries to grab a passing waiter, but she doesn’t succeed.
“They’ll come around again,” Lorenzo insists, seeming unbothered by the wait. “So what did you guys think about the Roman Forum?”
“I loved it!” Gabriella gushes, leaning over the table. “You remind me of a professor I had in undergrad, only you’re quite possibly more knowledgeable than even he was. I’ve been around Rome plenty of times, but you make it all seem so interesting again. Have you been doing it a while?”
He beams proudly. “Tours around Rome? For years. I love it.”
“I can tell. I wish we could have stayed a bit longer at the Forum today. I know the kids were tired, but I barely had a chance to see the Lapis Niger that marks Romulus’ tomb.”
“His tomb?” Lorenzo shakes his head. “No. I think it marks the spot where he was murdered by the senate, not his actual tomb. Though scholars go back and forth on it.”
Her eyes light up. “I’d forgotten that theory. You’re right.”
They shift topics and begin a more in-depth discussion of the Curia Julia, which was the original seat of the Roman senate and a building we saw today. Or at least I think we saw it today. There are a lot of ruins at the Forum. In the building—which is still in good shape today—the consuls and tribunes made decisions about running the republic and the empire. Lorenzo tells her the building underwent extensive reconstruction efforts in the 1930s.
“Did they also work on the basilica beside it?” she asks.
Noah shifts in his seat, looking out into the crowd for a waiter.
It’s clear Lorenzo and Gabriella have a lot in common with their mutual love of history. It’s not a boring subject to discuss or anything, but I’m concerned they seem to have forgotten about our main objective here: food.
Right now, I have the patience of a toddler and the hunger of a lion.
“You know what, guys? Why don’t I just go to the bar and order? It’ll be faster, I bet.”
I’m already on the move, scooting out of the booth and practically falling into Noah’s lap, and then he stands and, in an interesting turn of events, volunteers to come with me.
I don’t bother arguing with him in front of Lorenzo and Gabriella. They wouldn’t understand.
We start to head for the bar.
“Are you coming because you’re worried I’ll poison your food? No need. I still respect the No Tampering with Food truce we struck after the ill-fated School Bake Sale Incident of 2019. And besides, this dress doesn’t have any pockets for Ex-Lax tablets.”
I pat my hips for emphasis.
His gaze immediately sweeps down to me as if he was waiting for another excuse to take a look at me in my dress. Either the low light in the bar is playing tricks on me or his eyes really are that heated.
Once he’s aware I’ve caught him staring, he clear
s his throat and looks toward our destination. “At this point, I don’t care if my food is poisoned or not. I’m starving.”
The crowd closes in around the bar. Thirsty customers shout to be noticed among the throngs of people. Noah edges in beside me, lifting his hand as if to guide me and keep me close, but then he squeezes his fist and lets it fall. I feel oddly…cheated.
“Have you seen a menu floating around?” I ask him. “I’m not even sure they serve food here.”
“I thought I saw one at a table we just passed.”
“What?!” I ask, unable to hear him now that the crowd has converged on us.
He leans in close, his mouth a hair’s breadth away from my ear. “I said—”
Someone bumps into Noah and he stumbles forward, knocking into me with enough force that I’m about to land flat on my ass. Fortunately, he reaches out and grabs ahold of me, yanking me back to standing with easy deftness. My chest is against his chest. We’re in a dirty dancing pose with my thigh sandwiched between his. HELLO Noah’s rock-hard leg. Hello Noah’s other…anatomy.
“Jesus. Sorry,” he says, stepping back to right himself.
“Are you apologizing to Jesus or me?”
He inhales a deep breath then shakes his head like he doesn’t know what to do with me.
“Just go that way, will you? And I’m going to put my hand on your arm because I’m scared someone will try to trample you, but you don’t need to look so disgusted about it.”
“It’s only me trying to get used to it. It’s a little intimidating. Your hand could circle my arm twice. There. How does my face look now?”
“Constipated.”
I suppress the urge to sock him in the arm.
“Strange you’re worried about someone trampling me,” I say, rising up so I can speak close to his ear. “I would have thought that kind of thing would fill you with glee. You probably love that wildebeest scene in The Lion King. You have the clip saved on your computer. You watch it whenever you need a little pick-me-up.”
