Halfway to You(8)

“That’s not necessary, truly.” I tried to meet his gaze, but he was still wrestling with his money.

He was tall and lean, but the way he carried himself—a slightly ungraceful, self-conscious hunch—suggested a pensive complexity. Nothing like the boys I’d known before. He reminded me of an old stone well; I had the urge to peer inside him to see if I could spot the still water far below.

But that was silly.

Still, the man begged to be rescued, and I could use some company. “Look, obviously you’re having a rough day. Why don’t you just sit? Have some pizza.”

His dark eyebrows pinched. “Seriously?”

With him standing so close, I noticed that behind the glare of his glasses, his eyes were blue green. “I mean, unless you have somewhere to be?”

“I don’t.” His tone was hesitant; he probably thought I was weird for offering.

“It just seems like you could use a rest.” I took a casual bite of pizza. Committing to the idea, I added, “To be honest, I’d love some English-speaking company.”

This declaration seemed to light him up. He met my eyes, finally. I’m not sure what he saw in them, but then—with a great deal of fumbling and chair moving—he settled his bags under the table and collapsed across from me with a groan of relief. “It feels good to sit.”

“I’m glad.” I slid my notebook into my purse and shifted my bottle of sparkling water, making room.

“You sure I’m not imposing?”

“Do I look like I was waiting for anyone?”

He regarded me, and he had this expression that made me feel like he was taking in more than just my tangled hair and creased blouse. “You could be,” he answered.

A little flattered, I assured him, “I’m not.”

“I’m sorry about your wine.”

“Don’t worry about it, that was my second glass.”

“Then I ought to catch up.” He smiled, but not in his eyes. I wondered why not.

“You’re American?” I asked, back to eating.

He nodded. “Colorado. You?”

My pulse jumped. “Same,” I said. “Denver.”

“The Springs. What are the chances?” He shook his head, amused. “How long are you in Venice?”

“I don’t have a plan. I’m just traveling.”

“Alone?”

Perhaps it seemed risky to travel solo. And maybe it was, but here, I felt safer than I ever did at home. There were times I was frightened or uncomfortable or lost, but never did I experience the kind of physical danger as I did when my mother was drunk or when a customer followed me out to my car after a waitressing shift. There was something comforting about the anonymity of traveling by myself—being by myself. I liked feeling self-sufficient, going where I wanted when I wanted and relying only on myself, the only person I could trust.

I tried to sound nonchalant when I said, “Why not?”

“That’s . . . brave,” he said. “I admire that.”

The word made me wince.

My leaving home had been driven primarily by fear. Fear of the life of hardship unfolding before me. Fear of becoming my mother. Fear of being locked into that life forever. When I received my inheritance from the father I’d never met—a man who’d ruined my mother’s life to save his reputation—all I had wanted to do was run far away and never look back.

Leaving had been a desperate act. I didn’t consider myself brave at all.

Still, a small, shriveled part of me swelled with his compliment.

The waiter came and greeted my new lunch guest, who ordered a pizza exactly like mine, plus two glasses of wine. “Whatever she was drinking,” he added sheepishly.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said when the waiter had gone.

“I did, I did.” He waved off the topic.

“So, what about you? What are your plans for Venice?”

Raking the hair off his forehead, he said, “I’m actually on my way to Greece to meet a friend.”

I knew a bit about Greece; my mother had dreamed of visiting the islands ever since Jackie Kennedy went in 1961.

“But I’ve always wanted to see Italy, so I figured I’d come early and stay a week before I head down.” He paused. “How long have you been here?”

“I was in France all summer, then came to Venice a week ago,” I answered.

“Do you love it?”

“I do.”

His gaze roamed the port. “It’s beautiful so far. Beautiful down to the atom.”

His words pinpointed an unnamable quality I’d sensed all week. Venice was beautiful—on a deeper level than just its bridges and stone walkways and vaporetti. It was beautiful in the spaces that weren’t: the air above the canals, the sky carved out by rooftops, the wafting scent of espresso and ocean minerals. It was evocative and storied, beautiful in its essence.

He went on. “I know it doesn’t seem like I’m enjoying it so far, but the wheel on my luggage broke—so much for that invention—and going anywhere has been a slog, so of course I took a wrong turn and got lost, and all I want is to find my hotel so I can dump my bags . . . and now it probably makes sense why I’m all sweaty and clumsy and rambling.”