“No, sorry to interrupt.”
He nods at me, eyes narrowed, and I turn my attention back into the town.
The view from the West Hill is magical—surreal even—transporting you straight back to the centuries where these walls had a higher purpose than admiration by the onlooker. We are perched just above the west wall, giving us a peek right into the streets that are filled with year-round residents. I feel like a soldier looking down from her post.
I know all the intimate details about someone named Marizio and his lover from Pescara, after this juicy gossip was yelled by a woman dangling out of her third-story window, stringing her wet laundry on a line while talking to a man below walking his dog down the street. I also witnessed a cat fight. Not like the demeaning kind men imagine women having. I mean an actual tornado of feline screeches behind the little pizzeria I’m going to visit ASAP based on the smells reaching me from their open windows and doors. I get why the cat was territorial about that piece of real estate.
James’s voice pulls me back to the hill as he points to the twin turrets of the palazzo. He’s got these kids hanging on his every word, brains open and ready for the next knowledge bomb to drip out. His passion for this subject—and this city—are as palpable as the scent of that pizza that’s making my stomach twist and grumble. The way his hands move as he gestures to whatever landmark he’s describing and the way his long gait stretches as he circulates around the blankets where the students sit cross-legged, staring up at him like sunflowers turned toward the sun. It’s all very annoying.
“Do you have anything to add, Signorina Graham?”
Ugh. He keeps doing this. Why in the world would I have anything to add? Well, if I’d stuck to the plan and learned the city yesterday instead of learning to blow smoke circles while pretending to be Puff the Magic Dragon …
I could point out the pizza place to them. Surely they’d appreciate that. But then there might be a line.
“Nope. I think you covered it all. Does anyone have any questions?” Smooth, Ava. Deflect to the students.
I shield my eyes and look for a raised hand, hoping that they recognize the pleading look in my eyes telling them it’s lunchtime. Please give me the freedom to roll down this hill into the hot mozzarella awaiting me below. But they don’t need the reminder. They are just as hungover as I am.
“Alright, then,” I clap once. “Lunchtime! Hydrate, everyone. And four fewer alcoholic beverages tonight.”
James watches me dismiss his class, his eyebrows pulled together and up over that damn bump on his nose. It was a boop? What the hell is wrong with me? It’s him really. He’s scrambling my brain like the chef at an omelet station. Though having my veins filled with white wine didn’t help the situation. I feel dizzy at the thought.
“See you all in the morning. Luca, keep them in line tonight,” James tells them as they attempt to stand from their positions on the hill. Luca smiles down at us and pops up from his blanket. Kid looks like a dark-haired Ryan Reynolds. The rest of them look geriatric as they groan and head off toward the cafeteria.
James doesn’t bother to say goodbye before following the zombie horde back toward campus. I zero in on his back.
“James, can I get in this way?”
He pauses almost like he’s considering not turning around. Interesting. Seems like I’ve twisted up his panties with this morning’s conversation. Or am I completely overinflating my effect? Maybe he’s just tired of me taking up all of his free time.
“Are you heading back to Franco’s?” he asks; his eyes are trained somewhere over my shoulder.
“Eventually. I need to apologize for drinking all his wine and return his hat. But first. Pizza,” I say, pointing to the little shop that is now bustling with patrons. Shit. They’re gonna eat it all.
“Head to the right and stay along the wall. There’s a sally port about a hundred feet up. If you hit the bastion, you’ve gone too far,” he says, turning back toward campus.
I don’t have a second to ask what weird language he’s speaking because he’s disappeared over the crest of the hill.
“Have a good day,” I yell after him. Definitely twisted panties. And can I really blame him?
I scoop up my bag and shove the towel in it so it covers the stack of essays in the manila envelope I stole from James’s classroom. Last thing I need is pizza grease dripping on the papers to add to this man’s impression of me. Everything I value has gone out the window since I stepped foot in Italy. Professionalism. Punctuality. Dependability.
I’m going to redeem myself—grade the heck out of these papers. After food.
I repeat his directions in my muddled brain, whispering to myself as I go.
“Sally port. Sally port. What the fuck’s a sally port? Aha!”
I make my way through the opening and lift my nose in the air, picking up the scent of tomato sauce and garlic immediately. The streets at this end of the city are even narrower.
Dozens of cars are parked perpendicular to the wall behind me. A vintage clothing store across the street with its door open has Tom Petty’s voice crooning “Free Falling” from inside. Beside the shop, the soft blue shutters of the neighboring business surround a window that claims to house an internet café. I make a mental note of the street name, Via Porticale, and head straight for the pizza shop in view up the alley.
There are emails to be sent. Dreaded emails. One to a best friend who I miss dearly despite the fact that she could be complicit in my current state of heartbreak. One to a father who wants to know every update about my career path. And maybe one pathetic check-in with Ethan?
The thought of waiting for a reply from him makes my skin crawl.
I refocus on the research that needs to be done on one Annette Barrett. Seems she chose not to share all of her study abroad details with her beloved only daughter. Nothing more depressing than having to google your own mother—besides the previously mentioned pathetic check-in email. But again, first, pizza.
