by R.S. Grey
I make a point to glare at the open chair at the far end of the table, the spot where he should be sitting, but he just picks up his menu, unbothered by my passive aggressiveness.
“We’re going to use the restroom really quick,” Gabriella tells us before she and Ashley head off.
Lorenzo needs to have a word with the waiter about how we’ll split the check, which means I’m stuck alone with Noah. How’s that for a terrible turn of events.
“There are plenty of seats down there,” I say, waving my hand toward the opposite end of the table. “You and I wouldn’t even have to look at each other. You could pretend I don’t exist.”
“I’m perfectly capable of doing that from right here. And besides, the chairs down there are in the sun.”
Right, which means I’m not moving either. In the shade, the weather’s not half bad. And by not half bad, I mean my butt crack has finally stopped sweating.
We both turn our attention to our menus, going back to ignoring each other.
He’s better at it than I am.
I think he could sit in silence for an entire day. His willpower outmatches mine. Meanwhile, I’m drumming my fingers on the table, looking around for the other chaperones, taking a sip of my water. Slowly losing it.
The silence becomes unbearable. I have to poke him.
“I’ve realized something,” I say, keeping my attention down on my menu.
He manages a half-interested hum.
“Not even you can ruin Rome for me. This place is beautiful.”
He doesn’t take my bait, so I try again.
“So what do you think of Gabriella?”
“Is she the single one?”
“Yes. She seems interested in you.”
He finally sets down his menu and looks over at me. “She’s pretty.”
What?!
What does that mean?
I’ve never heard Noah talk about a woman before. I know he’s dated. I’ve Facebook-stalked him before. A year ago, there was a picture of him with a pretty blonde, her cheek squashed against his in his profile picture. Her eyes were shiny with love.
Before I can ask Noah to elaborate on “She’s pretty”, Lorenzo returns and claims the seat beside me, across from Noah.
“If you’ll allow me, I’d love to order for the table,” he says, looking at me. “This is one of my favorite restaurants in Rome. It’s where all the locals go for lunch.”
I slide my menu away from me and smile. “Sounds wonderful.”
Gabriella and Ashley return, and through the rest of the meal, I ignore Noah.
It’s relatively easy to do with Lorenzo there. I throw my full attention his way, smiling and laughing and turning my charm up to 100.
Gabriella and Ashley are lost in their own world, talking a mile a minute about people we don’t know, and Noah is…Noah.
He sits quietly, listening to Lorenzo talk about what our plans are for the next few days. Starting tomorrow, the students will begin to follow a strict schedule. In the mornings between nine and eleven, they’ll be in a classroom learning Latin with a teacher from St. Cecilia’s. They’ll get a one-hour break for lunch, and then in the afternoons, Lorenzo will lead us all on an excursion somewhere around the city. Some days will differ, of course. For instance, our trip to the Vatican will take two full days, so the students will have to skip Latin. Otherwise, Noah and I will be duty-free in the mornings. I’ll have Rome at my fingertips.
I’m already daydreaming about what I’ll do with my time. Sleep in, wander, find a cute café, drink too much coffee.
When our food arrives, I can barely contain my giddiness.
“This is polpette all’amatriciana,” Lorenzo says, pointing to a dish with tiny meatballs served in a tomato sauce. “And that’s baccalà, which is oven-roasted salt cod. Make sure to get some of that, but leave room for the cacio e pepe.”
My plate is overloaded in no time. I won’t be able to move once I’ve finished this meal. They’ll have to get a wheelbarrow to cart me back to the school.
Every bite is more delicious than the last. The sounds coming from my mouth are pornographic.
Noah telegraphs his annoyance with me, but my attention is laser-focused on my pasta.
“Good, right?” Lorenzo asks me as I sop up the leftover tomato sauce with the last of my noodles.
“I never want to leave.”
He grins. “I’m so happy you enjoyed it.” He wipes his mouth with his napkin and leans back in his chair. “So how long have you two taught at the same school?” he asks, gesturing toward Noah and me.
I shoo away his question. “Oh, not long.”
“Three years,” Noah says, matter-of-factly.
“And do you both enjoy it? Working together?”
Noah sets down his utensils on his plate and simply replies, “It’s fine.”
And we leave it at that.
Only as we walk to our next stop, the Marcus Aurelius Column, Lorenzo nudges me with his shoulder.
“Noah is a piece of work, no?” he asks quietly.
I can’t help but laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
“He dislikes you?”
I press my hand to his forearm for a moment to emphasize my point. “The feeling’s mutual, I assure you.”
His brows furrow in confusion. “So then how did you two get paired together for this trip?”
“Bad luck.”
He nods, beginning to understand. “Well, tomorrow morning, if you’re free, I was thinking you and I could go out for a walk? Maybe get breakfast? I can show you around the neighborhood.”
“Oh, yes! That would be so helpful.”
“It’s a date,” he says with a confident grin before stepping back to get the group’s attention.
Butterflies dance around in my stomach. I can barely contain my excitement.
Lorenzo is everything I could want in a man, and I know this because I’ve had a lot of time to think about it.
A lot of time.
In high school, boys looked right over me. My big eyes and big lips weren’t in vogue then. I looked like an alien life-form compared to cute little Susie So-and-So.
Cut to college. Everyone who didn’t peak in high school peaks in college; that’s the promise we’re made. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way. I lived off campus and had a job at a library with a bunch of older women. My English and poetry classes were filled with a lot of ladies and a few gay men. If I peaked, I didn’t know it.
I did eventually get asked out, and I did eventually date here and there.
Jeff was a serious contender for my heart, or so I thought.
Looking back, I might have just been with him for the perks. He was an engineer (mechanical or electrical, I can’t remember), and the guy could hang a TV, optimize my Wi-Fi range, replace my broken iPhone screen (twice)—no problem. I never had to worry about what weird thing my computer was doing because he could always fix it. And he was nice enough. It wasn’t a bad relationship all in all, but in the end, Jeff said it was too painful to love me and realize that in return, I only ever just liked him. It was true of course. A few times after we broke up, I almost drunk texted him looking for broken printer advice. “You up?” I’d type, followed by “If so, what does it mean by Error: PC load letter?”
Lorenzo has real potential.
Looks-wise, he’s got it all. Personality-wise, check-check. The Italian accent doesn’t hurt, and his knowledge of Rome is an added bonus too. It would only be a fling since I’m headed back to the States in three weeks, but that’s okay. A little romance is better than none at all.
I’m gloating already when I look up to see Noah staring at me.
He has his detective cap on. His eyes are narrowed and assessing.
I ignore him.
We’re at our destination now and we’re supposed to be listening to Lorenzo talk about the Marcus Aurelius Column. I do just that. Oh yes, Doric column. Modeled after Trajan’s Column. Completed in year 193.
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“What?” I hiss at Noah, who’s come to stand right beside me, casting me in his shadow.
“Oh nothing…”
“Spit it out.”
“Fine.” He turns to face me, blocking me from view of the rest of the group. “I was wondering if you want to get coffee with me in the morning.”
“Pah.”
“What?”
“You’re hilarious. You got me good. Coffee—yeah, right. Would you have laced my drink with poison? Had the barista double-dose me with four espresso shots so I’d be jittery the rest of the day?”
“I’m being serious.”
For an instant, I think I see an expression on Noah’s face I’ve never seen before: earnestness.
It quite simply takes my breath away.
Spiteful Noah I can handle. Aggressive, cunning, rude Noah? Sure.
But not this.
His brown eyes are puppy-dog sweet.
My eyebrows furrow and I take a step closer, poking my finger into his chest. “Tell me what you’re doing.”
“I want to have coffee with you.”
His expression doesn’t crack.
Wow. He must have practiced this in front of the mirror earlier.
Or…gulp…he’s being honest.
My heart beats double time. My soft nougaty center cannot handle the possibility that Noah has real human feelings. That deep down, he might be just like the rest of us.
“I can’t tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Lorenzo asked me to get breakfast with him.”
And in that instant, Noah’s eyes spark with achievement.
He’s accomplished his goal and we both know it.
I roll my eyes. “You’re the worst.”
He shrugs, unperturbed. “I just wanted to see if you were going to adhere to the ground rules, and clearly, you aren’t.”
“Go to hell.”
He stretches his hand out for me to take. “Gladly, if only you’ll come with me.”
I wish I could strangle him right here and now, just have it out and be done. As the Italian police carted me away, I’d scream that it was worth it, that I’d do it again if I had the chance.
I shove past him and scoot closer to the group so I can listen to the tail end of Lorenzo’s discussion about the Marcus Aurelius Column. He opens it up to a question-and-answer session, and my students don’t let the opportunity pass them by.
In a studious, no-nonsense tone, Zach asks, “Mr. Ricci, yes, I was wondering if you knew offhand how long the column’s shaft is.”
“On that same note,” Isaiah continues, sounding just as serious, “I was wondering about the girth of the column.”
Chapter Six
I have no idea how Lindale Middle School got an in with this swanky study abroad program. There’s no way that chocolate bar fundraiser is covering the full cost of this trip, but I’m not complaining. Along with all the other amenities, we have the option to eat in the dining hall for all three meals a day. For free! And it’s good food! At this very moment, I have not one, but two little slices of tiramisu I stole from dinner, and I’m eating them while I FaceTime my friend Kristen.
The screen is completely black. Her smiling face would be in its allotted rectangle, but she’s hiding in her closet with the lights off. A necessary sacrifice.
“How is it so far?” she asks, a wrapper crinkling in the background.
“Fine, mostly. Hey, I thought you finished all your candy back in April?”
“Yeah, I thought I did too, but I found a Snickers tangled in one of my thongs yesterday. Lucky me.”
Kristen pilfered some of the kids’ Halloween candy last year and hid it in her underwear drawer. Whenever she gets desperate, say, if the kids are being particularly grouchy, or if she’s about to start her period, or if it’s any day ending in Y, she dips into her stash.
“Are the middle schoolers behaving?”
“Yes. It’s not them giving me a headache.” I dig my fork aggressively into my tiramisu, using it as a makeshift stress ball.
“Noah?” she guesses immediately.
“He’s worse than ever.”
“Well at least all that evil is encased in a hot bod.”
“Kristen.”
“Oh, don’t try to deny it. I saw him, remember?”
She did. Two months ago, she brought me lunch up at the school. When she walked into my classroom, her eyes were as round as saucers.
She didn’t have to say a word.
“Noah?” I asked, annoyed by her reaction.
She nodded dumbly, her jaw still slack from shock.
I hustled toward her and pulled her all the way in, quickly shutting the door behind us. “Did you say anything to him?”
“No. I couldn’t! He smiled at me though.”
I groaned and took the Taco Bell bag from her. “Why’d you let him do that? It’s like his secret weapon. Did they put Fire sauce packets in here or just Mild?”
“Both. What was I supposed to do? He was just there and—”
“Stop.” I held up my hand. “Stop talking about him.”
She didn’t of course. Not for thirty nauseating minutes.
Fortunately now, she believes me that, hot or not, Noah is the embodiment of true evil. Like any good friend, she hates him on principle simply because I tell her to.
From the rustling on her end, it sounds like she’s trying to find another piece of chocolate lurking in her panties. She does this a lot: hides out for a moment of peace. It’s the only way we can actually have a conversation. Her husband Drew is nice, but he’s a sports fanatic. His definition of minding the kids is shouting over his shoulder for them to settle down while keeping his eyes glued to an NFL game.
“I have a date tomorrow morning,” I volunteer.
“What? With who? You just got there!”
“Oh, no one special, just the program director who just so happens to be a super-hot Italian guy.”
“Oo la la. I love the sound of this. Tell me everyth—”
Her son starts pounding on her closet door.
“MOMMY! MOMMY! I’M HUNGRY!”
“We just ate lunch!” she shouts back.
“BUT I’M HUUUNNGGRRYYYY!”
“Go find Daddy!”
“Daddy’s at work! I want Mommy!”
“Sounds like you need to go,” I tell her.
“Are you kidding me? You were just going to tell me about the hot Italian dude! Don’t leave me hanging.”
“I’ll fill you in after my date, how’s that?”
Her son succeeds in prying open the closet door, flooding the phone screen with light, and then I get a split second of Kristen’s face before her son comes into view, his blond curls bouncing as he tackle-hugs her.
The line cuts off and I know she’ll text me later, apologizing that our call didn’t last longer, and I’ll reassure her that it’s totally fine. It’s just the way it goes now that she’s a mom. No worries.
I’m more than a little envious of the chaos though.
My small room feels quieter than ever now. My meager belongings do a poor job of making this place feel homey.
Outside, the sun’s gone down, and I can’t see the garden next door.
I wish I had a friend here.
It occurs to me that Noah’s right across the hall.
I wonder what he’s doing.
Docking himself onto his charging port overnight? Crawling into his casket? Clipping his toenails?
I decide to check on the kids.
Back in my day, my friends and I would have been running amok in this place. Forget bedtimes, curfews, rules. The mere thought of meeting a boy from a school like Trinity, falling madly in love, and acting out life as the main character of some OC-inspired remake would have had me sweaty with excitement.
Today’s youth is different though.
When I go to check on them, they’re already in their respective rooms, playing video games, texting, scrolling through
social media. ONE OF THEM IS READING A BOOK, like with pages you turn and everything.
Still, I go through my drill sergeant routine: “No leaving your rooms after 10 PM unless it’s to use the restroom. I’ll know if you’re being sneaky. There’s a security guard who’ll be in the hall, watching and waiting for you all to break the rules. I hear he has a taser on his belt. I’d hate to see him have to use it.”
“Uh-huh, okay, bye” is their collective bored response.
Back in my room, I grow suspicious. Who do they take me for? That was all clearly an act. They wanted me to see them behaving like perfect angels so I’d let my guard down and be less suspicious of them going forward.
They must think I’m an absolute idiot.
I walk across the hall to run through this idea with my only ally here, Noah.
He answers the door in a heavenly black t-shirt and sweatpants.
His mouth opens, but before he can speak, I hold up my hand.
“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to interact with you outside of designated hours. I’m here on official business.”
He crosses his arms over his broad chest and leans his shoulder against the doorjamb.
It’s uncanny. His mannerisms are so good sometimes I forget he’s a cyborg programmed to annoy.
“I think the students are being deviant, and here’s why.”
After I give him the rundown, I expect him to shake his head in sheer disbelief of my genius, clap me on the shoulder for a job well done, and say, Sherlock, you’ve done it again!
Instead he says, “So far you’re the only miscreant in the bunch. I saw you pilfer that tiramisu at dinner.”
Singular—good. He doesn’t know I stole two.
“Are you coming or do I have to do everything myself?”
I turn and head down the hall, and he heaves a deep sigh. He wishes he could chuck me off the roof, but we’re in this together. Co-chaperones whether we like it or not.
A moment later, his door slams, and with his long strides, he catches me.
“So obviously we’re going for stealth,” I say, raising a brow pointedly at his feet.
“Just worry about yourself, Nancy Drew.”
Side by side, we walk, me taking two steps for every one of his.