All I Believe (Firsts and Forever, #10)(49)

I was elated when we arrived in Venice and I had a letter waiting for me at the hotel from Luca. He sent one a day, postmarked from Rome with a post office box as his return address. They contained long, funny stories about random topics, like the unfortunate frog-kissing phase he went through when he was five because he wanted to find a prince and live in a castle. The letters always made me happy, and made me miss him like crazy, especially because they always ended with, “I miss you with every part of me and I’m counting the minutes until we’re together again.”

On our last day in Venice, Nana and Jessie packed their bags for their overnight flight home, and Ollie packed to fly back to Viladembursa. He needed to make arrangements for an extended absence. As soon as he hired someone to manage his gallery full-time, he planned to visit my grandmother in the states.

I offered to take Diego Rivera for a walk, and stopped by the front desk just like every other day. Once again, there was a letter waiting for me. I clutched the cream-colored envelope tightly as the dog and I stepped out into the warm afternoon sunshine. Venice was crowded with tourists, as was usually the case. I could see why so many people flocked there, since it really was beautiful. I crossed a cobblestone piazza, then strolled down a walkway beside one of the canals. The buildings were brick for the most part with terra cotta tile roofs. The way they were built one right on top of the other, utilizing every bit of precious space, reminded me of San Francisco, but there the similarities ended. A pair of iconic long, black gondolas glided by, making my location unmistakable.

Eventually, I reached my favorite spot in Venice. It was my favorite because I shared it with Luca by way of his letters. The café had a pretty patio overlooking a canal, lined with hanging baskets and clay pots brimming with plants and flowers. The staff had gotten to know me during my stay in Venice, and the café owner greeted me by name before leading me to my favorite table. A waiter brought me my usual, a cappuccino and a plate of lemony S-shaped butter cookies. Diego Rivera was given a bowl of water and a pat on the head, and the man complimented his bulky, hand-knit sweater (which was red-and-blue striped that day).

I put the letter on the tabletop, weighing it down with my saucer to make sure it didn’t blow away, and made myself wait until I’d finished my snack before finally allowing myself to slit the envelope open with a butter knife. I pulled out a couple sheets of the thick, cream-colored stationery Luca always used, and found a plane ticket included with the letter. I didn’t look at it yet, focusing instead on his elegant, old-fashioned handwriting (it absolutely thrilled me that he wrote to me in long-hand). It said:




My dearest Nico,

Is it presumptuous to call you mine? Probably, but I’m doing it anyway because the sound of it makes me incredibly happy.

I don’t have any long-winded stories for you today, since I’ll be seeing you tomorrow and can ramble on in person. At least I hope I’ll be seeing you, and that you haven’t decided over the last couple weeks that you’re completely over me. I can certainly see why you would be, but I hope with every shred of optimism in me that this isn’t the case.

I’ve missed you, Nicky. I think about you far more than any sane person should think about someone. It’s difficult during the day, but at night it’s unbearable. My mind keeps playing this cruel trick on me. I dream about you, and it feels so real that I reach for you. But you’re not there, and I wake up wondering where you’ve gone. It always takes me a few moments to remember why you’re not here (and that it’s entirely my fault).

My bed feels so cold and so empty, even more than usual after one of those dreams. Just to completely embarrass myself, I’m going to admit I reach for my pillow on those nights and wrap myself around it, and try to pretend that it’s you pressed against my heart. It’s pathetic, I know, and you must never tell anyone, because they’ll then know for a fact that I’m ridiculous and sappy and so lost without you.

God, why am I telling you all this? It can’t possibly work in my favor. Not unless you have a thing for sappy, ridiculous lost boys, and frankly, I should be so lucky.

My overall point here is that I miss you so damn much, and I’m begging you, please don’t decide you’re done with me. Please use the ticket I’m enclosing with this letter. Meet me in Malta, Nicky. If you do, you’ll make me the happiest man alive. And yes, I realize you don’t even sort of owe me that, but in return I promise to do everything in my power to make you happy, too.

Yours (if you want me),

Luca



I reread the letter before folding it carefully and putting it back in its envelope for safekeeping. Then I looked at the ticket. It was for the next morning on a private airline that catered to people far above my tax bracket, and it was for a flight from Venice to Luqa, Malta. I grinned at the fact that Luca was having me meet him in Luqa.

After paying my bill and saying goodbye to the café’s owner and wait staff, Diego Rivera and I took a leisurely walk around the city, so I could say goodbye to it, too. I’d been happy there, finally feeling like I was really on vacation and actually managing to relax a little. The daily letters from Luca had certainly helped elevate my mood.

I made sure to return to the hotel in time to say goodbye to Nana, Jessie, and Ollie. A limo was taking them to the airport. I decided to send the painting Luca had given me home with them, since Nana had room in her luggage. She hugged me and kissed my cheek as I told her, “Make sure you text me and let me know you got home safely.”