Enemies Abroad(51)

Giuseppe watches them, amused, from his perch on an overstuffed armchair, bouncing the baby on his knee.

After the kitchen is clean, Eva and her daughter disappear to give the children their bath and put them to bed. Giuseppe helps Noah charge his phone so he can call Lorenzo. I feel bad we didn’t think to do it earlier, but there was a lot going on. Apparently, Lorenzo and the kids only made it back to Rome a little while ago. There was bad traffic the whole way. Lorenzo offers to drive one of the vans and come get us, but now that it’s so late, Noah tells him to just stay put, help Gabriella and Ashley with the kids. Once the tire is fixed on the Fiat in the morning, we’ll drive back.

After he hangs up, Giuseppe pulls out a worn domino set and I watch them play, sitting on the couch by a big oscillating fan, luxuriating in the breeze before my eyes grow tired.

They play one more game and then Eva hands Noah and me still-packaged toothbrushes and shows us where we can use the bathroom.

After waving good night to everyone, we climb the stairs to the small attic room one behind the other. The fatigue I felt while sitting on the couch a little while ago burns off the moment we’re alone again together.

Once the doors shut behind us, the only light comes from a small lamp near the bed.

I have no idea what to do with myself. No idea what to say. Apparently, Noah doesn’t either because we’re both quiet.

Without the fans from downstairs, it’s much warmer in here than the rest of the house. Now that the rain has finally stopped, Noah cracks the window, but it’s just as muggy and hot outside, so he pulls it closed again.

Though I’d love to strip down to nothing, I stubbornly keep my sweater on. We still haven’t worked out the kinks with the sleeping arrangement, so I busy myself with tasks. I check my cover-up and bathing suit—both are still wet. Then, because I feel anxious and weird, I do what I always do.

I’m aware of Noah watching me from his seat on the edge of the bed, but for a little while, he lets me work in peace.

Then, finally, he can’t help himself.

“You have a real problem, you know that?”

“Hardly. You know who has real problems? Meth addicts. Murderers. People who like to collect stamps.”

“What exactly is your goal here?”

“What does it look like my goal is?”

I’m tidying up their attic. Though it’s hard to manage in the low light, I’m arranging their pile of books into alphabetical order. I’m making it so they can easily access the boxes of old pictures and albums if they so choose. If I have enough time, I plan to rearrange the various pieces of furniture so it’s all neat and orderly, either in ascending order by size or, possibly, by function.

“Have you ever thought you might use cleaning as a way to run from your problems?”

“What an interesting thought. Would you help me with this box? It’s heavy.”

“No,” he says flatly.

“Fine,” I grunt as I try to lift it. “I’ll do it myself.”

I’m surely about to throw out my back, but Noah doesn’t run to my aid.

“We could use this opportunity to talk.”

“Okay, talk,” I say, not bothering to look back at him. I’m too busy for idle chitchat. Sprucing up this attic will take me all night, and that’s if I work fast.

He sighs and lies back on the bed, lacing his fingers behind his head on the pillow. His attention is up on the ceiling as he begins, “So, shrink, it all started a few years ago when I took a job at Lindale Middle School.”

I set the box down and then freeze, curious as to where he’s going with this.

“The teacher in the classroom next door to mine? She’s a real piece of work.”

“She’s polite and generous and most certainly isn’t the problem,” I say, sounding prissy.

“She was abrasive from the start. Like I said, a real piece of work.”

“And what about you? Were you Prince Charming?”

“No,” he admits. “I don’t have it in me.”

Wrong.

So wrong.

Look at everything you’ve done today.

Instead of pointing that out, I keep my mouth shut.

“We were destined to hate each other from the get-go. I can’t remember what exactly set her against me, but does it even matter?”

I’m fully facing him now, invested. “I think it does. For historical accuracy. Future generations will want to know whose bullet started World War III.”

He chuckles and my heart balloons in my chest. He’s the person whose opinion I cherish most. A laugh from him is more valuable than gold.

“I remember once, early on, there was an all-staff meeting. I was new and wanted to be funny and liked. I probably made a bad joke about the overzealous person who took the time to organize the coffee station in the corner. It looked like someone had laid out the croissants with a ruler. They were in such a straight line. Turns out, it was the teacher next door. I think her feelings were hurt. Maybe it all went downhill from there.”

“She didn’t care about that.”

In truth, I don’t even remember that moment. That’s how much has transpired between Noah and me over the years. At this point it’s all a blur.

“But here’s the crazy thing, Doc. Can I call you Doc?”