“What does this mean?”
“Nothing,” I say. “We’re attracted to each other, but we both agree we’re just friends and hooking up again isn’t an option.”
“Hooking up? You said youkissed!”
“And that wasn’t a lie. Then we touched a bit. Or, at least, he touched.”
And god, did he touch. His hands and mouth lit me up in a way I didn’t realize was possible. If that’s what he could do with a few kisses, what could he do if I got him between my legs? I can’t stop thinking about it, even though I need to.
I’mnotgoing to mention my foray into voyeurism, or that all I can seem to hear is the way he chanted my name when he came.
She throws her body flat on the bed, thrashing and screaming like she’s undergoing an exorcism. “I knew you two would get together!”
“That’s not what’s happening here.”
“Why not? You two have so much potential. And I want you to be as happy as I am.”
She and Tomasso have been spending time together for literally two weeks, but I’m not going to point out that it isn’t some epic love story like she’s written in her head.
She squeezes my hand. “Why not give him a chance? You haven’t really dated anyone in the ten years I’ve known you.”
I cross my arms. “I’ve dated at least that many people in the same number of years.”
“You’ve gone out with people, but those connections have been about as deep as the frog pond in the Boston Common.” She raises her brows in challenge.
I cross my arms. “I dated Jas for almost a year.”
Inez grew up with Jas, and when Inez introduced me to her group of lifelong friends during our first year of grad school, I slid in seamlessly. It was years before things started shifting between Jas and I. Inez said she was cool with us dating, even though I could tell it made her nervous. It hadn’t been a clean breakup, and I’d lost all of them except Inez, who now awkwardly schedules her social life around us.
She makes a skepticalmm-hmmsound. “Can we call that dating? More like exclusively hooking up. Jas only made it that long because she never makes a fuss about anything. The second you two started arguing, which is a normal part of a healthy relationship, you dumped her.”
I flinch at the description, even though it’s accurate. It always goes the same way. I meet someone and developed feelings while everything is fun and interesting. Then, we start arguing, or they cancel plans last minute or forget to call me back one day. I start slowly spiraling and imagining all the ways they’re going to leave and disappoint me, and I cut it off before we can get there. I recognize the pattern,knowI’m doing it, but can’t stop myself. Over the years, I decided that the frustration—and self-loathing,when I was unable to control my reaction—wasn’t worth it, which is why it makes more sense to focus on the fun.
Inez continues with her sales pitch. “Everyone deserves a great love! And with your best friend? How could you beat that?”
I groan and drop back on the bed next to her. “Why do you only hear what you want? I said we stopped!”
Inez purses her lips. “If you say so. But we’ll see what tune you’re singing after a romantic weekend in Ischia.”
I scoff. “A weekend with a hundred students. Who could resist that sort of romance?”
She sighs happily. “I love love.”
I throw a pillow at her face as I stand up. “You need sleep. One more word, and I’m staying home to smother you with my love and affection.”
She mimes locking her lips, but she starts humming as I walk away. It isn’t until I make it back to my room that I realize she was humming ABBA’s “When I Kissed the Teacher.”
The few hoursit takes to travel south are uneventful. A short train ride to Naples, where I mostly switch between reading and counting heads to make sure no students wander from our train car, followed by a bus ride to Pompeii.
The sprawling archeological city stretches before us with Mount Vesuvius’s ominous presence looming in the background. We’ll spend a few hours here with Colton lecturing about the insight provided into ancient Roman culture by this city, frozen in time by a devastating volcanic eruption.
Like the rest of Italy in late June, Pompeii’s blistering. The ancient concrete sucks in all the sunlight until we’re baking like Naples’s famous pizzas. But the students stay engaged, equal parts stunned and horrified by the plaster casts of the victims,eternally trapped in their final moments. I’m happily surprised by the level of respect they show?—
Until we get to the brothel.
At the sight of the well-preserved frescoes over each door along the long hallway, their raging newly-not-teenage hormones go wild. Each one displays a different sex act—boy, were the Romans creative—and the students can’t keep it together. Eyes go wide. Giggles bounce off the ancient walls. Frat boys mime the corresponding act for what they consider the funniest photo of all time.
I lean against the wall, watching them with Colton. “College students are disgusting. We were never this bad.”
