1
“On a scale of zero to heartbreakingly Italian, where would you say that I land?”
Turning my eyes from the architectural wonders to my left and right, I glance over at Marco as we roll our overpacked luggage down a cobblestoned street in Rome. It’s midafternoon and the sun is out in full force, casting a heat and a haze over us that would feel stifling back in New York, but here, it feels lighter. Simmering with possibilities. Snippets of Italian and the buzz of scooters reverberate around and through me like a new favorite song, and it’s all so surreal that it takes real effort to respond to my friend instead of drifting off into a highly elaborateRoman Holidayfantasy instead.
“Are we talking your overall aura or your physical appearance, too?”
“Whole package,” Marco replies, pulling at the collar of his black T-shirt. “Like we just crossed paths, you see me, you take in my vibe and you think to yourself, ‘Hmm... In my humble tourist opinion, this gentleman is clearly this much Italian.’”
“I don’t know,” I answer, giving my suitcase a determined yank as the wheel catches on a stone. “Maybe a five?”
“A five?” he seethes. “Not that I’m trying to sway your decision, but how dare you?”
I stop walking then, my body needing a break even with all the euphoric adrenaline that’s been pumping through me nonstop since we landed two hours ago. I reach into my tote bag and pull out the bottle of water I bought at the airport and all but guzzle it down before speaking again.
“You know what? I’m amending my original answer. You’re an eight. A solid eight, which is a highly respectable score that also allows room for growth.”
Marco reaches out his hand and I pass the water over, giving him the okay to finish it off. He drinks an equally ravenous amount and tosses the empty bottle into a nearby bin. “I’ll accept an eight. At least it’s better than the three-point-seven that you’d pull in.”
“How am I a three-point-seven when I’m biologically half Italian?”
“Yeah, I’d challenge Ancestry.com on that one,” he says. “Your name might be Violetta Luciano but your freckles and complete inability to tan reads as more of a Sinead O’Connor.” I chuckle and make use of the hair tie that’s forever on my wrist, pulling my thick auburn hair into a ponytail as Marco goes on, “By the way, do we know what time Holly is getting in?”
“Not a clue,” I tell him. “I can barely get Holly to acknowledge my existence, let alone keep me abreast of her travel plans.”
“Same here. Maybe we’ll finally win her over now that we’re interning together, though. I mean, come on. Who wouldn’t love us? We’re delightful.”
“We’resomewhatdelightful,” I reply. “Borderline absurd but delightful.”
“True, but to be fair, all fashion designers are at least a little absurd. I’d take a cinched, tulle-layered ball gown over a practical mindset any day of the week.”
“Oh, one hundred percent,” I agree.
Marco smirks and we continue down the busy street. It’s teeming with tourists and locals alike, and I’m surprised we don’t bump into anyone. In Manhattan, even a leisurely stroll can turn into limitless rounds of sidewalk chicken, with no one willing to swerve or give the right of way ever. In Italy, people weave in and out of pedestrian traffic like synchronized swimmers on pavement.
The middayriposoclearly works wonders for the soul.
Five minutes later we stop again, having now discovered a picturesque commercial cul-de-sac. There’s a restaurant, a café, a clothing store and a gelato shop, and they’re all wildly tempting in their own ways.
“I need a break,” I tell Marco. “We’re supposed to meet Professor Leoni at her apartment in an hour, so let’s just hang out here until then.”
“Sounds good. I’m going to do some perusing first,” he says, lifting his chin toward the clothing store. “Care to join me?”
“I’m too tired to peruse. I’ll meet you at the café.”
“See you in fifteen.”
He bounces off, still bursting with excess energy, and it’s in moments like this that I’m painfully aware of our age difference. True, we’re only seven years apart, but sometimes the gap between twenty-two and twenty-nine feels immeasurable.
It’s not that I mind being older than most of the people I go to school with. Even now I’m proud of the fact that I’m an adult student. But the downside of it does hit me on occasion, periodically reminding me of just how far behind I am in my life. Of how much harder I need to work to make up for the time I lost.
Pushing that moderately depressing thought aside, I channel my angst into a resolute march forward, making my way toward the al fresco café. I stop to stand just outside the waist-height partition and find that it’s filled to capacity with every table occupied.
Curses.
Deciding to wait it out, I pull out my phone and do what I always do when I have a few minutes to pass—I look at old pictures of me and Greg. And granted, it’s an incredibly unhealthy go-to, but for all my eccentricities, I’m also a creature of habit.
Scrolling through the photos now, I feel the same as I usually do. Accepting but sad. Uncomfortably comfortable. Crossing an ocean hasn’t changed that. And the strangest part of it is, even though I miss him, I don’t necessarily want Greg back. At least, not right now. I don’t even want to be the girl in the photos. I’m not her anymore. I haven’t been for two years. But I still look at who we were then and for some reason, I can’t leave us behind. Can’t stop myself from thinking that when the time is right, we’ll find each other again. Maybe it’s because we still keep in contact, sometimes constantly texting each other. It’s hard to leave someone in the past when they’re still a lingering part of the present.
