Halfway to You(15)
I searched for a hint in his expression as to why he didn’t want to talk about it. Were his eyes glassy, or was that the sun reflecting off his lenses? “What islands will you visit in Greece?”
“Mykonos, then Santorini. Maybe one more.”
“My mother always dreamed of visiting Mykonos, but I don’t know much about Greece,” I admitted.
“Me neither,” Todd said. “The trip was my buddy’s idea.”
Eventually, we came to a giant intersection of waterways. A huge metal bridge spanned the main canal; according to our map, the Museo del Vetro was just across. We paused at the bridge’s apex, where we could see taxis puttering from all directions and boats tied up along the curved sidewalks. I leaned on the railing, and Todd leaned beside me, and there was a quiet contentedness that seemed to haze around us. I had never felt content with anyone before. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of stone and iron, happy.
When I opened my eyes again, I said, “It’s so beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Todd said, but he wasn’t beside me any longer.
I turned around and made eye contact with his lens; the camera clicked.
“Hey!” I said, but my heart pirouetted.
Todd lowered the camera from his face. “Don’t you want to remember this day?”
I was quick to nod. “Do you want one of you?”
“Sure.” He slipped the camera into my fingers.
We switched places, and I raised the camera to my face, admiring him through the viewfinder. He self-consciously adjusted his glasses and ran a hand through his hair, then stood tall, resting a hand on the rusty railing behind him. I began counting—“One, two . . .”—and he smiled a faux camera-smile, tight lips and vacant eyes. “Three!”
I pressed the button with a click. Then Todd was at my side again, taking the camera and sliding it back inside its case.
“Thank you,” he said, eyes crinkling, and there. There was the smile I had wanted to capture. But it was too elusive, too fleeting. “Let’s find the museum, hmm?”
When I explored the Louvre earlier that summer, I had gone alone. I told myself it was ideal, because I could linger at a piece as long or as little as I wanted. But at museums, I often got the urge to show a companion a detail in the paint or read an especially captivating plaque out loud. What good was art without someone to discuss it with you?
At the Museo del Vetro, Todd was all ears. Underneath massive, dustless chandeliers, we lingered over the prettiest perfume vials, pointed to our favorite beads, and waved at ourselves in historic mirrors. We stayed until closing.
“That was amazing,” I said as we stepped out into the waning sunshine. “Thank you for inviting me to Murano.”
“Thank you for the company.”
Back near the large bridge, we paused at an outdoor restaurant for an aperitif and debated which modern glass sculpture had been the strangest. One drink turned into two, which turned into dinner, and we kept talking until the sunset sky faded to lavender and reflected in the canal.
I’d never met a man who didn’t look distracted while I talked, who didn’t glance at my chest, other women, or vehicles speeding by. When I sat across from Todd, he gave me all his attention. He didn’t make me feel like the only person in the world—rather, he made me feel like the only person in the world worth listening to.
As I’d grown up convinced that I was nothing special, his sincerity meant everything.
After dinner, we wove along the charming streets and learned all the basic things we had in common: we were both only children, both fans of Fleetwood Mac, both loved the color blue. I wanted so badly to ask him if he had a girlfriend or if he’d ever been in love, but I didn’t have the courage.
We ducked inside one of the many souvenir shops, ogling expensive vases and intricate figurines. I fell in love with a small glass horse the color of a tropical ocean. It had a funny ear, and the barrel of its body was filled with tiny air bubbles.
“Let me buy it for you,” Todd said.
As the shopkeeper bundled it up in many layers of newspaper, I tried to stifle my overwhelming joy that Todd had bought me a gift.
On the vaporetto to Venice, I gave Todd the window seat and watched him watch the waves all the way back. The port was dark when we disembarked, and I fidgeted with the strap of my purse, not wanting the night to end. I would take him to my room if he wanted—I was naive enough to think that perhaps if we slept together, it wouldn’t be so easy for him to leave.
“There’s a great gelato place near my hotel.” Slightly embarrassed by the insinuation carried in my words, I added, “Unless you really hate gelato?”
His forehead pinched—a strange response to my joke—but he said, “Gelato sounds great.”
The walk was slow and hushed; I could hear him breathing. The air had cooled considerably, and we both seemed to instinctually move closer, our arms brushing every so often. We lingered on the occasional bridge, watching the water glisten below the intimate lights of apartments and restaurants that rose high above the liquid blackness. Sometimes a water taxi would cruise under us, humming through the calm.
There were couples everywhere: making out against railings, kissing wrists across dinner tables, holding hands as they meandered past us. I wanted to hold Todd’s hand, but I didn’t have the nerve. We’d spent the entire day together, but something about the darkness, the romance of the water, and the slippery sound of waves caressing hulls made me shy.