Halfway to You(48)

He chuckled. “My god, you’re right.”

“You’re like a drifter,” I said. “Do you ever get your own table, or do you just sit down wherever?”

“Hey, now, you invited me to sit—both times.”

“I’m terribly lonely,” I said, “remember?”

He didn’t laugh at my self-deprecation. Instead, his lips spread into an affectionate smile and he topped off my wine.

“Do you at least have a functional wheelie bag this time?” I asked.

“I’m not an actual drifter.” He ran a hand through his luscious hair. “Discounting my current state of dishevelment, of course.”

“That reminds me, where are you staying?”

His chin dipped. “Truth be told, I didn’t get a hotel. I bought the ticket rather impulsively and figured I’d find one later.”

“You can stay with me, drifter that you are. I have a shower and everything.”

“Oh, I don’t want to put you out—”

“You could never do that.”

We stayed late at Carmella’s, talking face to face for the first time in forever. We polished off two bottles of Pèppoli, and after closing, Carmella brought out tiramisu and Todd peppered her with questions about her restaurant, food, and Rome. After that, Todd and I strolled along the river toward my apartment, the rattle of his luggage echoing through the sleepy streets. The scent of the river clung to us, earthy like mud and decaying leaves and ancient stone. My face was hot from the wine, but the nighttime air made me shiver.

“I feel like I’m dreaming,” I admitted. We had warmed up to each other by then, and I had my arm slung through his.

“You’re just saying that.”

“Are you kidding? You and Keith are the closest thing I have to family now—this is a reunion.”

“What about Carmella?”

“Carmella is a dear friend, but she doesn’t understand my pensiveness. We aren’t share-all-my-thoughts close like you and me.”

“Kind of you to spare her from all your thoughts,” Todd quipped.

I elbowed him.

“There’s no one else you’re close to? Not even a boyfriend?”

I glanced at him, wondering if his question was mere curiosity or something more weighted. “I’m seeing a man. Luca. It’s new.”

He cleared his throat. “Oh?”

“We’re taking things slow,” I added. “He doesn’t even call me his girlfriend. So, no, now that my mother is gone and her sister hates me, you and Keith are it.”

I sensed he had another question, but he didn’t speak.

“How is Ellen?” I asked, eager to change the subject. He’d mentioned her a few times in his letters; she was a friend of Keith’s sister Natalie.

“That ended a while ago,” Todd said.

“I’m sorry.”

He waved his hand, dismissing the sentiment. “It’s all right. There was always something missing.”

I wanted to ask him what was missing. But Todd and I had found a good balance in being friends, and it didn’t feel right to pry. After what had happened in Greece, I was determined not to make that mistake again.

I led him up to my apartment, unlocked the door, and welcomed him inside. The studio had an open layout, yet even with the tall windows and high ceiling, his presence seemed to fill every corner.

I felt stripped naked as his eyes roved the room, tactile as fingers on skin as he observed the intimate fixtures of my life: my desk, with fresh manuscript pages plain to see; my bookshelf, with its meaningful trinkets and indulgent display of Chasing Shadows; my dirty laundry on the lone reading chair, underwear mixed with T-shirts and crumpled dresses; and my bed, such a suggestive piece of furniture, its duvet parted from the headboard to reveal the flower-patterned sheets beneath.

By seeing my home, Todd was seeing another facet of who I was. The confessions in my letters felt somehow more revealing with him physically here.

Another problem: I didn’t have a guest room. I didn’t even have a proper couch—just a love seat, too short for lying down. Where would he sleep? I hadn’t thought this through at all.

But he didn’t complain or question our sleeping arrangements; he simply said, “What a great place.”

“I’d give you a tour, but this is it.” The kitchen and small dining table were to the right; my desk ahead, near the balcony doorway; and my bed to the left, framed by the bathroom and closet doors.

“I love it.”

“So do I,” I admitted.

Todd approached the glass horse on my bookshelf and touched its crooked ear with a finger.

I unwound my scarf from my neck and draped it over the back of the laundry chair. “I’m assuming you’re desperate for a shower?”

“Are you saying that I smell?” He lifted his arm and faked a sniff.

I pushed his shoulder. “No—but I always hate that germy airport feeling on my skin. Don’t you?”

I set him up with a fresh towel, warned him about the backward temperatures on the knobs, and left him alone to shower. Meanwhile, I dug through my closet for an extra pillow and some blankets so one of us could sleep on the floor.

I was checking my hair in the reflection of my balcony window when I heard a knock on my front door. With a squeak of the handles, Todd’s water shut off, and the towel whooshed as he dried off.