by R.S. Grey
Ashley leans in, curious. “How does it work? Is there a built-in bra?”
“A little one. I mean, it’s probably not enough, clearly.”
“You look smoking. It’s your dress. THE DRESS. I don’t care if you have nowhere to wear it. You’re getting it. I mean, save it for your funeral if you have to.”
After that fun little morbid suggestion, I try to push them out of the dressing room so I can change back into decent clothes, but they won’t budge.
“I haven’t even looked at the price yet,” I say, foolishly thinking that will sway them.
Ashley grabs the tag hanging under my armpit. “Thirty-five euros. Done.”
“Are you kidding?” Gabriella looks shocked. “I’ll buy the damn thing for you if you aren’t going to.”
Ten minutes later, I’m out on the sidewalk holding that tiny dress in a tiny bag.
We stop for a lunch that goes on forever. The waiter takes a liking to us and keeps bringing out delicious plates of food the chef wants us to try. We barely make it back to the school in time before the planned afternoon excursion. Everyone’s already in the courtyard when we hustle through the gate.
“Sorry! Sorry!”
We rush to drop off our purchases in our rooms and then it’s off to explore the Villa Borghese.
Though it might sound shocking, Noah and I don’t get the chance to talk, not once, that whole afternoon. We’re in full chaperone mode. When we leave St. Cecilia’s, Lorenzo takes pity on us and directs us toward the metro station instead of having us walk all the way to the villa, but that unlocks a whole new nightmare I hadn’t even considered: trying to make sure nineteen middle school kids stay together and survive on public transportation in a foreign country.
You’d think it’d be relatively easy, but no. While being goofy and trying to make his friends laugh, Isaiah trips on the subway platform and nearly careens off the edge onto the track. Chris gets lost for ten minutes trying to find a bathroom because he didn’t listen to Noah when he told everyone to go before they left the school. Zach thinks it’s funny to stick his hand through the sliding train doors and pretend they’re going to chop off his limb. I tell him not to—he ignores me—and then the doors start to close and a blaring alarm sounds; he screams and jumps a mile in the air. Kylie leaves her wallet on a bench back on the platform but doesn’t realize it until we’re getting off the train, so once we arrive at the Villa Borghese, Noah has to get right back on the metro and go hunting for it. Alice wore these ridiculous lace-up gladiator sandals even though she knew we’d be walking all afternoon and, shocking to no one, immediately gets blisters on her heels that she won’t stop complaining about. I just wanted to look Roman! While a tour guide starts to lead our group through the main gallery, I break off and try to find some Band-Aids for her. I’m led on a wild goose chase that takes me forty-five minutes. The security guard I talk to tells me they might have some at guest services. Guest services tells me they keep the Band-Aids at the first-floor welcome desk. The first-floor welcome desk is closed because of ongoing renovations and holy hell, when I finally hand Alice those Band-Aids and she just shrugs and tells me, “Oh, Millie had some in her bag she gave me a while ago,” I think my head might explode.
By the time I’m ready to actually enjoy the gallery, it’s time for us to leave, and this time, we’re walking back because Lorenzo has a dinner planned for us at a “special restaurant”.
It ends up being Hard Rock Cafe, rock ’n’ roll-themed burger chain serving up all the food I can eat back home while blasting music so loudly I can barely hear my own thoughts. The kids are beside themselves, of course. Having sampled enough foreign fare to last them a lifetime, they all scarf down burgers and fries and milkshakes without a single complaint.
“Italy has the best food!” Chris says, meaning it. With a huge earnest smile, he slurps up the last dregs of his milkshake then proceeds to noisily suck air through his straw for a full minute before I tell him to stop. Please.
Brandon gets my attention. “Look Ms. Cohen, Elvis signed that framed tablecloth!”
Another student chimes in, “Who’s Elvis?”
To make matters worse, Noah and I are seated at different tables because the restaurant couldn’t accommodate our entire group. Each chaperone is on their own, assigned to a table full of kids who had to mind their manners at the Villa Borghese and are now hopped up on milkshakes. Noah’s table is catty-corner to mine and I find myself glancing over at him constantly, missing him in a way that feels childish and silly. He’s right there, I tell myself. Focus on your cheeseburger.
He glances back and sees me staring.
My gut reaction is to look away immediately. Don’t let him know you were ogling him! That’s what I’d do in the past. Either that or antagonize him somehow. It goes against my instincts to smile at him, and it feels like the absolute best part of my day when he smiles back.
Any chance of hanging out with Noah later is squashed when Lorenzo invites him to play soccer with some of his friends at an indoor club near the school. I hear Noah try to get out of it, but Lorenzo insists: “We need you. We’re down a guy and can’t play unless we find someone. You’d be perfect. The best one on the team!”
I try my hardest to stay awake waiting for him. I prop my door open and set up my laptop so I can watch shows from my bed, but sleep is too hard to resist. In the morning, I wake up and find my door closed, my blankets tucked up around me, and a little note Noah left for me on my desk.
Looking forward to Saturday.
Reading his note, I feel legitimate glee. I’m a jittery fool. If you cut into me, my insides would look like one of those surprise cakes filled with rainbow sprinkles and glitter.
On Thursday, I rush through getting ready, tug on a dress and sneakers, and leave my hair like it wants to be: wild. Noah’s sitting in the dining hall, eating cereal by himself and looking at his phone when I arrive. I half-run, half-walk to the food line, bouncing up and down with impatience as the cook takes his sweet time slathering my pancakes with syrup. Usually, I’d be like, Thank you for your attention to detail, sir. You’re a man after my own heart. At the moment, I’m thinking, Does every single square inch need to be covered?! Come on, man!
He gives me an extra orange I don’t ask for and then a banana too. I give him a few hearty thank-yous once he passes me my tray laden with so much food I’m worried I’ll drop it. I beeline straight for Noah with an aggressive stride. I only slow down when I’m about to reach him, realizing I should probably tone it down just a hair.
I’m a total cool girl as I gently set my tray down and take the seat across from him. Noah looks up and my expression says, Oh, you were sitting here? I didn’t even realize.
“Morning,” he says with a private little smile.
Dammit. I think he saw me running back there.
“Hi.”
His gaze falls to my plate. His expression is one of concern.
“That’s…quite a lot of syrup you’ve got there. It’s dribbling over the sides.”
“Yeah. I think the cook has a crush on me.” No matter that the cook in question is approaching his seventies.
Noah pretends to look crestfallen. “Damn. Stiff competition.”
It feels so good to laugh without having to suppress it.
And he must feel the same way because he’s looking at me with sheer wonder.
“I like hearing you laugh.”
“Well you’re in luck—you’re a funny guy. It’s the thing that attracts me to you the most.”
His eyebrow quirks in a cocky little gesture.
I look down at my food.
“You’re funny too.”
We might as well be confessing we love each other with how insanely serious this feels.
“So do you have a plan for Saturday?”
He wipes his mouth with a napkin then leans back. “Oh yeah. I have it completely mapped out.”
“Do tell.”
“I rented a m
oped with a sidecar attached. You’ll drive and I’ll ride shotgun, obviously. Dinner will be romantic. Candles. Ten courses. A man will stand beside our table—intimately close—and sing in Italian operetta the entire time. If you try to get up to go to the bathroom, he’ll follow you.”
“Sounds chaotic. I’m down.”
“Morning!” Ashley says, taking the seat beside me. “What’s the occasion? I don’t think I’ve ever seen the two of you willingly sitting at a table alone together. And smiling no less? Did they spike the syrup or something? Is that why you have so much of it, Audrey?”
“Us? We’re just two friends enjoying a friendly meal. Isn’t that right, Noah?”
“Oh sure. Friends.”
“Well I’m happy you guys are smiling now because word on the street is we’re headed to the Vatican today and tomorrow. Eight-hour tours, both days. We’re getting split up into two groups.”
Say it ain’t so!
If I were about to embark on a guided tour of the Vatican on my own, leisurely taking my time as I enjoyed all of Michelangelo’s creations, I have no doubt I would love every single second of it. I’d be awestruck and inspired. I’d quit my post at Lindale to pursue my rightful calling as a woman of the arts. I’d convert to Catholicism. I’d buy a mug with the pope’s face on it.
But this is not your grandma’s Italian holiday. This is boot camp. We’re split up in groups all right, and guess who ends up with Noah? Not me. Lorenzo says he wants there to be more mixing and mingling between the schools so the students get to know each other better, “to see how the other half lives”, and does that mean we’re the poor ones? So he sets up the groups to be a 50-50 split. I’m assigned to Group A with Ashley, and Noah is assigned to Group B with Lorenzo and Gabriella.
By Friday afternoon, we’re dead on our feet.
Nothing could have prepared us for the sheer number of people that flock to the Vatican during the summer season. And wouldn’t you know it? Thursday and Friday are the hottest days of the year in Rome so far! What luck!
And yes, while the Vatican was like nothing I’ve ever experienced before—art and architecture on a scale that’s hard to comprehend even when it’s staring you in the face—it’s not like I could truly step back and appreciate it all. I was too scared one of my students was going to somehow irrevocably tarnish ancient history. Oops, I spilled my Gatorade on this PRICELESS FRESCO.
I was on edge the whole time.
Friday evening, after I make sure the kids are settled for the night, I take a ridiculously long shower, wash my hair, and soap off all the sweat. Wanting to treat myself, I put on my best pair of pajamas, the shorts and tank top someone gifted to Kristen at her bridal shower that didn’t fit her so she passed them on to me. They’re decadent and expensive. 100% silk. I let my hair out of my towel and lather up my skin with moisturizer to try to combat the sun I’ve been getting since we arrived in Rome.
Out in the hall, I peer under Noah’s door, but the light’s off. He’s gone off somewhere without me. Oh well.
I go into my room and plop down on my bed. I swear to god, there’s never been a better feeling. Never.
I’m reading there for half an hour or so before Noah lets himself in and closes the door behind him.
He’s freshly showered too. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that make me want to bite down on my bottom lip and a white t-shirt that stretches over his muscles. He shouldn’t look as hot as he does. It’s criminal.
I drop my book onto my lap. “So comfortable with each other we’re not even knocking now? I could have been naked.”
He unfurls a slow-spreading smile like I’ve just put a deliciously detailed image into his head. One he’ll want to hang on to for later. Then he holds up a nondescript white paper bag and dangles it between his fingers.
“I got us a little somethin’ to take the edge off. Figured we needed it after what we went through the last two days.”
“Oh really?”
He pushes off the door and walks right up to the side of my bed. I sit up, curious, as he opens the bag and tilts it for me to peer inside.
Oh my god.
I stare up at him like he’s crazy. “Where did you get this?!”
He plays it off with a cheesy Italian gangster accent. “Down the street. I know a guy.”
“Are you kidding? Noah. You could have been caught! How’d you sneak this past the kids? They could have smelled it and then we’d be in deep shit.”
“Yeah well, can you keep a secret or not?”
I motion for him to show me what’s inside the bag again, just so I can get a second whiff to be sure he’s procured what I think he has.
“Is it street legal?”
“Probably not. You’d never find this back home in the States. At least not this quality.”
“Okay quick. Go make sure my door’s locked.”
Meanwhile, I rearrange my pillows so we can sit side by side on my bed with our backs to the wall. He kicks off his shoes and climbs up beside me. We’re hip to hip when he looks at me, waiting for the cue. I nod to let him know to go ahead. No time like the present.
The bag crinkles as he dips his hand inside, then slowly, slowly, he draws out an authentic Italian cannoli with the careful precision of a surgeon delicately lifting a donor kidney from a patient. We’re talking fried, crispy pastry stuffed with a creamy filling of ricotta cheese, sugar, and chocolate chips. Noah cradles it gently in his hand and holds it out toward me, gifting me the first taste. I greedily accept a bite from one end, close my eyes, and savor every last morsel.
My groan is sexual.
I’ve never tasted anything sweeter in my life.
I peer over at Noah as he takes his bite. He’s having an out-of-body experience too.
“Good, right?” he asks with hooded eyes.
“So good. Let me have another bite.”
“Easy! You almost took off the tip of my finger.”
Then it’s his turn again.
“Hey!” I grab his bicep. “C’mon! You just devoured like half of it.”
We’re done with the dessert in seconds. I don’t even think we chew. I check the bag just to confirm we sucked up every last crumb then Noah crinkles it up into a tight ball and shoots it like a basketball into the trashcan by my desk.
We stay on my bed, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. Noah, me, and my little blue bunny. Neither of us says a word. The air turns thick with tension. It seems we haven’t totally sated our appetites with that dessert, and now we’re both thinking about having another.
I have specks of ricotta and sugar smeared on my fingers and lips, and I lick it off while Noah watches. I could get a napkin, of course, but why waste the opportunity?
The poor guy’s about to lose it. His pants are growing tight.
“You’re right. That did take the edge off,” I tell him.
The edge of his mouth lifts in a small smile, but his heated eyes belie his easygoing manner.
We haven’t been alone on a bed since Monday night at Giuseppe’s house.
My silk pajamas—the ones I put on secretly hoping to torment him—are so delicate and revealing it’s almost diabolical.
Noah eyes every inch of me, starting at my bare feet and traveling up my legs. Goose bumps break out across my skin. His eyes graze my arms, chest, neck, mouth. When his gaze finally captures mine, my stomach squeezes tight with longing.
I want him to kiss me.
I turn my head fully toward him and stare at his mouth, thinking about all the things I want it to do to me. Places I want it to touch and taste. My thoughts are rated XXX.
Please.
I’m begging you.
Put me out of my misery.
Flatten your hand against my chest, press me back against the wall, and seal our fate.
But Noah doesn’t kiss me.
Noah doesn’t lay a single finger on me.
We stay like that until I feel positively drunk with desire.
Eventually,
he sighs a heavy breath and turns away, staring at the wall across the room.
I wish I knew what he was thinking. Being here with Noah, just willingly sitting next to each other—for us, it’s intimate. We’re still getting acclimated to it all.
“What would Past Noah and Past Audrey think if they saw us sitting like this right now?” I ask.
He smiles. “They wouldn’t believe it.” He shakes his head and scoots off the bed. “I should probably go check on the kids one more time before bed. Just to make sure everything’s okay.”
I nod. “Right. Yeah. Just to be sure.”
I regret letting him go the second he leaves.
Saturday drags.
8:00 AM: eat breakfast in the dining hall, wish I was on my date with Noah
8:03 AM: sip coffee, wish I was on my date with Noah
8:07 AM: check the time, assuming it’s already past 10—groan in despair
8:10 AM: see Noah, blush like a schoolgirl
8:11 AM: desperately wish I was on my date with Noah
The whole day is a weird fever dream. I think I eat lunch with the kids in the dining hall. I think we take them out for gelato in the afternoon. In reality, my brain is laser-focused on getting to the good part.
I lock myself in my room two hours before I’m supposed to meet Noah at the restaurant he picked. We agreed it’s better to go separately so we can avoid being spotted together. I’m not ready to answer any pesky questions from the kids or other chaperones.
I figure two hours is enough time to get ready and calm my nerves. If I had alcohol, I’d take a shot.
I almost back out of wearing the little red dress.
While I’m getting ready, I lay it down on my bed then proceed to ignore it as I curl my hair, apply my makeup, and decide on what shade of lipstick would best fit the occasion. Falling in Love with Your Enemy - Revlon shade 104.
When I can’t put off getting dressed any longer, I rifle through my closet, trying to find an option that’s a little less bold. I have the black dress I wore on the double date, but it feels wrong to wear it again tonight. I’ve got plenty of sundresses, but none of them are fancy enough. Shorts, t-shirts—no, absolutely not.