Dr. Miller—a reminder that Colton is one of them—who he says is the only person he’d believe knows more about this city than he does.
And then he reaches me.
“And last, we have Ms. Riley, who?—”
“Professor Riley.” Colton’s voice booms around us even in the open piazza, cutting off Dr. Guarino and making everyone straighten at the command in his tone. “She’s a professor on this trip and will be addressed as such.”
Dr. Guarino lifts an eyebrow. Colton raises his chin in response, something stubborn and aggressive stretching taut between them. I feel a surge of gratitude that Colton not only recognized the dig, but spoke up against it publicly.
But as much as I appreciate the support, a conflict like this between two such stubborn men won’t lead to anything productive, for me or for Colt.
So I laugh. “This is a great example of how changing roles affect the way people view you. I’ve been in one position for solong that it can be hard to take on something new. The students in my class will have to navigate it too, going from student to studentandemployee. We’ll talk about that more next week.”
Dr. Guarino nods and turns back to the students. “Yes,ProfessorRiley”—I can’t imagine anyone misses the sarcasm laced in that honorific—“is teaching a class for the students in internships this summer.”
And that’s it. Every other professor received praise for their work over the years. But I’m just here. I went in expecting this, so why does it dig under my ribs?
Colton’s jaw clenches as Dr. Guarino hands the orientation back over to Inez, who gives me a sympathetic smile before leading the students through the winding streets off the piazza to our school.
I fall into step beside Colton, whispering, “Don’t pick fights with the other professors.”
He whispers back. “They can’t talk to you like that.”
“It’ll be a long summer if you fight with them every time they dismiss me,” I mutter.
He chuckles and leans closer, so close I can feel the breath of his words ghost along my ear and neck. It’s the only reason I shiver when he whispers, “You’re worth fighting for, Quinn.”
I blockout the chattering around me as I breathe in the city—mycity. Looking strictly at time spent here, it shouldn’t feel this important. My summers here were nothing compared to the eighteen years I’d spent in Florida and the fourteen in Boston. And those summers weren’t even perfect, magical times. Yes, I always loved Rome, but there was a lot of loneliness here, too. We weren’t here for my fun or exploration. We were here for my father’s work, and I was expected to find ways to occupy myself while he and my mother focused on their respective research.
But Rome speaks to me. It buzzes with an energy that matches my own.It’s not frozen in time like so many historic locations around the world. It’s bustling, the modern age weaving and converging around the past like a river splitting for a small island. The scent varies widely based on where you’re standing, the rich aroma of baking cheese, lemons, and espresso hanging in the air, then randomly washed out by the stench of garbage or urine. This isn’t the Disney World version of Italy. It shows you its truest self, inviting you to be a part of it rather than an observer. It’s loud, busy, and often gross, but it’s real.
Colton forces the hot and exhausted students to pause, pointing out that from the corner where we stand, they can see a modern skyscraper, an eighteenth-century church, a Renaissance palace, a medieval building, and the ruins where Julius Caesar was assassinated. And even though I’ve stood in this exact stop hundreds of times, I’m once again struck by the magnitude of this city’s history. All the things it has seen and will see.
Once we finished up the orientation, Inez promised free gelato for anyone interested. About half of the students took her up on the offer, and she rushed ahead to pay before flooding the gelateria with fifty students, leaving Colton and I to lead them there.
“Why’d we have to walk this far for free gelato? We’ve passed at least a dozen other gelato places,” one of the students complains, undoubtedly thinking about the bed that’s calling to his jet-lagged body.
“Trust me,” I say over my shoulder. “It’s worth the walk.”
“And we couldn’t have taken the metro? It’s hot,” another moans.
Colton stops, and the whole Billings progression stops with him as he faces the students. “A lesson for you all. This isn’t Boston with T stops on every corner. Rome’s metro doesn’t even come to Trastevere because every time they dig, they find something with more historical significance than our entire country.You can take your chances with the buses if you want. Good luck.”
A loud snort escapes me before I can stop it, and everyone turns to look at me. Colton narrows his eyes at me as I cup my hands over my nose and mouth.
“Sorry, guys,” I say. “Dr. Miller has a complicated history with the Roman bus system.”
The students’ gazes ping-pong between us.
“Don’t,” he says in a low tone.
I bite my lip to trap in my laughter, and he holds my gaze, daring me to make the next move.
“Oh, come on! Someone has to tell us,” says Markus, a student I worked with in Boston.
Colton turns to him with a sigh. “Professor Riley and I studied together in Rome. I had a not-so-great experience on the bus when I first arrived, and she won’t let me live it down.”
“There are bus strikes here,” I cut in, trying to hide the laughter in my voice. “The drivers will pull the bus over to the side of the road and leave without a word. It happened while Dr. Miller was on one right after we arrived, and he thought they were trading out drivers, so he sat there for… a while.”
