“Do you?” she asks.
“Yeah. I do,” I say. “I love my classes.”
She nods. “But that’s school. What about in practice?”
She’s just trying to help.I know that. But my quills are up and out and my tone is suddenly too snappy.
“What exactly are you trying to accomplish here? I just busted my ass the last three years. And you want me to do what? Throw that away and move to Italy to be a what?”
“You could teach here,” she says, sending me back to sophomore year in college. Teaching is not a thing I can do now. I left that path behind when I chose to leave school to be with my mom. Going back would be too hard for so many reasons.
“Tammy, stop.”
All of my uncertainty and fear amplifies the volume of that sentence. Tammy’s shoulders fall an inch and she looks toward the fountain at the center of the piazza, as if the water flowing from the simple marble chalice at the center holds all the answers. Guilt slides beneath my rib cage and sinks its claws into my heart.
“I just want you to be happy,” she says softly.
And I deflate. Why am I lashing out at her? I know she’s just looking out for me—like she always has.
“I know. I will be. I have a plan, remember?”
“That’s what I’m scared of,” she murmurs. “None of this was part of the plan and look how happy you are.”
She gestures around us and I follow with my gaze, studying the columned archways where I broke down beneath the pay phones a few weeks ago, and the neon sign in front of Aldo’s where my mother’s friends have now become mine. I look around at the people passing by, the tourists and the locals and the students all mixed and mashed into one glorious culture, brought together by the simple pursuit of beauty and joy.
It’s going to hurt like hell to leave this place.
And then I think of Nina and Leo. Of Maso and Verga. Of James.
The pain I feel at the thought of leaving them drills a hole straight into my chest. I felt this pain before. And the only way through it is forward—to grab back control from life and hold onto the reins.
I lift my prosecco to my lips and look anywhere but at Tammy’s knowing stare.
TRENTANOVE
James
The final lecture series of the course has always been my favorite. Centered aroundThe Ideal Cityof Urbino, we take each element immortalized in the painting and discuss its purpose—its symbolism and function during the Renaissance era. Once the students feel well versed in the art, they take to the streets with their phone cameras to immortalize their own ideal city using bits and pieces of what Urbino has to offer. Every year the work that I receive manages to impress me in some new way. Seeing the city I adore through the eyes of those who are newly falling in love with it is both inspiring and humbling. It reminds me that Urbino is the ultimate muse.
This year, I’m enjoying this final assignment more than I ever have, because as I roam the streets, watching our students flit here and there with wide smiles and phones held aloft, I have Ava by my side. The back of her hand brushes against my knuckles and I feel myself tense with the effort not to lace my fingers between hers.This week has been purgatory, her leg brushing against mine while sitting beside me at dinner or watching her lean over the students to discuss the lesson, but never being able to touch her for more than a moment. Venice can’t come soon enough.
“I’d photograph the pizzeria for my ideal city,” Ava says, smiling at a group of girls who are trying to capture the cathedral and the duomo in the same shot. She looks back to me and catches me studying her profile. “It would stand smack dab in the center of my perfect town. What would you photograph?”
“All of it,” I tell her. “There isn’t a thing I would change about Urbino.”
She makes a thinking noise and looks sidelong at me.
“You’ve never wanted to leave? See the world or go back to New York?”
I shake my head and shrug.
“There’s nothing left for me in New York. Everyone I love is here,” I say and a speckling of red appears across her cheekbone. Was it the L-word that has her looking beautifully uncomfortable? I take a step to close the distance between us and then stop when a group of students yells their greeting to us from the alley. Ava strolls away, hands folded behind her, perfecting the Italian art of passeggiata.
“What if Oxford calls and offers you a position? The most prestigious university in Europe and they want you? What then?” she asks, veering toward the cathedral’s white stone side wall.
“I’d thank them for the opportunity and ask Nina what’s for dinner,” I tell her.
She laughs, her smile as bright and white as the side of the church.
