Nope. Nothing to see here.
But I’m still grinning.
“I’m sorry, what is this?” I ask, looking at Marina in surprise, then to my hand, then back to her.
“It’s a helmet,” she says, theduhsilent but totally implied. She taps my skull. “Goes on your head.”
“I kind of thought we’d take an Uber or something,” I say, looking uncertainly at the powder blue moped in front of me. They call them scooters here. Or Vespas. But to me, it’s a moped, and I’ve seen how Italians drive them. Crazily. Weaving in and out of traffic. Completely disregarding any kind of lane markings. Or traffic laws, it seems. It’s shocking to me that I’ve been here for a couple weeks now and haven’t seen a traffic accident involving a scooter. Yet Marina wants me to straddle one.
She’s fastening her chin strap and glances at me as I continue to stand there, probably looking terrified. Because I kinda am.
“Oh,bella, don’t worry.” She laughs softly and wraps her hand around my forearm. Her grip is warm, firm. “I know how it looks, the way we are on our scooters. I hear it all the time from my clients who come to visit. But I promise you”—she squeezes tighter until I meet her eyes—“Ipromiseyou, I will drive carefully, and I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Her words are so soft and feel so genuine to me, and the factthat I weirdly trust this woman I barely know is confusing as hell. But I give her one nod, pull the helmet on, and fasten the strap.
The seat has a tiny back to it, which helps me feel a little less worried—a little. When I was a kid, I was riding a dirt bike with my brother. He was driving, I was behind him, no back on the seat. He hit a rut, and I went flying off because there was nothing to keep me from doing so. I wasn’t terribly hurt, but it instilled a fear in me. I never rode with him again, and this situation now is giving me flashbacks. Marina gets on and flips up the kickstand, then makes room for me. She pats the seat, and I throw my leg over, and I was so busy worrying about dying in a horrific traffic accident that it never crossed my mind how close I’d be to Marina, how I’d have to wrap my arms around her, hold her tight, feel her body, smell her hair. Jesus Christ. I am feeling completely overwhelmed by, well, feelings. Fear, concern, arousal, excitement.
What the hell am I doing?
“Ready?” Marina asks, interrupting my internal meltdown. When I nod, she grins. “You’re gonna have to hold on, you know.”
“Right. Right.” I slide my arms around her torso and clasp one forearm with the other hand.
“Don’t worry,” she says as she starts the engine. “I’ve got you.”
It’s very possible I’m squeezing the life out of her as we merge into traffic and head off to wherever she’s taking me. I left Reggie with Serena, who was only too happy to take on dog-sitting duties so I could spend time with Marina, so she could be taking me for miles and miles. It’s not like I can stop her; I’m kind of a prisoner at the moment.
But…it’s not so bad, I must admit. We’re going at a reasonable speed, she’s not weaving in and out of cars like I’veseen others do. At one point, though, it seems like she almost does, and I realize she is making a conscious effort to be extra careful with me on her scooter. I smile as I move my head to the left so I can see over her shoulder.
“Doing okay back there?” she asks as we sit at a red light.
“I’m good,” I say. And I am. I tighten my grip on her, and she puts her hand on mine for a moment before the light changes and we’re off again.
It’s not a long ride. Maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, and after we cross the Tiber river, we’re parking in a public lot. It surprises me that I’m sad to let go of her. We take off our helmets, and I gaze around.
“Welcome to Trastevere,” she says.
“Trastevere,” I repeat. “I’ve been saying it wrong. I’ve been saying tras-ta-VAR-ay.” Her pronunciation is tra-STEV-array.
“I forgive you,” she says, and takes my helmet so she can lock the two of them together on the scooter. “Okay, so, I wanted to bring you to Trastevere because it’s—how do you say?” And she squints into the middle distance, something I have begun to find very charming. “Off the path?” The crinkling of her nose says she’s unsure, but I’m not.
“Off the beaten path.”
“Yes. That. Off the beaten path.” We start to stroll as she waves an arm out like she’s Vanna White presenting a prize. “This is a much more authentic Rome.”
And I get it instantly. I do. It’s still clearly Rome, from the cobblestone streets to the rows of cafés and shops, but there’s something about the atmosphere. “The vibe is different,” I say, a bit to myself and a bit to her. “It’s, like…” My turn to search for the right word as we wander, and I take in the people as well as the businesses. “Bohemian, maybe?” That feels right. Trastevere seems more laid back, more relaxed, like there’s a bit less hustle and bustle than where my hotel is. “I like it.”
“Yeah? Me too. I live in this area.”
“You do?” I don’t know why I’m surprised to get this piece of information, but I am.
She nods. “I have had my flat for about three years now.”
“And you live alone?”
“Just me and my plants.”
“No pets?”
