by R.S. Grey
I hold up my hand. “Okay, stop there. That’s enough.”
“Though to be honest, we were all surprised about Mr. Ricci asking you out because we thought you and Mr. Peterson were—”
“We’re not.”
“Interesting,” Kylie says, looking at me like she’s trying to read between the lines.
“This is highly inappropriate,” I point out again before leaning in closer. “Let me see that.”
Millie eagerly passes over her paper then comes around to explain it to me. “As you can see, our system is rudimentary and we’re open to suggestions on how to improve it. We just think you should consider your choices carefully before you make your decision. They say there are lots of fish in the sea, but you’re what…forty-five?”
“Your biological clock is ticking,” Kylie adds helpfully.
I don’t bother correcting them on my age or reminding them that my biological clock is a spring chicken, thank you very much.
I shove their list in my money belt, tell them to stop objectifying their male teachers, and force their attention back to Lorenzo, who’s still going on about the Pantheon and the way the Romans mixed the concrete so it wouldn’t collapse at the top of the dome.
That list taunts me though. I’m half-tempted to pull it out and peruse it again.
Where do these kids come up with this stuff?!
When I was their age, I’m pretty sure I was still playing with Polly Pockets. And if I were ranking guys on a hot scale, it would have been the members of NSYNC, not my teachers. Though to be fair, I never had teachers that looked like Noah or Lorenzo…
But, that’s beside the point. Their list is meaningless. First of all, I’m not interested in comparing Lorenzo and Noah. Second, Millie and Kylie didn’t even do it right. There’s no category for personality, and on a scale of 1 to 10, Noah would get a -5. His overall score could never recover. Case closed.
That night, I’m on the phone with my mom. She would prefer I call her twice a day while I’m here in Rome. We’ve settled on whenever I happen to remember.
So far we’ve discussed these topics: if I think St. Cecilia’s washed my bedding before I got here (bed bugs are pervasive in Europe, didn’t I know?), how’s the food, where did I leave the DVR remote the last time I was at their house, have I seen the Colosseum, and why did her computer stop working after she was the one-millionth visitor to a reputable-looking cross-stitch website. Are they going to send my prize in the mail now or what?
Her brain has the uncanny ability to jump from topic to topic, no matter how outlandish.
“I was watching 60 Minutes,” she tells me, “and Lesley Stahl did a fascinating report on the germs you can find on any ordinary doorknob! I really think you ought to wipe down all the surfaces in your room. I don’t want you coming home with Zika.”
“Isn’t that transmitted by mosquitos?”
“Oh and they don’t have mosquitos in Italy? Just give me the address of where you’re staying and I’ll send over a whole heaping pile of Clorox wipes.”
I’m about to pass along my address—something I’ll come to deeply regret, no doubt—when my phone dies.
I’m not surprised. I’ve been using it all day to snap pictures around Rome.
I plug it in and, knowing my mom is already tail-spinning with horrific ideas of what could have happened to me—Taken is certainly playing in her mind scene by scene in full HD—I march across the hall to bang on Noah’s door.
“Open up.”
He speaks through the wood. “What do you want?”
“My phone died and I was talking to my mom. She’s probably already notified the police and put in a missing person report.”
“Not my problem.”
“Noah…let me use your phone.” Then, though it pains me to do it, I lean closer to the door and tack on a very quiet, “Please.”
To my relief, the door opens a second later. Noah stands there shirtless, tan, and muscled.
My eyes bug out of my head. And then, realizing that I’m staring, I squeeze them shut.
“Jesus! You could have put a shirt on.”
The image of his chiseled six-pack is burned into my retinas.
“This is my room,” he points out, dryly.
“You’re practically naked.”
“I’m wearing sweatpants. And hey, eyes up here.”
Oh shoot. My gaze can’t be trusted to behave apparently. I look away as I push past him and step into his room.
“Sorry, here, I’ll look this way, just hand me your phone.”
I dangle my hand behind me, wiggling my fingers out into open air, waiting for him to do as I say.
He slaps his iPhone into my hand and I turn to leave, anxious to be out of this room, but he blocks my path.
“Sit. You aren’t leaving here with my phone.”
“I won’t do anything with it.”
He doesn’t believe me.
My butt hits his desk chair and I’m suddenly in the middle of a Magic Mike-inspired porno. Sitting down dutifully while Noah stands before me, sans shirt, buff and annoyed-looking. The lap dance is about to begin.
He rolls his eyes and walks over to his closet to yank a t-shirt off a hanger.
“It’s like you’ve never seen a male torso before. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
My comeback dies on my tongue as I watch him work that t-shirt on over his head. His back muscles pull taut, flexing beneath his warm olive skin. I’m about to pee my pants.
“Would you stop?”
“I…can’t.”
I’ll chastise myself for this later. In bed, when I replay this interaction moment by excruciating moment, I’ll curse myself for not getting it together. Never show weakness, Audrey.
“Call your mom,” he says with a shake of his head.
Right.
I dial her number from Noah’s phone and spin around to face the window. I think it’ll help, but it’s pitch-black out and Noah is reflected in the glass. He’s staring at me with a grouchy expression, his hands propped on his hips.
My mom answers on the first ring.
“Hello? Who is this?” Her tone turns threatening. “If you have my daughter—”
“Mom, it’s me. Relax. My phone died.”
“Oh thank god.” Then she calls out to my dad. “Peter, you can hang up with the sheriff! I’ve got her!”
“Please tell me you weren’t really—”
“Whose phone is this? I don’t recognize the number.”
“My coworker’s.”
I try to leave it at that, but my mom is a certified sleuth.
“Oh, Noah? Noah Peterson? How is he doing?”
“Fine.”
“Just as handsome as ever?” She whistles like a construction worker catcalling on the sidewalk. “If I were twenty years younger and your father were dead…”
I look around Noah’s desk for a sharp object to impale myself with. “Yes, Mom. The pasta really is better over here.”
Noah laughs behind me. “Tell your mom I said hi.”
I whirl around in my chair. “Stop listening!”
He shrugs, unbothered. “It can’t be helped. The room is quiet and your mom talks pretty loud.”
“Oh is that him?!” My mom sounds positively giddy. It’s like I’ve got George Clooney here with me. “Put him on! Put him on!”
“No. Mom, I’m not—”
Noah wrenches the phone out of my hand, and before I know it, they’re having a little tête-à-tête.
She could be unveiling all of my deep dark secrets. I don’t know because I can’t hear a word she’s saying. Unlike Noah, I don’t have supersonic hearing.
“Hi, Mrs. Cohen. It is good to finally meet you,” Noah tells my mom.
And then, “I completely agree.”
He grins diabolically at me while my mom keeps right on talking. What could she possibly be saying?!
I stand up and try to get closer, but Noah stiff-arms me with a hand
to my chest.
“Put it on speakerphone,” I demand through clenched teeth.
He ignores me.
“You know, I was just thinking the same thing. You’re so astute, Mrs. Cohen.”
I hear her coquettish giggle on the other end of the line.
“Stop flirting with my mom!” I whisper-hiss.
“Really?!” he exclaims like he’s never heard anything more interesting in his entire life. “The millionth visitor? You must be a lucky gal.”
“Mom! HANG UP! RIGHT NOW!”
“Oh, you need to go get dinner started? I’ll let you go. Want me to hand you back to Audrey first? No? Okay, I’ll tell her.”
The moment the call ends, his smile drops and he steps away from me. All that charm gone in a flash.
“Your mom says bye,” he says flatly.
“She didn’t say she loves me?”
“Strange. She must have forgotten.”
I leap toward him and hold up my hands like I’m strangling the air. Even with an exasperated “Argh!”, it doesn’t satisfy my urge to kill. Noah looks like he’s standing in front of an angry little mouse he could squash with his shoe. He cocks one eyebrow before he takes my hands and lifts them to his neck. So much muscle at my fingertips.
“Do your worst, Audrey Cohen,” he goads.
Oh, if only I could.
What a sweet way to end this all, here and now.
I tighten my hands around his neck, but sadly, my strength fails me. It’s not a death grip so much as a soft squeeze. I sigh and let my hands drop.
“I hate you,” I say with all the passion drained out of me.
“Then end this. Say, Noah, you’re the winner. I’ve loved you. I’ve always loved you.”
Panic seizes me. “Never.”
I walk around him, leave his room, and slam the door behind me.
Chapter Nine
“So listen, I think I’m going to go for it with Noah.”
The butt of my croissant is sticking out of my mouth and I’m midbite when Gabriella comes over to my table in the dining hall the next morning with this piece of information.
I hold up a finger to let her know I need to finish chewing before I can continue this conversation I’m definitely interested in having. Not.
“Sorry.” She laughs, inviting herself into the vacant seat across from me.
I was eating alone with a book flipped open in front of me. I hadn’t looked up in the last ten minutes. I thought I was giving off a gentle Do Not Approach vibe, but I guess I was wrong. Next time, I’ll hang a Do Not Disturb sign on my nose.
I drop my croissant on my plate and try to sound friendly as I ask her to repeat herself. “I’m not sure I caught what you said.”
“Oh, yeah. No worries. I was just letting you know I’m interested in Noah, and I was hoping you could, y’know…help a girl out.” Her declaration is accented by her little dancing eyebrows.
I laugh like this topic doesn’t deeply disturb me. “I’m not sure how I could help.”
She leans in like we’re in on some secret together. “You guys have worked together for years. Surely you have some good intel.”
Intel? Sure.
I have an encyclopedia’s worth of knowledge about Noah. He thinks sweaters are annoying; they make his armpits sweaty. He doesn’t love coffee, but if he has to drink it, he prefers cold brew with a splash of cream. He has a rotation of ten podcasts he’s perpetually trying to stay up to date with. He thinks Quentin Tarantino is the greatest director to ever live and Pop-Tarts should make it so the icing goes all the way to the edge.
I’ve studied my enemy carefully. I know him like the back of my hand.
I’m not about to just spill that intel to any ol’ person.
But still…I close my book and push it aside.
“So what’s your plan? I thought I heard you asking him to hang out yesterday.”
“Yeah, I did. There’s an Italian restaurant around the corner that has two Michelin stars and the food is supposed to be di-vine. It’s twelve courses and apparently it takes like four hours to get through. I have a friend of a friend who can get us reservations. Otherwise the waitlist is like four months long.”
Noah would absolutely hate that.
He’s a simple man at heart. He’s not one for pomp and circumstance. Give him a burger and fries and he’ll be happy. Also, the price tag on a meal like that would blow his mind.
$75 for a glass of wine? Does it come with the vineyard?
“But he doesn’t seem all that excited about it,” she continues. “Which is where you come in. Maybe you can give me some pointers? I mean, I’m pretty eager to go for it. Noah seems like a rare breed. I can’t believe he’s single.”
I don’t know what my face is doing, but I hope it resembles a normal expression.
“It’s slim pickings in New York. The guys are either workaholics or playboys. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been ghosted by some Brooklyn brownstone boy who’s trying to pursue his life’s calling. There was the graphic artist, the DJ, the writer. I mean, are you kidding? No, Ezra, I don’t want to read your manga a year after you stopped calling me back.”
This actually makes me chuckle, but then I glance up toward the door of the dining hall and see the bane of my existence walking in. I haven’t looked at Noah with a fresh set of eyes in years, but I try to do so now, try to see him the way Gabriella does.
I’ll give him credit where credit is due. He’s extremely handsome, yes. The hair and square jaw, full lips, and bedroom eyes are all a 10 out of 10. But also, the quality of Noah’s style cannot be overstated. He is deeply cool in a way that annoys me. Today, he’s wearing a black short-sleeved Henley shirt and gray shorts. The fit on both is impeccable, and the sneakers pull it all together.
He walks with confidence born from within. He has the ability to draw every eye in a room and look bored doing it. His appearance seems like a nuisance to him rather than a Get Out of Jail Free card.
I realize I’ve made a mistake when my stomach starts to tie itself into a knot. Becoming habituated to Noah took time and effort, and studying his features under a microscope is unwise. It’s making me feel weird and off-kilter, like I’m toeing the edge of a cliff and staring down at a hundred-foot drop. I don’t want to go splat.
He looks over at my table and sees me talking to Gabriella. His frown is visible from across the room, and though he can’t possibly know what we’re discussing over here, it still feels like he does.
“See what I mean? Like does he just look like that all the time?”
She sounds like she’s about to swoon.
STOP, I want to shout. Go away. Leave me alone with my book and my peace.
“Pizza,” I say suddenly. Then words start pouring out of me. “He likes pizza. Skip the fancy dinner and just invite him to do something easy. Grab some cheap beer and sit outside and people-watch. He’ll love that.”
The pressure eases off my chest as she pushes up to stand. “Perfect! You’re a lifesaver. You’ll definitely be invited to the wedding,” she says with a laugh and a wink.
My stomach hurts.
I pick up my croissant and toy with it as I watch her navigate the tables and slice across the space to get to Noah. He’s in line, grabbing breakfast, and she walks right up to him with a megawatt smile. I convince myself I can read her lips, but really, I just pretend to know what she’s saying.
Let’s skip the restaurant and take it easy. Pizza on me?
Noah glances over his shoulder and finds me staring. Panic grips me.
I shift my attention down to my plate and count to ten in my head. When I look up again, Noah and Gabriella are smiling at each other, and whatever reservations he might have had about her are gone now. He picks up an apple, shines it on his shirt, and passes it to her with a little toss.
She laughs as she catches it and I stand up, take my things, and leave the dining hall.
Back in my room, I straighten up. Th
ings that were already clean and tidy before get shifted one millimeter to the left or right, refolded, and wiped down. There. Perfect.
When I go to add more euros to my money belt, I find the crumpled list I confiscated from the girls yesterday.
“We were all surprised about Mr. Ricci asking you out because we thought you and Mr. Peterson were—”
I stuff the list into the trash and cover it with tissue for good measure.
Outside, the courtyard is quiet and relatively cool. A slight breeze blows the mist from a fountain in my direction and I convince myself it’s peaceful. Our students are in their Latin class, someone else’s problem for the rest of the morning. I have my book on my lap. I should open it and get back to where I left off at breakfast, but I’m staring at a group of sculptures instead. Or rather, I’m staring past them. I’m so deep in thought I don’t notice Noah until he’s taking a seat on the opposite end of my bench.
I don’t break my stare, and he doesn’t say a word.
We sit in companionable silence, like a referee has blown a whistle and called a time-out.
It should be disconcerting to sit here like this with him. I should have my guard up and weapons drawn anytime Noah and I are alone, but this morning, for once, I can’t seem to muster the effort. I’m a bloodied soldier on a battlefield with no fight left in me.
“Gabriella said you gave her your blessing to ask me out. It was your idea to go for pizza and beer.”
Well, well, well…Gabriella has quite the mouth.
“What was I supposed to do?”
Now there’s a question with a million answers.
Worried how he’ll spin it in his head…the potential conclusions he’ll draw, I quickly add, “She was going to take you somewhere pretentious. I should have just let her.”
He doesn’t have a response to that, and finally the silence starts to eat at me.
I’m curious about his intentions with Gabriella and he seems to be in a sharing mood, so I flat-out ask, “Did you accept her offer?”