The receptionist hands us our keys and soon I am outside room 12 on the third floor with Benito. He uses the key to unlock then enters. I follow him, and gasp when I see there is only one double bed in the center of the small, dimly lit room. “I thought we had twins?”
Benito rolls his eyes. “Chill, it’s usually two beds pushed together. We can pull them apart.” He walks over to the far side of the bed. “Help me.”
I grasp the side closest to me. We both start pulling but the bed doesn’t budge. “Maybe if we pull from the middle?” I offer.
Benito inspects the bed, feeling up the top side of it, his forearms flexing. “That won’t work.”
“And why not?” I ask, fixated on his protruding muscles as he yanks down the comforter, exposing the white sheets underneath.
“Because it’s only one bed,” he says.
My heart kicks up a beat. I stare at him blankly. “I’ll go sleep in the Pantheon.”
Benito exhales loudly. “Can you go two seconds without panicking? I’m sure the hotel will fix this for us.”
I look around to the generic wallpaper and a dull painting of a teapot hanging on the wall. It’s a nice place but hardly the type to provide luxury customer service. “This isn’t exactly a five-star resort. It doesn’t come with a butler and a penthouse suite or whatever else you’re used to.”
“With enough cash, you can make anyone your butler,” he swipes back. He looks up at me and smiles softly. I catch myself starting to smile back but quickly put a stop to it. He doesn’t deserve to banter with me. He sighs. “I’ll call down to the front desk. Do what you need to do.”
“You mean leave you alone while you work your rich-boy magic?” I ask.
“No, I mean, you know, bedtime stuff.” He looks up at me. “Skincare, pajamas, brush your teeth, whatever girls do.”
“You don’t brush your teeth?” I ask. He sighs again. I relent. “Ok, ok. I need to shower anyway. And when I come out, there better be another bed in here.” He gives me a thumbs-up and I make a mental note to google later if in Italy that gesture is the same as in the U.S. or more akin to the middle finger.
The shower is a spicket in the wall that pours water onto the bathroom floor with a well-placed drain capturing the overflow before it floods. It’s not luxurious, but the heat feels good on my body, tired from the day, and I do my best not to think about Benito’s forearms as I rub soap up and down mine. Instead, I fixate on the rollaway that Benito will bribe the hotel to send up, crawling into it, and falling fast asleep.
I take my time in the shower, and then more still as I apply my serums and moisturizers, skipping the heavier creams so I look glistening-no-makeup-chic and not shellacked-barefaced-monster. Once my teeth are brushed and flossed, my hair is taken out of my shower bun, and my matching shorts and shirt pajama set is on, I re-emerge into our dinky hotel room.
Unfortunately, there is still only one bed, and unfortunately Benito is lying on it, the TV blaring in Italian.
“Please tell me they’re fixing this,” I say, hopeful.
Benito looks up at me and his eyebrows shoot up. He says nothing.
“Well?” I ask.
“Oh, um—” He struggles to find his words but appears to snap himself out of whatever daze he’s in. “Yeah, no such luck.”
“You found the one man in the world who can’t be butler-ized?” I ask.
“The correct term is butler-fied,” he fires back. “And it was less a cash flow issue and more a lack of resources.”
My eyes fall to him on the bed and the small space left for me next to him. Benito jumps up. “You can have the bed, of course. I’ll sleep on the floor.” He takes a pillow off the bed and throws it on the ground. He does the same to the runner at the end of the bed, even though it’s barely long enough to cover him.
The last thing I want is to sleep next to Benito, but I also know he’d hold it over me forever if I let him sleep on the floor. God forbid he tweak his back and I have to hear him complain about it all day tomorrow. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “We can share a bed for one night.” I look at the clock. “It’s only for like, what, seven hours anyway.”
He glances at the clock as it turns from 11:01 to 11:02. “Six hours and 59 minutes.”
A laugh involuntarily erupts out of me. He looks back at me and I swallow it.
“I can sleep on the floor. It’s fine,” he repeats, softer.
“No, I’m not going to let you sleep on the floor and then spend a day touring Rome.”
“Especially since your preferred tour guide has left us,” he grumbles.
“Excuse me?” I ask, flames shooting up my face. “Are you mad I brought Giac?” Is that why he’s been so pissed off all day? Because I turned our reluctant duo into a slightly less reluctant trio?
