“And now?”
“It feels like a chore. An impossible, heavy chore. I’ve never felt like this. It scares me.”
I hear Jessie let out a breath similar to mine, a thinking breath, like she’s looking for a solution to offer me. “I’m sorry, hon. That really sucks. Maybe this guided tour will stir things up a bit.” She has no suggestions, that’s what that means, and I understand it. She can’t fix this. Nobody can. I have to either ride it out, give up completely, or force myself to write something.
“Maybe,” I say, with as much conviction as I can muster, because I don’t want to give up. I love my job—loved my job—and I want to love it again. I want to get back there. I’m just not sure how. A glance at my watch tells me I need to get moving. “Listen, I gotta go. But thanks for letting me vent.”
“Anytime. You know that. Let me know how it goes today, okay? I’ve never been to Rome. Send me pics. I wanna live vicariously.”
“Will do,” I say and hang up. Then I stand there in front of the mirror. “What do you think, Reg?”
He’s been napping on my bed, and he opens his eyes to look at me. Apparently, lifting his head requires too much effort, so he just stares at me with his enormous brown marble eyes.
The heat is back, so I’m wearing a pair of navy blue shortsand a blue and white striped tank. I’ve slathered myself in sunscreen—I will tan just fine, but I don’t want to burn. Or get skin cancer. My mother is all about sunscreen, barely leaves home without it, and she’s rubbed off, no pun intended. I check my bag to make sure I’ve got sunglasses and lip balm with SPF. Then I step into my sandals, give Reggie a couple treats and a kiss on his furry head, and leave my room.
As I said, I’m on the top floor—the fifth—and while I tend to opt for the elevator up, I do like to take the stairs down. Makes me feel like I’m at leastattemptingto exercise. The stairwell spits me out into a hallway where I pass a janitor’s closet and an office before I get to the lobby. There are heated voices coming from the office, a man and woman arguing in Italian, and I hurry past without looking in. I don’t want it to seem like I’m eavesdropping, not that it would matter since I don’t speak Italian.
In the lobby, there’s a small table with a big jug of ice water, and I help myself to a cup, as Marina isn’t here yet and I am never hydrated enough, according to my doctor. Why is it so hard to drink water? Now, if they told me I had to drink more wine to stay properly hydrated, I’d be all over that.
I’m just crumpling the paper cup in my hand, about to toss it into the small wastebasket, when Marina and Marco come around the corner from where the stairway is. Neither of them look happy, and I realize it was them arguing in Italian. They part without looking at each other, Marco to behind the front desk and Marina toward the small lobby area. The second she sees me, the stress on her face vanishes, replaced by a smile that seems genuine to me—though I have to admit I don’t know her well at all and would have no idea if she was faking it.
“Lily,” she says, running a hand down my arm, and I love the way my name sounds in her accent. “So good to see you.” And then before I can comprehend it, she pulls me into a hugand air-kisses both sides of my face. It’s a traditional greeting here between friends and a bit intimate for me…though not with Marina. She smells amazing again, like apples and comfort. When she pulls back and meets my gaze, she’s still smiling, the perfection of her teeth telling me she likely wore braces as a kid. “I’ve got some great ideas for your tour, but first, I want to hear what you like. I have a great place for us to go to lunch. It’s close. Okay with you?”
“You’re the boss,” I say. “Lead the way.”
She chuckles and shakes her head. “Oh, no. You are the boss.” But she turns for the door anyway, and I follow her, waving a goodbye to Marco as we pass. Marina doesn’t wave.
“The restaurant is close,” she says as we start walking along the cobblestones, falling into step alongside each other. “I know the owner. I’ve taken some of my food tours there. Excellent food, great wine, fun to—” She stops and looks up, and I remember from the tour that this is what she does when searching for the right words. “People watch. Good views.”
“Sounds perfect. I do a lot of people watching for my job, so that sounds right up my alley.” I wonder if she’s familiar with that phrase, but she doesn’t ask me to clarify. We walk in silence for only a few seconds before I can’t help myself and ask, “Are things okay with you and Marco?” I wince internally because it really is none of my business, but they both looked so upset after their discussion. Plus, my curiosity has been known to drag me lots of places I probably shouldn’t go.
Marina makes apfftsound and waves a hand like it was just a normal disagreement. And maybe it was—I wouldn’t know. “My brother,” she says on a sigh. “Every time I come to the hotel, he tries to tell me why I need to be working there with him and the rest of my family.” She looks at me and widens her dark eyes as she stresses, “Every. Time.” Then she grins, and I feel a little better about the unsettled look she’d sported earlier.
I smile back at her, and it’s clear to me she doesn’t really want to delve into the subject, which I’m fine with. As I said, none of my business. Plus, we’re at the restaurant now. Marina walks right up to the man standing at the small podium at the doorway and hugs him. He’s clearly thrilled to see her and begins speaking in Italian, which she reciprocates. I don’t mind; it gives me a chance to look at her.
Italians dress differently than Americans. It’s one of the first things I noticed when I got here. A bit looser, both in clothing and in attitude, and very European, unsurprisingly. Marina’s wearing a pair of wide-leg black pants and a tan tank that I don’t think I’d call cropped, but it’s short enough that if she reaches over her head, I’d see her stomach. I wouldn’t mind that at all, I decide. Her sandals are black, her toenails are polished candy apple red, and her hair—God, her hair. I’ve never seen such a gorgeous head of hair on a person in my life. Dark and wavy, she has it partially pulled back and it all just falls in loose curls down her back to her shoulder blades.
“Lily?”
I blink myself back to the moment to find both Marina and the man at the podium looking expectantly at me. I shake my head. “Sorry. What?”
“I asked if you wanted to sit inside or out.”
The sweat suddenly making itself know between my breasts answers for me. “Inside, if that’s okay.”
Marina nods and points inside, and the guy leads the way.
The restaurant is small and narrow, with tables on each side along the walls, and we walk between them to a table for two in the back. Marina looks at me with her eyebrows raised, and I nod my approval.
“Cute little table for two. It’s good, yeah?” She pulls out my chair, and the chivalry isn’t lost on me.
“It’s perfect.”
We sit, and the waiter asks us about wine. That’s another thing I’ve learned about Italy—it’s never too late or too early for wine. I nod at Marina.
“Red or white?” she asks me.
“Surprise me,” I say, and it comes out a little flirty, and I sit there wondering if I meant it to.
