Chapter Four
Niilo
“Wait, wait. You’re going on a road trip with a complete stranger? With a man you met during ajob?”
Carefully, I roll up my T-shirts and tuck them into my bag. Bent over my cot in the shared room, the only part I can see of my roommate is his waist and the fists currently planted on his hips. I glance up at his face, smirking at his expression. Mathéo glares.
“You were a stranger until a week ago,” I remind him, hiding my grin when he scoffs and throws up his hands, muttering in French. “And I had tolivewith you.”
I gesture at our small room, indicating the two twin cots and single nightstand between them. Mathéo’s hands find his hips once more and he walks a few paces back and forth, trying to come up with an argument.
“But he is American!” is what he comes up with, making me laugh.
“You love them,” I remind him, thinking of all the nights he made me watch American football on his laptop. What a horrendously boring sport.
“I think you need to stay. Come with me to Naples, yeah? Or perhaps we are done with Italy. Perhaps we?—”
“I am not done with Italy. At least, not for the next couple of weeks, I’m not.” Finishing with the shirts, I begin folding my boxers into small squares, before tucking them into the bag. “I’m going on a road trip with Roman. If he ends up being awful, I’ll just have him drop me off and make my own way. It’s not as though we haven’t both had to do that before.”
Mathéo, like me, finished university and immediately hopped onto a plane to kick off his travel year. Unlike me, he’s missing home and will likely be traveling back to France sooner than I’ll go home to Finland. He makes a small, disgruntled noise in the back of his throat that somehow gives the impression of a rude hand gesture. I grin at the socks I’m folding together.
“Fine. I can see you aren’t going to be swayed. I promise to say something nice about you when they interview me for the podcast episode about your murder.”
I skirt around him to snag my charger from the wall, thinking about the pact Roman and I made the evening before. He could be crazy, I suppose, but trusting my gut has gotten me this far and served me well on the journey. I trust him. Even without anything to base the feeling on, I trust him.
Mathéo trails after me like a disapproving shadow as I gather my few belongings, packing them safely away. He helps me strip my bed, the way guests are required to do when they vacate, and even goes so far as to give me a grudging hug when it’s time for me to leave.
“You don’t have to hang around,” I tell him, fixing my hair after a few strands get pulled loose from the partial ponytail. He rolls his eyes, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the wall.
“I need to see the American, so I’m able to identify him to the police.”
Snorting, I lift my phone and use the camera to check my face. Given that Roman and I are probably going to be doing nothing more than sitting in the car all day, I probably didn’t need to put quite as much effort into my appearance as I did. But I’m nothing if not vain, so I’m wearing a pair of shorts that will border on obscene when I’m seated in the car, another crop top like the one I wore last night, albeit shorter, and makeup. Roman gave me no less than six compliments on my makeup last night, which means I’ll be wearing it for the entire journey, no matter the activity we’re doing.
I catch Mathéo’s reflection in the screen, rolling his eyes again, but a car pulls into the small lot before he can offer a comment. Lowering my phone, I stand and smile at the little wave Roman sends through the windshield as he parks. He pops the door and unfolds his big frame from the vehicle, cheeks already a little red underneath the dark beard.
“Hey, Niilo,” he greets me, eyes flicking up and down as he takes me in. The blush crawls down his neck, which is ridiculously satisfying. I knew the shorts were the right decision.
“Hello,” I reply cheerfully, gesturing toward Mathéo with a casual flick of the wrist. “This is Mathéo, who is confused and thinks he is my father. Ignore him.”
Roman laughs, but tries to cover it up with a cough. We share a look before he gamely attempts to introduce himself to my friend. While they’re shaking hands and puffing out their chests at one another, I sling my bag over my shoulder and head toward the rear of the car.
“I’ve got that,” Roman says, rushing over and holding out his hand for my things. I pass it over, pleased, and raise my eyebrows at Mathéo, who pretends to gag. Squeezing Roman’s forearm in thanks, I walk over to Mathéo.
“Text me,” he requests, pulling me into a hug with a hand on my shoulder. After a squeeze that threatens to leave me with a few cracked ribs, he adds, “You didn’t tell me he was hot.”
Grinning as I slide into the passenger seat of Roman’s car—after he held the door for me again, like the sort of gentleman I didn’t realize actually existed—I waggle my fingers at Mathéo through the window. He sends a rude hand gesture back, because he loves me.
“Your friend seems…nice,” Roman tries valiantly, once we are pulling away from the hostel. I laugh. He glances over, grinning, cheeks still a little pink. The car, which is a normal-sized vehicle, feels tiny with his broad shoulders taking up two-thirds of the space.
“My friend is jealous because I’m off on an adventure with a Viking, while he’s stuck behind and in line for a new roommate.”
“Viking, huh?” he asks, sounding pleased. “I can work with that.”
The Italian countryside flies by, but I’m barely paying attention. One leg cocked up on the seat so I can sit at an angle, I forgo the view in favor of watching Roman. We’ve been chatting about everything and nothing, the conversation ricocheting between topics like a bouncy ball. I’ve learned enough about Roman’s middle school experience to know that it was a place only a small step above hell; I know his favorite color, food, and animal—both wild and domesticated. I know he struggles with public speaking, and likes to read, although he finds himself watching documentaries more often than picking up a book these days. I know he’s not close with his family, nor does he feel like he’s got any friends who would, in his words, miss him if he were gone.
By the time dusk is crawling over the hills with fingers tinted pink, we’ve had what I consider to be a successful first day. The drive from the vineyard to Florence is quick and relatively painless, if one is to make a straight shot of it, but that’s not what we did. We took detours based on nothing more than a hunch, or a comment along the lines of “huh, I wonder what’s down here.” We stretched an hour-long drive into five, and stopped no less than four times to eat.
Climbing out of the car, I reach my arms over my head and stretch. I hold the pose a little longer than strictly necessary, enjoying the way Roman seems unable to look away from my stomach. He grabs both his bag and mine as we head into the hotel, the fingers of his free hand resting very gently on my upper back.
