“You know I really appreciate you, right?” I say softly as we lie there on the library couch, all electronics pushed aside. Justmy head on his chest, his arms wrapped around me, one hand rubbing gentle circles on my back. “Thank you for all you’ve done for me already, helping me get this far in my search. I can’t imagine doing any of this without you.”
His chest shakes with a soft laugh, and in a wry tone, he answers, “The same can definitely be said for me.”
It’s been five days since our discovery of Luca Goedhart and subsequent attempt to contact him, and still no response. I’ve tried to remain calm, even cautiously optimistic. West and I have each spent time with our parents while we wait—and heard the passing remarks about what a “refreshing change” it is, and the “long time, no sees” loud and clear. So far, we’ve refused to give them the satisfaction of confirming or denying whatever they think is going on between the two of us. Things seem to be winding down for the documentary filming, while they ramp up for twentieth anniversary party preparations. Each day, new tables or chairs or random pieces of décor appear in new spots around the villa grounds, like little pop-up reminders of the looming surprise-sorta-reunion I’ve begun to regret ever planning.
If only Mom could’ve dropped the Via Camilla tidbit on day one. The trouble that would’ve saved me…but I suppose it also could have kept me from growing closer to West. The hint might not have even led me anywhere, without all I’ve learned since and without his help.
So I can’t dwell on what could’ve been. Nor does it do me any good to obsess over a response from Luca Goedhart that might never come, no matter how many times I make West check his spam folder.
In an effort to distract us both, and surprise West with something nice, I decide to arrange a chill date night at Villa Russo. It’s one way of saying, “Hey, sorry I’m an agent of chaos most of the time and haven’t let you have the relaxing summer you were hoping for, but I can sit still sometimes too!”
Unfortunately, I am who I am, and who I am is the girl who’s burning her second attempt at stovetop popcorn. If I was getting any wild ideas about my culinary prowess after making one (1) decent pizza at Tony’s workshop, all I had to do was spend a few minutes in a kitchen unsupervised to bring myself back down to earth.
“This wouldn’t be an issue if this country had Orville Redenbacher Movie Theater Butter,” I grumble to myself as I remove the skillet from the cooktop. The ladies who make most of the meals here looked skeptical when I came in with a bag of popcorn kernels and some good old-fashioned American overconfidence just as they were packing up to head home for the day. But I tried to give them my bestI promise not to burn the place downsmile.
I might have been lying.
“Shitshitshit,” I whisper-hiss in rapid succession when the heat of the skillet handle starts to seep through the dish towel I’m using as a potholder, and I have to drop the pan in the farmhouse sink with a loud clatter. When my ears stopringing, I realize my phone is chiming with the signal for a new text. Tapping the screen, I see that it’s West, wondering where I am.
Guess we won’t have popcorn at this movie night.
I asked Dr. Danny if he could keep West busy this afternoon—anything to occupy him somewhere outside the library until dinnertime so I could work on a surprise date night in peace. I didn’t even include the date night part, or any information about why I needed this favor. I don’t know if it’s a sign of Dr. Danny’s trust in me or his extremely hands-off parenting style, but he didn’t ask any questions.
I got most of the setup done this afternoon so I could show up to dinner in the dining room as normal, then play it cool as West bemoaned the bizarre events of the last few hours, during which his dad kept presenting him with new gadgets that weren’t working the way they should, in the hope West could fix them. His phone, his e-reader, even the hair-dryer in his room—“Dad doesn’t even blow-dry his hair!”—each with a weirder story of what caused it to break. I feel a little guilty and make all the sympathetic noises andugh, that suckscommiserations, while inside I’m cackling. And a little frightened of Dr. Danny’s ability to cause such creative diversions with so little preparation.
West will agree it was worth it, I’ve convinced myself. And it was admittedly hilarious to see his absolute despair when Dr. Danny came by our table, right as I’d requested, and asked West to swing by his room one more time, just take a “super quick look” at the TV, which had mysteriously started puttingJapanese subtitles over everything. A super quick look that’s lasted twenty minutes—just enough time for me to put finishing touches in place, plus burn two batches of popcorn.
I scurry back to the library, looking upon the transformed room with pride. I’ve made a sort of pillow-and-blanket fort, bordered by the furniture that I’ve moved into a semicircle. It faces a wall of bookshelves, on which I’ve hung a white bedsheet I had to beg a nice housekeeper for, and behind my fort is a chair on which a projector sits. I found the little gem right here in the library and hooked it up to my computer so we can have our own private movie theater. All that’s missing is the scent of buttery popcorn that I’d hoped to have filling the air and creating some ambiance.
But this is as good as it’s going to get, so I answer West’s text to let him know I’m in the library, then sit down among the cozy, cushiony fruits of my labor. My nerves grow as the minutes pass, and I’m beginning to wonder if this was a silly idea. Then the heavy wood door swings open and West enters the room, and my worries are squashed by the emotions flickering across his face—confusion to surprise to complete delight.
“Cam,” he breathes out, “what is…Are we…You made a…pillow fort? For me?”
“For us, really,” I correct. I pat the pillow beside mine in wordless invitation. “I know I’ve done a lot of dragging you around outside your comfort zone recently. So I want you to know that I’m grateful for you and that I love the comfort zone, too.”
West’s smile is soft and grateful as he toes off his shoes before stepping into our fort. “This is significantly more comfortable than even the comfort zone I’m used to.”
I’m preening from his admiration and from the happiness in every relaxed inch of him as he reclines among the pillows. “Mission accomplished,” I say.
For the next couple hours, I almost forget about the big looming questions that have consumed nearly all of my thoughts this summer. I simply enjoy myself in the moment with West. It’s like a reset, reminding me that there are more people in the world than the one mystery man who contributed half of my DNA and pretty much nothing else to my life so far. Maybe I’ve been giving him too much real estate in my mind and heart, and not enough to the ones whohaveshown up for me. Who continue to be here, loving me now, just as I am.
At the very least, it’s good to give the search a brief hiatus. Or it is, right up until we’re about to fall asleep. West has already mumbled a couple of nonsensical sleep thoughts out loud that I can’t wait to tease him for later. My eyelids are getting heavier, too.
But when I hear the quiet vibration of a phone, I check mine, where I tossed it on the floor a few feet away. Seeing nothing on the screen, I poke West’s side and whisper, “Hey, can I see if you got an email?”
“Mm-hrmmmph,” he replies, a sleep-talker’s version of “Yes, dear.” Without opening his eyes, he drags the phone from his pocket and holds it out.
What I find when I take it has me bolting upright and shaking West’s shoulder.
“What? What is it?” he slurs, drowsy eyes darting around before landing on me. I hold up his phone, barely able to form the words I can’t believe I’m saying.
“Luca Goedhart wrote back.”
Chapter Eighteen
West
“Do you think my momis suspicious that we came to Pompeii for a second time this summer?” Cammie asks, taking a bite of the cornetto she stole from Villa Russo’s breakfast buffet and stashed in her backpack for later. It’s clearly Stress Snack O’Clock.
