Again, But Better(23)

I bob my chin up and down a zillion times. “Okay, okay, thank you.”

He heads past me into the bathroom with his own bag. Ten minutes later, we’re ready to go. It’s almost 8:00 a.m. Babe and Sahra stir as we head for the door.

“Hey,” Babe croaks, sitting up abruptly.

“Hey.” I speed through an explanation. “I lost my purse—I think I left it at the restaurant, so we’re gonna go see if we can get it back.”

“Wait, we can get dressed…”

“No it’s fine,” I start, but Pilot jumps in.

“We’ll go, and we can meet you at the Colosseum. I have my phone, so just let me know when you’re heading over.”

I nod in agreement and shoot Pilot a grateful look. I can’t sit and wait for them to get ready while my purse, laden with passport and money, is indisposed.

“Okay,” Babe mutters. She rises and heads toward the bathroom.

I turn for the door, feeling naked without my cross-body. How did I leave the restaurant like this? It feels so wrong!

This is your fault, wine.

Pilot and I walk in silence toward the restaurant. I’m so strung out about the purse that I barely appreciate the fact that Pilot volunteered to come with me—and not regular me: silent, sweaty, slightly angry, panicky me. She’s no fun. What was I thinking letting him come?

As the trattoria comes into view, I speed up, power walking until I’m face-to-face with its closed door. My eyes lock on the tiny paper in the window displaying the hours. It’s closed. I didn’t even think about the fact that it’s 8:00 a.m. It doesn’t open till 3:00 p.m.

I whirl around, throwing my hands up in the air. “It’s closed!” I yelp hopelessly.

Pilot comes up next to me to read what the sign says.

“Pies, it’s closed,” I repeat. I pace a few feet away from the door and pivot, turning back. “It’s closed, and I have no money and no passport and no purse, and we’re in a foreign country, and it might not even be in there, and it’s closed!” My palms seize the sides of my head, and I focus my eyes on the ground.

What now? I have to stay here and wait for someone to open the restaurant so I can get my purse. It’s too important.

I shouldn’t have had that wine. Why did I leave London? I haven’t even started my internship! If I’ve lost my passport, I’ve already blown everything to pieces. I didn’t think this through. This whole experience hinges on my parents never having to look further into this program. What was I thinking taking a risk like leaving the country!

I feel a cool hand close around my forearm and look up.

“Hey.” Pilot gently pulls my arm away from my face. “Shane, you’re spinning in circles. Maybe sit down for a sec.”

His hand slides away as he lowers himself onto the curb in front of the closed restaurant. I shake out my arms, trying to throw off the fidgety feeling crawling over my skin, and collapse next to him. My heels dance up and down. We’re silent for a whole minute before Pilot speaks again.

“Hey,” he starts, “it’s stressful now, but think about it this way: However today goes, you’re going to have a great story for the blog.” He grins.

I shoot him an unamused look and shake my head. “I shouldn’t have trusted myself to leave the country.” I drop my head into my hands and ramble to the cobblestones, “I’m sorry. You should go meet up with everyone else. I’m gonna wait here. I have to wait for them to open ’cause this is too important; my passport’s in there—I’m sorry I made you come with me. You can go back. I just have to stay. My parents are gonna kill me if I … if all my stuff gets lost.” Stress curdles in my gut.

“Shane.”

I stare at the ground. “What?”

“You didn’t make me come with you. I volunteered.”

I snort, thinking of The Hunger Games. He nudges me lightly with his shoulder, and I lift my head.

“Your parents will understand.”

“You don’t know them.” After a few seconds, I continue, “My dad grounded me in high school for reading The Da Vinci Code.”

“What?” He chuckles. “Why?”

“Because we’re Catholic, and the church had a problem with it, blah blah blah.”

“Are you guys super-religious?”

“I mean, I’m not.” I pause for a second, curiosity rising. “Are you?”

“Nah, I mean, my family’s Jewish. I do Hanukkah.”

I nod, understanding. “So no awesome indie rock-themed bar mitzvah for you?”

He smirks. “Well…”

“Oh my god, you had an indie rock-themed bar mitzvah?” My mouth turns up in a tiny, closed-lipped smile.

“More punk rock.” He grins.

I snort, turning away to watch the restaurant door. Off in the distance, I can make out the Colosseum. Pilot follows my gaze.

“So, if you could go back in time, would you want stop by there and watch a gladiator match?” he asks.

Trying to distract me. I click my tongue. “I guess so,” I answer. “Would you?”

“Uh, obviously,” he answers in a silly voice.

I smother a smile, storyteller mode switching on. “What if you only had three points you could choose to go back to? Would this be one of the three? And you can’t do things like kill Hitler; you can only sit in on events and stuff. Maybe you can put in your two cents at said events.”