Enemies Abroad(21)

“How long have you been coming here?” I ask as I push my plate away.

“Since my early twenties. I went to school here in Rome.”

“But you didn’t grow up here?”

“No. I’m from a city to the northeast about two hours called L’Aquila.”

“Are your parents still there?”

“Yes, and my grandparents. Brother. Sister. My nieces and nephews.”

“Wow. No one ever moved away?”

He shakes his head. “They all work at the L’Aquila museum and at a small hotel nearby that my grandfather opened almost fifty years ago. The hotel is small and mainly caters to Italian tourists who come to tour the museum. It has a collection of Roman inscriptions and some illuminated service books. Outside of the town is the Fontana delle novantanove cannelle, a fountain that was constructed in 1272. Still today no one knows who built it. I spent my summers as a boy giving tours at the museum and the fountain.”

“Do you miss it?”

He shrugs. “I visit often.”

Two old women interrupt our conversation to say hi to Lorenzo. Their rapid-fire Italian is impossible to follow for someone who only knows a handful of words, but I listen and smile. Lorenzo gestures to me, and I hear my name sprinkled into the conversation. The women smile at me too, nodding hello before they take their coffee to go.

“Friends of yours?”

He blushes. “They know my family. They check up on me every now and then, report back. I’m sure my mom will be calling me in less than an hour, asking me about the bellissima woman I was having coffee with.”

My cheeks are two red flames.

“Then, she’ll lay into me with all the important questions. Is she Italian? Is she a good Catholic girl? Is she ready to settle down and give me grandchildren?”

I could choke.

Lorenzo chuckles and nudges my shoulder with his, a reminder to lighten up.

“You’ve got some powdered sugar on your lip,” he says, gesturing.

I lick it off and he watches me do it, his tongue practically lolling out of his mouth. He doesn’t bother hiding his true feelings. His thoughts are written right across his face, and it’s a heady thing to know I have this man’s full attention.

Now who needs to lighten up?

I realize how close we’re standing, almost hip to hip in the crowded café.

“Should we walk?” I ask, finishing off the last of my drink.

It’s suddenly stifling in here. I feel overheated from the coffee and the crowd.

What little breeze there was on our walk over to the café is gone now, melted away. Even with the sun still rising, the temperature creeps toward the triple digits. I pull my hair off my neck and tie it up in a high ponytail.

“Rome needs more swimming pools. I’m tempted to have you lead me back to the Trevi Fountain so I can pretend to fall into it and have myself a little dip to cool off.”

“We’re not far from the ocean. Next week, we’ll go to the beach.”

“I won’t survive a week in this.”

He laughs. “Here, let’s go in here and you can look for some gifts to send home.”

It’s a brilliant plan. The shop he leads me into is small but nearly empty, and more importantly, there’s a window unit pumping out cold A/C that I can stand right in front of. I close my eyes and put my face right up to it until I’m sure my nose has frostbite. After, I peruse the aisles, picking up little things for my family and friends. I get my parents some olive oil harvested from a farm near Rome, and for Kristen and Melissa, I pick up two small bottles of limoncello.

In the stationery section, I grab a handful of cheesy postcards I can use throughout the few weeks I’m here. The shop also has a whole display of cards with embossed initials for people who want a personalized touch. I see N and think of Noah.

It’s not the first time he’s made an appearance in my thoughts this morning. Not the second or third time, either.

Back near the limoncello, there were small chocolate bars lined up in neat rows. The one with almonds would have been too tempting for him to pass up. He’s a chocolate fiend. It’s the same reason I thought of him when I saw there were zeppoles dipped in a chocolate ganache back at the café. I have memories spliced together in my head of every time Noah’s walked past my classroom door with a treat from the teachers’ lounge in hand. He’s never once passed up a dessert. And if it’s chocolate? Fahgettaboutit.

On the street outside the souvenir shop, a group of boys were playing a pick-up game of soccer. I know Noah plays in a rec league back home. He was on scholarship in college, in fact, on track to go pro and everything, but he blew out his knee his junior year. I looked into his career one night when I’d had an extra glass of wine and my curiosity got the best of me. It’s wild what you can find on YouTube. There were highlight reels and recruitment videos all put up by his high school and college coaches and never taken down. I watched every video I could get my hands on, hyper-focused, mouth slightly agape, and then, realizing how far I’d gone into Stalkerville, I slapped my laptop shut and stuffed it underneath a couch pillow.

I wonder if Noah would have asked the boys outside the shop to let him kick the ball around for a bit. Or maybe I need to stop thinking about what Noah would or would not do if he were with me. Who. Cares.