A Little Too Far

by Lisa Desrochers

  She is “in a relationship with Trent Sorenson,” and according to her post from 3:30 A.M. the night she and Trent were out, she Just got back from an amazing date with the hottest man on the planet. I iz in luv!

  There are a couple dozen comments on the post. Most of them are along the lines of, ooh, la, la! or, Hope it ended with your panties in a bunch, and they all make me want to throw up.

  I scan for more and find love poems dedicated to “the hottest man on the planet” and YouTube links for love songs dedicated to “the hottest man on the planet” and when I scroll all the way back to Thanksgiving, I find a picture of them together on a love seat in a dark corner of Lightly Toasted. She’s giving him a tonsil exam with her tongue. The post that goes with the picture says … wait for it: “The hottest man on the planet!”

  He’s with Sam. I have to accept that. He knows what we did is wrong, just like I do. If he knew I’m in love with him, how much worse would this be? How much more awkward? But still, I find myself opening my door and walking to his room. I move to the alcove near his closet and pick up his guitar, just to feel the weight of it and remember that, once upon a time, he loved me. Once upon a time, I was the most important person in his life, and he wrote me a song to prove it.

  Even if we can’t get that back, it doesn’t change that it was real.

  He’s leaving in the morning, and I won’t see him again until at least May. Maybe August, if I score the internship. Do I just leave it like this?

  I think I have to.

  I lie on my side in his bed, my arms hugging his guitar to my chest, and remember. I remember all our talks, and our wrestling matches. I remember our Warcraft marathons. I remember curling into Trent’s arms when I was sad and how he took it all away. How he made everything better. I close my eyes and turn my face into the pillow when the tears start.

  I open my eyes, and it’s dark, so I close them again. But then I realize my arm is asleep. I move it, and it thumps against something hard.

  Something with strings.

  My eyes fly wide and I look around. I’m still in Trent’s room, hugging his guitar. And there’s a warm body spooned behind me and a heavy arm draped around my waist.

  I unwrap my arms from the guitar, shifting it off the bed and leaning it gingerly against the nightstand, then lift the arm off my waist very slowly. Once I’m extricated, I sit up carefully, trying not to jiggle the bed or make any noise.

  I have no clue what time it is or how long I’ve been in here, but when I turn and look behind me, I see Trent, curled around the spot where I just was.

  I get up as slowly as I can, considering both my heart and mind are racing, and lay the guitar back in the stand, then tiptoe past his bed to the door. Just as I’m passing, he groans and rolls on his back. I freeze until he goes still again. But I don’t start moving when he settles. I just stand here, staring at him.

  God, he’s beautiful.

  Before I can stop myself, I’m moving back toward the bed. I bend slowly and brush my lips over his rough cheek. He stirs and moans a little, but doesn’t wake.

  What did he think when he found me here? He didn’t wake me. He just curled up next to me, like he would have before everything went sideways. Could we still get what we had back?

  I want that so desperately.

  I tiptoe to the door and slip through, and before I’m even in my own bed, I know what has to happen.

  The sound of Trent in the shower wakes me. I wait for the water to turn off and listen for the sounds of his returning to his room, then slip out of bed and pull on a pair of jeans under his T-shirt. At my door, I breathe deep, then pull it open. I breathe deep again as I lift my hand to knock on his door.

  “Just a sec!” he calls, and, a few seconds later, his door swings open. He’s standing in front of me in a pair of well-worn jeans that sit low on his hips and nothing else. And, damn. “Hey,” he says when he sees it’s me.

  Despite my visceral reaction to the sight of his cut body, it’s his eyes that draw me in. They’re warm and soft, and I know I’ve made the right decision. “Can we talk?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He steps aside to let me pass.

  I move past him into his room and close the door. “I bet your wondering what I was doing in your bed last night”—I pluck at his shirt—“wearing your T-shirt.”

  His eyebrows go up, but he doesn’t say anything.

  “I really miss us, Trent.” I swallow. “I miss how I could tell you everything and how I knew you’d never judge me. I miss how safe I used to feel when you held me. I miss that you knew me better than I knew myself. I miss my best friend so much,” I add, as a tear rolls over my lashes. “What we did stole him from me. I want him back.”

  He bites his lips between his teeth for a second. “I miss you too,” he finally says, pulling me into his arms.

  We stand here forever, my face buried in his chest, and as much as I want to kiss him and feel his touch on my body again, I squelch all those feelings and just live in this, the comfort of my best friend.

  Finally, I pull away. “So, it’s done? We’re good?”

  He smiles that lazy smile and gives the ends of my hair a tug. “We’re good.”

  I walk over and lift his guitar out of the stand. “Will you sing it to me?”

  He takes the guitar and sits on the edge of the bed. “I’m a little rusty.” He gives the strings a strum, then tunes it by ear.

  “Why didn’t you take your guitar to school? You always have before.”

  He sighs and looks at me, his eyes sad. “You are my inspiration, Lexie. You always have been.”

  I scrunch my face at him. “But … what does that have to do with leaving your guitar home?”

  “You of all people should know art is inspiration. I was angry and confused. I didn’t know what was going to happen with us. Anything I wrote would have been shit.”

  He was feeling it too. I should have known, but I was so wrapped up in how I was feeling that I didn’t think about it. “I’m sorry,” I say, sitting next to him and hugging him. He stops picking at the strings and hugs me back. “I never want to lose you, Trent.”

  He kisses the top of my head and sends shivers through me. “You won’t.”

  I let go, and he strums the strings again.

  “You ready?” he asks, smiling at me.

  “Always.”

  As he starts on the first verse of “Someone, Somehow,” I feel tears sting the corners of my eyes. I’ve always loved his singing voice: smooth and deep with just a hint of gravel when he kicks the emotion up a notch. By the time he gets to the chorus, I can’t keep them from spilling over.

  You fill the hollow places life as left behind.

  And now your soul is tangled into mine.

  When I needed an angel you were there,

  you, to all my secrets I bare.

  I needed you then,

  and I need you now.

  Someone, somehow.

  I lean into his side as he finishes, and he wraps his arm around my shoulders and squeezes.

  Warm and comfortable and mmm. This is the feeling of my best friend. I never want it to stop. “Thanks.”

  He tips his face into my hair. “For you, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do.”

  I turn to face him and lift my hand to his face, trailing my fingers down the line of his strong jaw. Very slowly, I close the distance between us and press a gentle kiss to his lips. He closes his eyes and holds his breath, and when I pull away, his eyes are still closed.

  I stand and move to the door. “Don’t you dare leave without saying good-bye.”

  He opens his eyes and nods. “You got it.”

  An hour later, when I come down the stairs and see Trent standing in Julie’s embrace with his duffel bag in his hand, two things happen. 1) I have a minor panic attack at the thought of not seeing him for the next several months, but 2) when he smiles his lazy smile—the one that always makes me feel warm inside, the panic evaporates. And then I
see the guitar case at his feet, and everything lightens.

  He holds his arms out to me, and I step into them, and when he wraps them around me, I know I have my best friend back.

  “Love you,” he says low in my ear.

  “Love you too,” I whisper back.

  He kisses my forehead, then lets me go, and Dad gives him a clap on the back. “Go get ’em, son.”

  Trent smiles and nods. “See you in a few weeks.”

  He picks up his guitar and turns for the door. We all spill onto the walk, watching him strap his things onto his bike and climb on. He turns and gives me his lazy smile, then tugs his helmet over his head and flicks the bike to life. As much as my heart aches as he speeds off down the street, it’s so much lighter that I’d swear I’m floating.

  I HAVE MY strategy, and so far it’s working, but I don’t want to tempt fate, so when Sam twirls her straw through her smoothie as we sit at the Juice It Up in the mall, and says, “So, how much do you really want to know about Trent’s sexual prowess,” I say, “Nothing. I changed my mind. That’s between you two.”

  She pouts a little, like she really wanted to share. “If you say so.” But then her eyes light up. “Hey, I bought something for your birthday, but since you’ll be gone by then, you have to open it now.” She pulls a small, brown paper bag with a blue bow on top out of her purse. “These are for use on your trip, and you’re not allowed to come home before they’re gone.”

  I scrunch my face at her as I take the package, afraid of what it might be. She watches as I pull it open and peer inside. I roll my eyes and hand her back the condoms. “You should keep these.”

  She huffs out a laugh. “What? You think I didn’t buy myself a box too? Have you seen your stepbrother?”

  I feel myself wince.

  “You will find a hot Italian, and you will wish you had those,” she says, nodding at the bag.

  “Doubtful,” I say. I’ve already met a hot Italian, and there’s no way I’m going to need a condom.

  “You can’t tell me in a city full of beautiful Italian men, there’s not a single one who wants to sleep with you.”

  “Gee. I didn’t know that was the only criteria. ‘Hey, you want to sleep with me? Yeah? Okay, let’s go!’ ” I roll my eyes.

  “I’m just saying, you never know when love is going to strike.”

  I shove the package in my shopping bag and sip my smoothie. “We should go. I told Julie I’d be home for dinner.”

  My birthday isn’t until January 19, but since I’m flying back to Rome tomorrow, Julie insists on celebrating tonight. She makes my favorite: lobster saffron risotto, and after dinner comes out with a cake, twenty-one candles blazing like an inferno on top of it.

  “Make a wish!” she says as Dad warbles out the “… and many moooore,” at the end of “Happy Birthday.”

  I blow out the candles and hold the wish that Trent and I can be how we used to be. No awkwardness, no holding back, just best friends.

  And I toss Trent’s T-shirt into Julie’s dirty clothes as I’m packing that night. I’m done obsessing.

  Chapter Sixteen

  MAYBE IT’S BEING thousands of miles from anyone I feel accountable to, but it’s liberating to be back in Rome. Or maybe it’s Abby. She’s crazy, I know, but she’s growing on me.

  I got home late last night and fell into bed. When I woke late, there were three texts from Abby that she was coming over. I was going to answer them after I dragged myself through the shower, but I wasn’t even dressed yet when my doorbell started buzzing.

  I’m unpacking all my freshly home-laundered clothing back into my armoire, and she’s lying on my bed, texting someone and giggling.

  “You realize you sound twelve?” I say, looking up at her when she giggles again.

  She lifts her head and glares at me. “Bugger off.”

  “So, who is this person that has the power to reduce you to a giggling twelve-year-old?”

  She lifts her head again, and this time she’s grinning like a dork. “It’s Grant. We’re sexting.”

  I feel my eyes widen. “What happened to the girlfriend?”

  She pushes herself to a sitting position against my headboard, a smug smile on her face. “He went home for holiday and realized she just couldn’t compare to this,” she says, running a hand over her curves.

  Warning bells are going off in my head. “So, they broke up?”

  She shrugs. “They will.”

  I tuck the last of my T-shirts into my drawer. “Just be careful, Abby.”

  Her thumbs are flying over the keyboard on her phone, and she’s grinning again. “Always am. I’m a great fan of the Trojans.”

  “I mean with your heart.”

  She looks up at me with an expression so sincere that it looks totally foreign on her face. “We have chemistry, Lexie. You can’t fight chemistry.”

  Who am I to argue that? I spent all last semester alternately swimming in and drowning in Trent’s and my chemistry, and I think I’ve finally made shore, but it has definitely taken its toll.

  She looks back at her phone and giggles again.

  “Are we still doing my birthday movie marathon?” We’d talked about it before break, and she’d actually suggested a night of clubbing. After last time, though, I know I can’t count on her to have my back if I get trashed, so I talked her into something a little more chill. She only caved when I’d capitulated to hot Italian porn and agreed to bring wine.

  Her eyes lift from her phone. “Oh, shit! When is that?”

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  For the first time ever in the history of our friendship, she looks contrite. “Grant and I are going to Florence for the weekend. I will find a hot Italian to take your mind off the fact that I’m a bloody horrible friend?”

  I smile and shake my head. “Spare me the hot Italian. We’ll do it some other time.”

  My phone starts vibrating off the nightstand, and I move across the room and pick it up. Speaking of hot Italians …

  “Hi, Alessandro,” I say when I connect.

  “I hope you had a pleasant flight.”

  I can almost hear his smile, and I smile in response. “ ‘Pleasant flight’ is an oxymoron.”

  He laughs. “Well, I am happy you’re back. I just wanted to remind you about our next tour this Friday.”

  “Like I’ve ever forgotten,” I say with a roll of my eyes.

  “I’ll concede that you don’t forget, but punctuality isn’t your strong suit.”

  “I’ll be there, Dad.” Now I sound twelve, but I feel suddenly giddy talking to Alessandro. I really missed him though I’ll never admit it to his face.

  “I’ll be waiting with bated breath.” Something in his voice stalls my heart, and I take a deep breath to massage it back into rhythm.

  “See you then.”

  When I look up at Abby, she’s got that grin plastered to her face. The one that says sex all over it.

  “What?”

  “You and the priest?” she asks with a lift of her brows.

  I roll my eyes.

  She tucks her legs under her and leans toward me, onto her hands. “Is he a virgin?”

  “No!” I snap before I think better of it.

  Her eyes widen. “Did you pick his cherry, Lexie?” she sings.

  I throw up my hands. “Oh my God! Will you stop?”

  She leans back and scrutinizes my face, and that lascivious smirk is back. I fight not to press my hands to my flaming cheeks. “Bloody hell,” she finally says. “This is better than the movies.”

  WHEN I RUSH up to the obelisk right on the minute, Alessandro steps forward and grasps my shoulders, kissing me on one cheek, then the other. It’s only the traditional Italian greeting—nothing special—but he’s never been this physical before, and it surprises me a little. When I pull away, he studies my face.

  “How was your holiday?”

  “Fine. It was good.”

  His eyes narrow a little, as if
he’s trying to read between the lines, and I know he’s wondering about how things went with Trent, but then he gently grasps my elbow and moves us off toward the back entrance to the museums. “Selfishly, I’m happy to have you back.”

  What does he mean by that? Did he miss me?

  Before I can respond, if I could actually think of something to say, he sweeps a hand toward the doors, and adds, “Your public awaits.”

  As I start walking toward the ramp, I feel my cheeks flush. It was stupid to think he missed me. He’s happy I’m back for the kids, of course. Otherwise, he’d have to do the tour himself.

  “So, if I remember right, today’s your birthday,” he says as we walk.

  “You remember right.” I smile internally that he remembered.

  “Have you made plans?”

  “I was supposed to go to my friend Abby’s, but she’s having chemistry, so I don’t think that’s happening.”

  He looks at me curiously for a second before saying, “It’s against Italian law to spend your birthday alone.”

  “What?” I say, squinting at him. He’s got to be joking, right?

  He cracks a smile. “I’m cooking.”

  My stomach flutters. “Oh. Okay, I guess.”

  We reach the door, and he holds it open for me. “I’ll be by around seven?”

  “I’ll be waiting with bated breath,” I say, parroting back his words.

  We stroll to our meeting spot, and, as the kids gather around the Apollo, I smile at Alessandro, remembering how nervous I was the first time we did this. Now I feel comfortable here, like these museums are my second home. Now that all my angst over Trent is resolved, I realize I’m not just here as an escape. I’m here because I love it.

  And, more and more every day, I want to stay.

  The apartment is a thousand degrees when I get home. I try to adjust the thermostat on the wall of my bedroom, but the wheel is stuck, and the old metal radiator is going full steam. I grab my phone and call the landlord, but he doesn’t answer. It wouldn’t matter if he did. He doesn’t speak English, and I don’t know how to say “thermostat” or “radiator” or “burning alive” in Italian.