“Nah,” I say. “You?”
“Only once. I’m more familiar with Milan and Florence. Rome is fun, but too hard to get around in, don’t you think?”
“I’ve never been to Italy.”
Finch is pulling me by the hand past boutique chocolate shops, coffee merchants and big-name fashion stores, and the way he completely ignores the latter is almost alarming. But he stops dead at my admission, eyes wide and mouth open.
“You’re shitting me.”
“I shit you not. Don’t you wanna go into Versace or something? We barreled right by it back there—”
“You, Don Luciano Morelli, have never been to the homeland?”
“Say my name a bit louder,” I growl, pulling him close to silence him with a kiss. “No,” I say afterwards. “I’ve never been to the homeland. I mean—Italy.”
“Holy Bajooley,” he says, like he’s never heard anything so unbelievable. Then his face splits in a wide smirk. “Well, damn. That’s gonna make this surprise evenmorefun for you.”
“I really don’t like surprises,” I sigh.
“You’ll like this one. And—here we are.”
We arrive in the center of the shopping area and I’m confronted by a large red sculpture of the word “LOVE.” Couples are having their photographs taken standing in the “O,” and I give Finch a skeptical look. “A photo opportunity isn’t exactly—”
“Not that, Mr. Paranoid. As if. No, we’re going up here.” He tugs me along to the escalator that goes up past the sculpture, and the interior waterfall behind it. The waterfall is impressive in its ingenuity, and just a few months ago I might even have been awed by the whole building. But my life, my views, mytasteshave been sharply refined in the short time Finch and I have been together. Now the indoor waterfall is fun, but undeniably tacky.
For Finch, though, that seems to be part of the fun of Vegas. At the top of the escalators we enter the Grand Canal Shoppes; I see a sign pointing to more designer stores to the right, and I’m about to point them out to Finch, but then I look at the ceiling. Painted azure with perfect white clouds, the lights coming from the sides approximate a sunrise, and then suddenly we’re in Venice.
Venice by way of Vegas, but right now Finch is so eager for my reaction that I don’t even care how kitschy and fake the whole thing it is. His excitement touches me, makes me laugh, and we walk quickly together to the railings ahead. They surround a small pool that stretches at one end into a canal, just like the real Venice. Gondolas are lined up in the round pool, ready to pick up tourists and take them down the canal.
“Come on.” Finch takes my hand again and pulls me around to the line of people waiting for gondolas.
“What—no,” I laugh. “This is tourist stuff.”
“Aren’t we tourists?” he asks, eyes sparkling. His eyes haven’t sparkled for a really, really long time. “Plus I already booked tickets. Fernando the concierge hooked me up. Come on, baby, it’ll be romantic.”
“Alright. Whatever you want, angel.”
* * *
The gondola windsthrough the shopping area, past an imitation St. Mark’s Square, and a multitude of shops—baked goods, luxury bags, restaurants—while I lay back against satin cushions and Finch snuggles into me.
Okay. It’s kind of romantic.
Certainly more romantic than the first honeymoon we had.
Our gondolier has been less chatty than the others passing by seem to be, and I’m glad he seems to recognize that this is a private moment between Finch and me. But as we pass out from under another bridge, he suddenly breaks into song: Italian opera, and I’m sure Finch knows the name of it, although I don’t. But he’s good.Damngood.
Finch smiles and closes his eyes, caught up in the moment, but suddenly the gondolier stops.
“You okay there, buddy?” Finch asks, cracking one eye open again.
The guy is staring at me. He shakes his head, and then nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I—sorry—I—”
Shit.
“Aren’t you—”
Shit.
