I’m not sure who Florence is trying to impress, but not even nightfall could dim her splendor. Niilo’s hand has found its way back to mine, and only the quiet sounds of a city winding down accompany us on our walk home. My feet hurt, my cheeks are sore from smiling, and my cellphone lost battery power two hours ago. I’m having the time of my life.
The heat of the day has given way to a balmy evening, the cobbled streets and sandstone bricks bathed in the warm light of the lampposts. Muffled laughter reaches us as someone exits a restaurant, something spicy and fragrant following on the breeze.
I’m pleasantly tired—drowsy enough to fall asleep instantly, were my head to touch a pillow right now—but so relaxed and content that I slow my steps even further. I don’t want to make it back to the hotel quite yet. Tomorrow we’ll be back in the car, at the mercy of Niilo’s endless supply of regional knowledge and our whims. Tonight is our last night in Florence, and I want to bask.
“You’ve been in Italy a long time,” I comment softly, not wanting to disrupt the calm of the evening, but missing the melodic cadence of Niilo’s voice.
“A few months,” he agrees. “I’d been planning on moving on long before now, but something kept enticing me to stay.”
I send a quiet, heartfelt thank-you to the universe for engineering that for me.
“Do you know where you’ll go from here?”
“Mm,” he hums, thinking. Our linked hands swing gently between us. Feeling bold and romantic and maybe a little bit in love with both Italy and Niilo, I brush my thumb over the back of his hand. “It’s been a little while since I’ve been home, so I may go back for a visit.”
“Do you miss home?” I ask, surprised. In all our conversations—which, granted, hasn’t beenthatmany—he’s never mentioned feeling homesick. I think of my own home, back in Seattle, and realize I don’t miss it at all, even though I’d feared spending the entire vacation wanting my own bed.
“Yes and no. I don’t miss my family so much as I miss having my own space.” I laugh, and he looks up at me, grinning. “I have a small loft. It’s a single room with a bathroom attached, but it’s mine and I love it.”
I nod, knowing exactly what he’s talking about. My introverted, loner heart longs for cozy, private spaces.
“I get it. I can’t imagine being on the road for so long; staying in hostels, and working in a foreign country. You’re brave as hell.”
“It’s very European to take travel years between secondary school and university. I just waited, and did mine after university to be contrary.”
We pass a church I’d noticed this morning, when we’d set off on foot from our hotel. I’m slightly disappointed to see it, because that means we’re back. No more walking with Niilo’s warm palm pressed to mine, or the smell of jasmine mixing with the more earthy aroma of the Arno River. I bite back a sigh. Maybe it’s just the out-of-time feel of the city, or the way Florence’s beauty lends itself to romance. Maybe it’s the factthat I don’t do a lot of dating. Or maybe it’s just Niilo himself—graceful and lovely, and extraordinarily clever.
Whatever is to blame, the fact remains that I’m on course to set the world record for falling in love. Falling in love with someone I met on vacation, no less, because when I make mistakes, I always double down. Niilo is unavailable to me as a long-term option. I know it, he knows it, and neither of us has felt the need to say so out loud. But the truth is between us, in the way we kiss and hold hands, but will go to our separate beds tonight.
Whatever is between us feels more than a one-night stand, but the chasm between vacation fling and long-term partner is too big to step across. And, given that I’ve only known him three days, it’s a distance I shouldn’t even be considering. It’s easier to blame Florence andDavidand the smell of citrus in the air for the feeling in my chest.
It’s Italy, not love.
“You look rather broody, right now,” Niilo comments, looking up at me beneath dark painted lashes. “What are you thinking about?”
You. Us. The magic of vacation and marble statues and gardens of roses. The madness and nonsensical nature of love.
“Nothing,” I say on a sigh. “Just missing Florence before we’re even gone, I suppose, strange as that is.”
“I don’t think that’s strange at all. Actually, I think that’s quite common. You love something so much, you know it’s going to hurt when it’s gone.”
Oh yes, it’s definitely going to hurt, I think later, watching his slim frame disappear into the dark of his hotel room. In fact, it already does.
