Page 216 of 72 Hours of You

“Do you think we’ll see each other again?”

His face is still so optimistic, so open, so Peter. He’s waiting for my answer. He’s waiting for me. So I lie, and I say yes to Peter Beckett one last time.

00:00:00

Sixty-Four

Time goes in the other direction now.

Sixty-Five

One second.

Sixty-Six

One hour.

Sixty-Seven

One day.

Sixty-Eight

Without Peter.

Eleven Months Later

SOFT BLUE LIGHT FILTERS in through ancient stained-glass windows.

“I bet a lot of BJs happened in this back pew.”

“Jesus, Jules,” I say. “This is a church.” I gesture to the dimly lit space filled with candles and rough wooden benches.

“Yeah. I know. And the word of god makes people horny.”

“I think that’s just you.”

A few rows ahead of us an old lady with a bun and a cane shushes us, and Jules flashes her a smile and mouths an apology before turning to me and rolling her eyes.

“You’re such an American,” I say.

“You’re the one who decided to take a year off before NYU to ‘see the world.’ It doesn’t get much more American than that.”

The woman stands up and starts cursing at us in Italian and shaking her cane directly at us.

“Scopiamo! Scopiamo!” Jules says, putting her hands up.

The old lady’s face flames bright red and she yells even louder.

“That means Let’s fuck!” I hiss.

“Well, I only memorized that and I’m sorry. Sometimes I get them mixed up. Sue me.” Jules turns back to the old lady. “We’re leaving, we’re leaving. Oh my god, old people have literally no chill.”

We walk back outside under the bright Italian sun and Jules lets out a belabored sigh. “That bitchy old lady didn’t happen to have a Buzz Kill over her head, did she?”

“Oh my god, for the last time, they’re called Doom Scrolls.”

“Potato, potato,” Jules says, with the exact same a for both potatoes. “But really, maybe that would explain why she has such a raging stick up her ass.”