WHEN IN ROME…
Lose Control
Lena Mae Hill
Copyright © 2016 Lena Mae Hill
First Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the publisher, except in cases of reviewer quoting brief passages in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, and events are entirely coincidental. Use of any copyrighted, trademarked, or brand names in this work of fiction does not imply endorsement of that brand.
Published in the United States by Lena Mae Hill and Speak Now.
www.lenamaehill.com
This edition ISBN-10: 9781945780011
Chapter One
Cynthia waited for her mother’s tears to start. Instead, her mom cupped Cynthia’s face between her hands and studied her as if trying to memorize it in these last moments before her six-week study abroad trip to Italy began. “It’s going—to be—okay,” her mother said, giving her head a gentle shake for emphasis between words.
“I know.” Cynthia’s mother always worried just enough to make her feel loved rather than smothered.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” her mother said with a laugh, releasing Cynthia. “You’ll be jetting around Europe like a glamorous, high-society girl. I was telling myself.”
Cynthia laughed and hugged her mom hard. “Well, you’re right,” she said. “It is going to be okay. You are going to be okay, Mom. It’s just six weeks. I promise I won’t change a bit.”
“You might change a little,” her mom said. “You know, everyone over there has impeccable manners and tons of class. Come back with a little of that, would you?”
“Mom,” Cynthia said. “You’re so rude.”
Her mother laughed again, then reached into her purse and pulled out a little plastic bag. It crinkled as she pushed it into Cynthia’s hand. “I got you something to hold onto while you’re there,” she said. “Think about me when you wear it.”
Cynthia looked down at the necklace, which had a shiny little globe for a charm. “Oh, Mom,” she said, starting to tear up. “You didn’t have to get me anything. You helped pay for this trip.”
“I know,” her mom said. “But I wanted you to have something from me. It will be like a little part of me is with you in spirit.”
Cynthia had been sure her mom would cry first, but a tear escaped her eye as she hugged her mom again, not wanting to let go. When she finally did, her mom gave her loud kiss on the cheek and hooked her arm around Cynthia’s waist. “Look at my daughter, the globetrotter,” she said to Nick, who stood off to the side, waiting for Cynthia to finish her goodbyes before they ascended the escalator and waited through the security line.
“I’m looking,” Nick said with his little smile.
“You keep your eyes on her at all times,” her mother said, shaking a finger at Nick. “Every minute. I don’t want anything to happen to her when she’s over there where I can’t help.”
“Mom, it’s Rome,” Cynthia said. “Not the outskirts of Juarez.” She’d been born in the U.S., but her mother hadn’t. For her mother, travel could be a scary thing.
“I know,” her mother said, holding up a hand. “But you can’t be too careful.”
“Don’t worry, Ms. Arevalo, I’ll look out for her,” Nick said.
“Good,” her mother said, releasing her grip on Cynthia’s waist and giving her a little push. “Now go have more fun than it’s legal to have in America.”
After one more hug, Cynthia took her carryon bag from Nick and stepped onto the escalator. A redhead from their study abroad planning meetings stood near the elevators, immersed in what looked like a markedly less happy farewell with her own mother, both of them gesturing and speaking at the same time.
“Adios,” Cynthia’s mother called, pulling her attention away from the redhead whose name she couldn’t remember.
“Ciao,” Cynthia called back, waving as the escalator rose.
“Hasta la vista,” her mother called, waving in return.
“Arrivederci.”
“Bon voyage.”
“Sayonara!”
Her mother ran out of goodbyes, so she blew kisses instead. Cynthia had to turn away to step off the escalator, but she turned back one last time at the top and flung out her arm, throwing a kiss back to her mother.
“You guys are cute,” Nick said. “I love your mom.”
“And she loves you,” Cynthia said, following him into the line. “A little too much.”
“No such thing as too much love.”
“No, there’s no such thing as too much fun.”
“Too true,” Nick agreed, slipping off his boat shoes and setting them in the grey plastic bin to go through the imagining machine. He reached for Cynthia’s elbow to steady her while she hopped on one foot and then the other, removing her own shoes. “So I guess we have to take showers together while we’re in Italy,” he said. “It’s too bad. All the other guys will be jealous.”
“What?” she asked, laughing as she flipped open her bag to reveal her laptop for scanning. “Where’d you come up with that one?”
“Your mom said I had to keep an eye on you at all times,” he said. “Every second of every day. I can’t lie to your mom.”
“I’m pretty sure she would not want you showering with me.”
“True,” he said as they shuffled forwards through the line. “She only said I had to watch you. But I thought that was a little sketch, so I figured I’d join.”
“You can watch,” she said, shooting him the gravest expression she could manage. “But you have to watch me poop, too.”
“Oh God,” he said, laughing. “You had to go and ruin it.”
“Sorry,” she said, following him through the scanner. “You asked for that one. Plus, all they eat in Italy is bread and cheese and pasta, so you might be watching for a while…”
“You can stop now,” he said, holding up a hand to ward off further attack. “I get the picture.”
They stepped aside and awkwardly tried to hurry out of line at the same time they put on their shoes. “What, you can’t stand the thought of girls pooping? Don’t be one of those guys,” she said.
“So anyway,” he said, hoisting his backpack onto his shoulders. “What gate are we flying out of, again?”
She laughed and collected her own bag, then slipped on the necklace her mom had given her before they walked through the tiny terminal of the Northwest Arkansas airport towards their gate. Maggie was already there, sitting at the gate with her stuff set in the three seats beside her. She moved it from two, and Cynthia and Nick sat. Cynthia twisted up her long hair, which she’d colored an ombre pink-to-purple at the ends, fading to its natural brown-black about halfway up, and secured it in a bun.
“Ah, the fearsome foursome has arrived,” Professor McClain said. “Or—where’s the fourth?”
“She’s coming,” Maggie assured Professor McClain. “She just texted. She’s parking now.”
Professor McClain frowned and checked her phone, then turned away to make sure the rest of her flock was accounted for.
“She’s probably saying an extra-long goodbye to Alex,” Cynthia said, grinning and wiggling her eyebrows at Maggie. “How about you and Weston? Did you get enough of each other to last you for the next six weeks?”
“I’ll miss him,” Maggie said with a shrug. “But
we’ll be fine. It’s not the first time we’ve been apart.”
“Yeah, but six weeks…that’s like an entire season of The Bachelor.”
“We’ve been together since middle school,” Maggie said. “That’s seven years. I think we’ll make it six weeks.”
“Seven year itch,” Cynthia said. “Maybe you’ll meet someone who can scratch it.”
“I don’t think so,” Maggie said. “Look what he gave me? Isn’t it romantic?” She showed Cynthia a locket that was much, much more expensive than the little trinket her mom had given her. Maggie’s boyfriend was perfect, like everything else in her life. Maggie was smart and pretty, the daughter of an Asian-American mother and a white father, with enough money to travel to Rome, a boyfriend who would be waiting loyally when she got home, and the top grades in the Anthropology program.
“Well, I don’t know about all you coupled-up girls, but I’m ready to meet a sexy Italian stallion who will knock the bottom out of me,” Cynthia said after examining Maggie’s fancy new necklace.
“Ew.”
“If that’s all you’re looking for, you don’t need to go to Italy to find it,” Nick said with his dimpled little smile. “I’m Italian.”
“No, honey,” Cynthia said, patting his arm. “You’re an Italian American. Or…of Italian descent. That’s not the same as an Italian from Italy. You’re still an American.”
Nick laughed and shook his head before picking up her bag. “Ready to board?”
Once they were all settled in their seats, Cynthia opened her window shade and craned to see the parking lot, but she couldn’t. When the plane finally took off, though, she looked again, trying to find her mom’s car in the parking lot. She knew as well as she knew her own name that her mother hadn’t left after dropping her off. She’d waited at the car to watch the plane take off, probably standing outside and waving with a smile stretched across her face and tears coursing down her cheeks.
It had always been the two of them, for all of Cynthia’s life. Sure, her dad had come around from time to time, between stints in rehab and prison and running from his latest warrant. When Cynthia had been a little girl, she looked forward to the visits, running to jump into his arms when he came home. After experiencing a couple of his spun-out episodes, she’d approached more shyly, but with some coaxing, he could always get her to warm up to him. His humor and charisma had won her mother over when they’d met, and he could still turn on the charm and wear her or Cynthia down with promises of the life they’d have. But of course, it never happened.
Sometimes, he’d come to stay with them for a few months, even a year one time. He’d bring home cash from his under-the-table jobs doing construction, cement work or other jobs he could do with criminal record. But more often than not, he blew all the money before her mom could buy a single bag of groceries with it. Her parents had never married, and even though it was hard with just Cynthia and her mom, it was usually harder when he came home.
As Cynthia grew older, her relationship with her father had soured. She no longer begged her mom to let him stay when he came around looking for some real food and real bed for a few weeks. She knew he’d never make good on his promises and that he’d be gone again just when she got used to having him around. When she celebrated her Quincenera, her mother told her that she could make the choice as to whether she saw her dad or not, and she hadn’t seen him for three years after that. Since then, she’d softened a little, but for the most part, he was as distant to her as any of the neighbor ladies who babysat for her when she was a kid, or the aunts and uncles whose houses she’d slept at while her mother worked nights for a few years.
Now, things were pretty good for them. Even though her mom worked too hard at her hotel job, she never complained. She was the hardest working person Cynthia could imagine. When Cynthia got accepted to the University of Arkansas, her father said it was a waste of time. “I never went to college,” he said. “What do you need all that for? It’s just a piece of paper. You should learn a skill you can use in the real world.”
Her mom had been the only person more proud than Cynthia herself. And when Cynthia had gotten a grant to study abroad, her mother had hugged Cynthia so hard she thought he ribs would pop out of place. Then she’d promptly burst into tears. “You’ll be across an ocean,” she’d sobbed. “For six weeks!”
Cynthia had cried, too, that same mixture of intense joy and fear. Even after she’d moved out, she’d never gone more than a couple weeks without driving the twenty minutes home to see her mom, do laundry, have dinner, or go to church. But from the way her mother’s voice rose in excitement as she pored over Fodor’s guides to Rome and Italy she’d borrowed from the local library, Cynthia knew this trip wasn’t just for her. Her mother was living it vicariously through her, and she was happy to let her. After all, if it hadn’t been for her mother’s cautionary tales about how she’d gotten pregnant in high school and barely graduated before having Cynthia, she probably wouldn’t have made it any further from Springdale, Arkansas, than her mom had.
Chapter Two
When the plane touched down in Rome at last, after a layover in Atlanta and another in London, everyone in the plane leaned forward to peer out the windows. But it really didn’t look all that different from a city in the U.S. Not until they’d had a glass of wine in an airport café and gotten their suitcases and stepped outside. A cab went screeching by, blaring its horn as it swerved aggressively in front of another car, barely missing the fender. Cars and scooters crowded the street, leaving only an inch or two of space between them even as they were moving. With the layovers, and the long flight, it had taken close to an entire day to get there.
“You ready to grab a cab?” Nick asked, the midday sun glinting off his black-framed glasses.
“Come with me,” she said, huddling against his shoulder. “I can’t ride in one of those alone. Look how they’re driving! It’s like a death machine.”
Nick laughed and gave her shoulders a quick squeeze. “I’ll get you there,” he said. Nick had lived in both Houston and Los Angeles, so he knew all about big cities and taxis. Cynthia had never ridden in a cab in her life, and the idea was suddenly more daunting than glamorous. She’d seen it done so many times in movies, but what if she got a crooked cabbie who drove her all over the city and charged her a ton of money? Or dumped her somewhere seedy? Or a perfectly nice one who simply didn’t speak English?
Five minutes later, they were fumbling through a mixture of bad English and much worse Italian to give the cab driver directions. Unfortunately, Italian heritage was all Nick had gotten from his parents. He only knew a handful of Italian words, and half of those were curses. Cynthia’s halting Spanish proved a little less effective than the cab driver’s English, but after a few impatient repetitions, the driver floored the gas and the cab lurched out into traffic.
“I’m so glad we didn’t rent a car,” Cynthia said. “This—is terrifying.”
Nick patted her knee. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll take the tram everywhere.”
Cynthia covered her eyes as the cab slammed on its brakes, and every other car in front of the airport blared its horn. “I can’t look,” she said. “There’s too much carnage.”
“No one got hit,” he assured her.
When they got to the flat where her host family lived, the cab pulled over and Cynthia climbed out. Nick got out to help her with her luggage, and even though they asked the cabbie to wait, when they returned from carrying her bags inside, Nick’s suitcase was sitting on the curb and the cab was gone.
“Damn,” Cynthia said. “I’m sorry. I should have let you go on.”
“Nah, it’s fine,” Nick said. “At least he left my bag. I wasn’t going to drive away while you hauled three bags inside. Did you bring your entire closet full of clothes?”
“Shut up,” she said, laughing. “You’re a guy, and you’re skinny. You don’t have to worry about how you look.”
“Guys worry about our
looks, too.”
“Whatever,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Like you have anything to worry about.”
He grinned and bumped her shoulder with his. “Are you saying I’m perfect?”
“Well, not perfect,” she said, wrinkling her nose as she looked him up and down. “But passable, on a good day.”
He laughed and pulled out the handle of his rolling suitcase. “I better go find another cab and get to my place. Unless you want me to stay until you’re settled?”
“No, go on,” she said. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
He stood there a minute like he was waiting for her to change her mind, or like he was about to say something more. But after a brief pause, he gave her a side hug and said he’d see her later, and then he turned and walked off down the street. She figured he could handle himself, so she ran back into her host house. After meeting her host family, she explored the tiny, neat flat. It was disappointingly bare of Rome-inspired souvenirs and trinkets. A picture of the Pope hung on the wall, but otherwise, it could have been an old apartment in America or anywhere else.
After showing her around the flat, her host mother led her to the room they’d readied for her. It was small and plain, too, with another picture of the Pope. A crucifix with a tortured Jesus hung over her bed. She studied it for a minute, trying to quell the ache for her mother that had sprung up inside her when she saw it. Crosses and crucifixes hung all over her mother’s house, as well as her car, her keychain, and sometimes even her neck.
Cynthia sat heavily on the squeaky twin bed and looked around for a spot to plug in her adapters. She couldn’t make international calls from her cell phone—too expensive—so it was pretty useless while she was in Rome. Instead, she planned to use Skype and email to keep in touch with her mom and to plan meetups with her study abroad friends. For now, everyone else was getting set up, too, and all she wanted to do was talk to her mom and take a long, hard nap. However, she’d read in one of the travel books that her mom got that the only way to get on a new schedule when traveling abroad was to avoid sleep until dark. And she didn’t yet know the house’s wi-fi passcode, so she couldn’t connect to Skype.
When In Rome...Lose Control: Cynthia's Story Page 1