Mary Kate turns, the motion slow and deliberate. She’s barefoot, toenails painted the same pale pink as her lips, and the hem of her leggings rides high on her calves. She looks young, almost impossibly so, but there’s nothing innocent about the way she studies me. I feel the tension flicker between us, old and new, familiar and yet utterly wrong. My pulse ticks faster.
She holds up the guidebook, thumbing to a dog-eared spread of cobblestone piazzas. “I want to see this someday,” she says, and she reads the caption aloud: “Trastevere at dusk, the air thick with cigarette smoke and orange blossom. Lovers in every doorway.” She giggles, shakes her head. “Sounds like bullshit, right?”
I can’t help it—I smile. “You’d hate the crowds.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Probably. But the food would be worth it.”
For a beat, we just stand there, caught in the golden hour glow, the room thick with unsaid things. The only sound is the faint hiss of the radiator and the far-off warble of a bird outside, some winter holdover singing against the odds.
I break the spell. “You hungry? I can order something in.”
Mary Kate shrugs, a flash of collarbone at the neck of her sweatshirt. “Maybe later. I’m too wired to eat right now.”
I nod, push away from the shelf, and cross to the bay window. The Persian rug muffles my footsteps, but she tracks me anyway, her eyes never quite leaving my face. I stop a few feet away, close enough to smell her shampoo—a sensual floral, with an aftershock of vanilla.
“You know,” I say, “I remember your senior year of high school, you couldn’t wait to leave. You were so excited to get to college.”
She laughs again, but this time it’s darker, almost self-mocking. “Yeah, well. A lot’s changed.”
I want to ask what that means, but I already know. We both do. I settle for a question that’s safer: “Did you enjoy school? You’re almost done now.”
Mary Kate shrugs again, but there’s a tremor in her voice. “A little. Mostly I just—” She trails off, then shakes her head. “Never mind.”
I wait, but she doesn’t finish. Instead, she glances up at me through her lashes, a look that would shatter most men. My jaw tightens, and I force myself to exhale slowly, quietly. I want to reach out, touch her hair, feel the heat of her scalp under my palm. The urge is so strong it’s almost chemical.
I cross my arms, digging my fingers into my biceps, a gesture I use to anchor myself during trying times. “What test are you studying for?”
She brightens, grateful for the change of subject. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just travel Italian. Basically, if you can order at a restaurant and not offend anyone, you pass.”
I arch an eyebrow. “And you’re failing at that?”
Mary Kate grins, all teeth and mischief. “I could maybe order a coffee. But if I tried to get a hotel room, I’d probably end up at a strip club by accident.”
I let out a bark of laughter. “That sounds like something your mother would do.”
She covers her mouth, eyes wide. “Oh god, it totally is.”
The moment is light, easy, almost normal, and I savor it. But even in the softness, the hunger remains. I wonder if she feels it too, the raw livewire running under every word.
She sets the guidebook on the sill, flips to a page with a bright color photo of a Roman fountain. “Did you know,” she says, “that if you throw a coin in here, you’re guaranteed to come back?” She looks at me, eyes wide, voice pitched high. “Isn’t that kind of a scam?”
I tilt my head, feigning thoughtfulness. “You think the Italians would lie?”
She puts on an exaggerated accent. “In Italia,everyonelies.” She laughs, shoulders shaking, and for a second the innocence is real, untarnished by memory or longing. I want to trap that laugh, hold it in a jar, keep it safe from whatever’s coming.
She sits back down, curling into the chair again, and the leather creaks under her. I watch the way she tucks her legs, the way the light paints her hair and skin. The silence grows again, but it’s not empty—there’s a charge to it, like the second before a summer storm.
I clear my throat. “If you want, I can run through some vocabulary with you. Medical Italian, even. Once upon a time, Iused to watch a lot of foreign films, and picked up some of the language. It might be useful.”
Mary Kate perks up, blue eyes shining. “You’d do that?”
I nod, then force a smile. “Sure. I’ll even quiz you.”
She bites her lip, and the flush returns to her cheeks. “You’re on.”
I let myself watch her for a moment longer, cataloguing every detail: the curve of her jaw, the faint spray of freckles on her cheekbones, the way her lips part when she’s thinking. I’m not a good man, not in this moment, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Instead, I imagine Mary Kate in Italy—lost in a crowd, hair tangled, eyes wide. I wonder who she’ll meet, who she’ll become. I wonder if I’ll ever see her again if she goes. A pang hits my heart, and my chest aches at the thought of never seeing her again.
