Enemies Abroad(31)

Suddenly, that bonus doesn’t seem like enough money to be here. Couldn’t we have visited such wonderful destinations as Siberia or Antarctica? I hear the northernmost tip of Alaska is lovely this time of year.

Gabriella and Ashley huddle together with their Trinity kids, who all have battery-powered misting fans and cooling towels around their necks. I watch with envy as Gabriella angles her fan toward her face and closes her eyes, basking in the chilled air.

Meanwhile I’m chafing in places the Roman sun don’t shine.

Noah appears by my side and tries to pass me his water bottle, and I stare down at it like it’s last month’s leftovers I just found in the back of my fridge.

“Your mouth was on that.”

“You’re going to dehydrate,” he says, nudging it closer.

I hold up my hand. “I’ll take my chances.”

He sighs as he lifts the bottle to his mouth. I watch him guzzle down a long swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

I suddenly feel lightheaded.

Maybe I won’t have to fake an illness tonight after all.

“How long is your boy going to make us stand out here?”

I straighten my shoulders. “Lorenzo is not my boy.”

“We should have visited this place in the morning so we could have avoided the crowds and the heat. We could have swapped the schedule and had the kids do their Latin lesson in the afternoon.”

“Quit complaining. You’re supposed to be appreciating history. I, for one, am delighted to be here.”

“Uh-huh. Is that why you keep looking longingly at the exit?”

“I’m merely checking to make sure none of our kids try to escape.”

He sniffs derisively. “Not like they’d make it far. They’d pass out from heat stroke by the time they made it to the end of the street.”

Just then, Lorenzo strolls over, beaming and seemingly totally unaffected by the heat. “Audrey, come. Walk up front with me. I want to show you some of the ruins.” He holds out his arm for me to take, and when I hesitate, he looks over at Noah. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Noah shoots daggers at Lorenzo’s crooked arm. “Actually, Lorenzo, I think we should get these kids into some air conditioning. Audrey here’s about to faint.”

Annoyed that he’s lumping me in with the thirteen-year-olds, I step forward to take Lorenzo’s offered arm a little more forcefully than necessary.

“I’m fine, I promise. I mean…sure…it’s a little toasty out here.”

“Toasty?” he repeats with confused brows.

“Oh…yeah, toasty. Like hot.” I fan my face for emphasis.

He leads me to the front of the group. “Ah, yes. Rome is very toasty in July. Do you need to rest? We can go to the benches over there.”

The benches he’s pointing to are in full sun, and I bet if I touched my hand to the concrete, it would sizzle.

“No, no. Let’s keep trudging along. Don’t want to lose the kids’ interest.”

Turns out I didn’t need to worry about that. Their interest is long gone. When the complaining hits a crescendo, we have to cut the tour short and head back to the school. Noah suggests we catch a bus, but Lorenzo insists it’d be a waste of time.

“Rome is a city made for walking!”

We’re a bunch of sad Eeyores—defeated, sweat-stained, and sunburned—when we hobble through the gates of St. Cecilia’s half an hour later.

Noah tells the kids to get some water and take a load off before dinner.

I take my robe and toiletries to the bathroom, yank aside one of the shower curtains, and turn the water nozzle until it’s on the coldest setting. Conscious that Noah could walk into the bathroom at any moment (something I live in constant fear of), I undress inside the shower and hang my clothes on the hook out on the wall. Icy water spills down my back and I turn to let it cover my face and chest. It’s not enough; when I look in the mirror after I’m done with my shower, my face is still flushed. I’m cooked through. Well-done.

I guzzle water in my room and lie down on my bed until I have no choice but to get up and get ready for my double date. With all the energy zapped from my bones, I couldn’t care less about what I wear, which works in my favor because I have very few “going out” clothes here with me in Rome. Okay, who am I kidding—I have very few “going out” clothes back home either. I was doing some last-minute shopping for the trip, getting the essentials—a mini travel-sized deodorant and mini travel-sized vibrator—when I strolled past a trendy boutique and saw a mannequin wearing a simple black silk dress that looked effortless and cool and juuust sexy enough for me to pull off without feeling like an idiot. The price tag made my eye twitch, but the hot girl behind the counter told me they were having a sale and now here I am, on the streets of Rome, looking like a genuine fox. Or so I keep telling myself.

In truth, the sun really took it out of me today. I’m the kind of tired where one night’s sleep won’t cut it. I need someone to whack me over the head with a two-by-four so I’m out for five to ten business days.

Even with a fresh face of makeup, I still don’t feel like myself. I’m considering just taking the L and canceling, Noah be damned, but then the rest of my group spills out of the gate of St. Cecilia’s and the time for backing out has officially passed.