He runs his hand through his hair. “No, it’s fine. I just only came on this stupid trip because you needed an escort and then you invited someone else.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. I soften a little. Oh. “I didn’t think about it like that. Sorry. I should’ve told you not to come once Giac offered.”
Benito rolls his eyes. Not placated. “No, that’s not—” He stares at the teapot painting like it’s the most fascinating work of art in the world and not just an excuse to not look at me. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
“I ran into Giac this morning and he said he loved Rome, and since you don’t know anything about it either I thought he’d make the trip better,” I say. “I thought you’d be happy you didn’t have to spend all day with me alone.”
Benito lets out a half laugh then sucks in a breath like he’s embarrassed. He self-consciously glances at me before fixing his gaze onto the floor, rocking back and forth on his feet. “It’s ok. I’m sorry if I was rude.”
It’s quiet for a moment, the only sound the hum of the wind beating against the open window. “You can sleep in the bed, Benito,” I say.
Benito doesn’t respond, so I walk over to him, pick up his pillow, and put it back on the bed. He watches me carefully. When I don’t suddenly change my mind and throw everything back on the floor, he nods. “If you’re sure.”
I sit on the bed and look at the TV. An episode ofReal Housewives of Orange Countyis on, the women screaming at each other in dubbed Italian. I know it well. “You likeHousewives?” I ask.
“No,” Benito says quickly. I raise my eyes at him and he nods sheepishly. “In boarding school, there was this girl who was obsessed. I. . . had a crush.” He sits at the very edge of the bed, as far away from me as possible. “Everyone else was listening to football on the radio or getting drunk or trying to sneak into the girls’ dorm, but I’d illegally download episodes ofReal Housewiveson my desktop so I’d have something to talk about with her.”
I suppress a laugh. “Did it work?”
Benito shakes his head. “Considering she was my literature teacher, no.” The laugh pops out of me and Benito rubs his arm nervously. “Didn’t stop me from trying all through year 12, though.” I laugh again. Benito relaxes a bit. “Now I can’t help it. I find it comforting.”
I do my best to move the conversation along fast enough to not be endeared by the image of a young Benito desperately bringing up the latest antics of Vicki Gunvalson to his boarding school teacher. “When I was in Congress, I used to watch it before bed every night. It’s the perfect show to unwind and de-stress.”
Benito looks up at me, surprised. “Exactly.”
We watch silently together until the commercial break. As the show fades out, he turns to me. “I can check again if there’s another hotel nearby. Really, it’s not a big deal.”
I tilt my head back, exasperated. “Oh my god, by the time you’d do that, it’d be morning.” I lean back on the bed and point toward the bathroom. “Go do your skincare, your jammies, your nightly affirmations and I’ll probably be asleep by the time you’re back anyway.” A yawn comes out of me as if it’s a helpful sidekick.
Convinced, Benito nods, reaches for his bag, and goes into the bathroom.
I turn off the TV and bedside lamp, pull down the comforter on my side of the bed, and lie down. It feels even smaller once I’m inside, and I realize how close Benito’s body will be to mine. Mean Benito who thinks I’m unserious. Dorky Benito who utilized his lack of supervision in boarding school to watchHousewives. Hot Benito who is hot.
I just need to fall asleep quickly. That shouldn’t be too hard. I’ve been finding sleep easily lately and haven’t taken a sleeping pill in over a week. I’ve slept better than I have in years in the last week. Without the pressures of pursuing my dream, the chaos of getting my dream, and the depression of losing my dream, reaching that coveted REM cycle is easier than ever. I don’t even dream at night anymore. It’s always pure darkness.
All I need to do now is drift off before Benito gets back. I’ve shared beds with many people platonically before. This would be no different than that family vacation in San Diego when I shared a bed with my cousin, Michelle. We talked for hours every night before we fell asleep—well, it would be alittledifferent than that, but the point stands. This won’t be Benito sleeping inches from me. It’s Michelle.
I hear the shower turn off and I’m still not asleep. The sink runs for a toothbrush and I am wide awake. A few more minutes pass and the door to the bathroom opens. Benito shuffles around, putting items in his overnight bag before coming back to bed. I keep my eyes shut and pretend to be asleep.
It’s just Michelle. It’s just Michelle. It’s just Michelle.
I feel the warmth of his body as he settles in next to me. We’re so close that the edges of his clothes are probably touching mine. What does Benito wear to bed? Is he a long pants and soft button-up kind of guy or is he right here next to me in his boxers and a worn-out T-shirt?
And what is that smell? Pine and lemon. Why does he smell so good?
I have the sudden urge to reach out and touch him. It’s probably just the fact that I haven’t been this close to someone in a long time. Yes, that’s it. It’s merely a biological reaction to having a good-looking, good-smelling man in the same bed as me. Of course my animalistic instincts are taking over. Of course there’s a sudden swelling of something in my gut. It’s natural.
He rolls over and sighs. He must be facing me now, because I feel his cool breath on my neck. My stomach swirls. This is not an ideal time for my latent but ever-present horniness to make an appearance.
“Ugh, you’re way too close to me,” I say, trying to put a stop to the thoughts. I yank the sheets offof me, throw them over the top of Benito, and roll over on my back. “It’s so hot in here. Why doesn’t this place have AC?”
He sleepily moves the sheets off of him and they form a barrier of sorts between us. “You have way more room than I do. I’m basically falling off.” He turns to his other side, away from me. “I thought you’d appreciate the lack of air-conditioning, since you love embracing Italy’s traditions so much.”
He kind of has me there. “You’re right. I love this. I’m sweaty like Caesar right now. Dying of heat stroke but in a timeless, historical way.” I turn my head and notice the outline of his strong shoulders, my face flushes and a bead of sweat drips from my forehead. “Nope. This sucks. I’m miserable. No wonder everyone was so stabby back then.”
I think I hear him laugh, but his pillow muffles the noise. “Please don’t stab me.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” I say, sitting up. “Given the limited resources, I’d obviously smother you.”
