“I’ve been to a lot of galleries and museums,” Roman comments as we walk toward the basilica. “And I like art—I like learning the history, and finding out obscure facts, you know? But that was the first time where Ifeltit.”
He hooks a thumb back over his shoulder to indicate the museum. His other hand moves to my mid back, body angled to keep people from jostling me. I look up at him, amused. I don’t think he even knows he’s doing it, the protective instinct just coming naturally. It’s nice, I suppose, if a little strange. I take care of myself, always have, and I’ve never needed anyone to swoop in and save me. I don’t want someone to look at me and automatically assume, because of my stature and the way I present myself, that I’m small and weak; that I need defending.
But the hand on my back is gentle. It’s not a guiding touch, but a loving one—awe’re in this togethertouch. And boy, do I wish we were.
Biting the inside of my cheek as we walk through St. Peter’s Basilica, I do my best to pretend the queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach is born of hunger and not yearning. I can’t imagine this ends any other way than watching Roman board a flight back to Seattle, leaving me to continue a journey that I can already tell will be drab without him. I thought I was enjoying myself during my travel year. I thought I was having the best time of my life. I was wrong.
A single week with Roman has outweighed all the rest, and while that’s a good thing now, with a handful of days left to enjoy, it’s going to be a decidedly bad thing when it’s over. Sadly, I glance up at Roman, happily snapping pictures on his cellphone. Oh yes, nothing will be quite the same when he’s gone.
Feeling the weight of my gaze on his face, his eyes drop to mine. The smile slips behind his beard, so I gather myself and fix one into place on my own face. I won’t ruin his trip by emotionally bombing him.
“What’s wrong?” he asks anyway.
“Nothing. Just a little hungry.” It’s truthful enough, while also being something of a lie. Roman leans into the truth, and doesn’t press for more. We take the obligatory selfies in the basilica, and if he holds me a little closer, or squeezes a little tighter than necessary, I simply take it as yet another gift this trip has given me.
After Rome, we tool around southern Italy, visiting Pompeii, Naples, Matera, and spending three heavenly days on the Amalfi Coast. We take a break from the go-go-go days of travel, trying to hit everything we can and cross items off his list. Instead, webook a room in Positano—just as tiny as our haven in Rome—and simply enjoy our time together.
We laze around on beach loungers, an umbrella protecting us from the coastal sun, and relax. We spend hours ambling up the streets and back down again, surrounded by the colorful buildings and the smell of citrus. Purple wisteria drips down from the pergolas that crisscross above us, filling the air with its distinct lilac-and-honeysuckle scent. I take Roman to a lemon farm, and almost laugh myself to tears when he tries limoncello and his face scrunches up like a caricature of someone tasting sour for the first time. We shop and eat and spend every minute of the days and nights together.
Our room, nestled into the cliffs with the rest of the brightly painted buildings, becomes our private oasis. The walls are painted white, and the bedspread is a turquoise blue the exact shade of the Tyrrhenian Sea visible through the open window. Every morning, I wake up happy and held in Roman’s strong arms, vanilla and orange blossom permeating the room.
Our first day on the coast, we didn’t leave the room until hunger chased us out. We lay in bed naked, the ocean breeze kissing our skin through the open window, talking and touching and making love. Unhurried and lazy, like we were lovers on holiday; not strangers brought together by chance, but bound to move apart.
Even while we were there—cozied up in our room, or standing knee-deep in the sea—I felt the sand hitting the bottom of the hourglass. I missed him when he was sitting right across from me, scruffy face lit by candlelight as he held a forkful of pasta out to me. I missed him when there was nothing between us but cool night air, the room dark but for the light provided by the moon; silent except for soft breathing and beating hearts.
I miss him now, sitting in the passenger seat of his rental car as we drive toward the airport.
Roman is silent as he drives, and I can’t find it in me to breach it. It’s not the comfortable silence we’ve occasionally shared for two weeks, but the kind of silence that hurts. He’s sad and I’m sad and both of us will board flights to different countries in a couple hours. Our time is up.
Not particularly feeling like myself today, I left off the makeup and am wearing clothes far more drab than I usually prefer. Roman hadn’t commented, but I’d seen the way his eyes flicked to me as we packed our things and loaded the car; could feel the weight of that gaze and the words it was hiding. I didn’t have to explain why I couldn’t make the effort today—he already knew.
We glide through airport security in a haze of melancholy and disbelief, meeting up on the other side and staring at each other mutely.What now?hovers between us, as real as the glowing Arrivals and Departures sign, happily displaying our gates at opposite ends of the airport.
What now?
Sighing, I hitch my bag a little further up my shoulder. I’d forgotten how heavy it was, with Roman toting it around for me for two weeks. As though seeing the internal battle, he gently pulls it away from me and slides the strap over his own shoulder.
“I’ll walk you to your gate,” he says, so quietly I’m able to hear the words only because I’m standing so close to him. I nod, not wanting to argue that he needs to go find his own.
We hold hands and walk slow enough to be lapped by butterflies, but still we arrive.
“So—” Roman starts.
“I think—” I stop and wait for him to continue. I feel rather ill, and wish I had forgone breakfast and just had some coffee.
“So,” he repeats, hand tight on mine. “I have your phone number and you have mine and I think we should stay in touch.”
I nod sadly, because people say those words to me a lot and rarely do they mean them. It’s easy to fall out of contact with people you don’t see often; easy to forget the sunlit days of Italian summer, and how it felt to be in love.
“Okay,” I agree softly.
“And I have so much time off saved. Like…a lot. Also, I work primarily from a laptop, so really, I can do it anywhere. I’d have to talk to my boss, but I think he’d work with me.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, frowning up at him. His cheeks color as he rubs his free hand over his chin nervously.
“Well, you know…if I were to visit Finland, let’s say, I could bring my work with me. I could stay a while.”
The last sentence is a muttered plea, his brown eyes soft and a little bit scared. Several of the butterflies in my stomach wither and die, as a hopeful burn spreads through my chest. Is he really offering what I think he’s offering?
