All I Believe (Firsts and Forever, #10)(5)

I closed my eyes and remembered that morning twelve years ago. It felt exactly like this one, the same sounds and smells, the same breeze stirring my hair. I’d replayed it a thousand times and did it again as I sat in the town square, watching it like a movie in my mind’s eye:



“What exactly are you doing?” The conversation had begun in Italian, but when I replayed it, I heard it in English, a trick of time and memory.

I’d jumped at the voice behind me, and turned to face a tall, thin, good-looking boy of about fifteen or sixteen, with thick black hair and a quick smile that showed off a chipped front tooth. “Nothing,” I answered automatically, feeling a blush warming my cheeks.

“You were talking to someone, but no one’s here.”

“No I wasn’t.”

“Were you talking to the angels in the fountain, and if so, do they answer?”

“Of course not,” I’d said indignantly. “I was talking to the horses.”

Instead of laughing at me as I’d expected, the boy just asked, “Why?”

“Because I like them, and after today it’ll be a long time before I see them again.”

“So you’ve come to say goodbye.” I nodded and the boy grew serious. “Where are you going?”

“Home to California.”

He switched to perfect English at that point and said, “Oh. You’re American.”

I also switched to English. “Yeah. You too?”

He shrugged, which made one of the straps on his oversized tank top slip off his shoulder. I noticed three fairly prominent freckles in perfect alignment on his left collarbone, dark against his olive skin. “I’m not anything. I’m a citizen of the world.”

“What does that mean?”

“Mom and I travel around a lot. No place is really home. Or everyplace is, depending on how you look at it.”


“It’s too bad I’m leaving.”

His expression grew thoughtful, and I looked up into his eyes. They were light, but I couldn’t quite make out the color in the soft illumination from the street lamps that ringed the plaza. “Don’t you want to go home?”

I’d pushed my glasses further up the bridge of my nose and said, “I did. But, well, you seem like a nice guy and I have a feeling I would have liked getting to know you.”

“Based on what?”

“The fact that you didn’t laugh at me for talking to stone horses. Any guy that doesn’t make fun of me for something like that is clearly friend material.”

“But if you stayed, I wouldn’t want to be your friend.”

“Oh.” I stepped back awkwardly and looked at the cobblestones.

He went right along with me and tilted my chin up with a gentle touch until I was looking at him again. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant I’d want to be more.” As I tried to make sense of that, the boy cleared his throat and broke eye contact. When he looked at me again, he asked, “Would you find it weird if a guy told you you’re beautiful?”

“Yes.”

Now it was his turn to step back, releasing my chin and dropping his hand to his side. “Sorry,” he mumbled, clearly embarrassed.

“I wouldn’t think it was weird because a guy said it,” I quickly amended. “I’d think it was weird if anyone said that about me.”

He looked at me through thick lashes, and a little smile returned to his full lips. “You don’t think you’re beautiful?”

“Dude, what planet are you from that you’d think that, Krypton?”

The boy chuckled and lightly traced the frame of my thick, black glasses. “Clearly you’re the one from Krypton, Clark Kent.” He took them off and placed them beside us on the edge of the fountain. “Can you see without those?”

“Only close up. Everything more than a foot away is a blur.”

He stepped forward, so that our bodies were only a few inches apart. “Can you see me, Clark?”

I nodded and said, “If I’m Clark Kent, then who are you?”

“I always fancied myself as a Bruce Wayne type.” A slight British accent slipped in when he said that.

“Wow, modest,” I said with a big grin. “Rich, handsome, brilliant. Is that how you’d describe yourself?”

“Well, obviously!” He beamed at me and held his thin arms out to the sides, as if to display his worn out tank top, cut-off jeans and very Italian leather sandals.

“You’re a master of disguise, Bruce,” I told him. “No one will suspect you’re a billionaire playboy in that ensemble.”

“Barefoot boys in pajamas shouldn’t judge other people by their clothes,” he said, his eyes sparkling.

I looked down at my white t-shirt and plaid pajama pants and said, “I totally forgot I was wearing this.”

“I like it. Makes you look a little like you just escaped from the nut house. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and all that. It’s a good look for you.”

“First you call me Superman, then you call me a mental patient. You have an interesting approach to making conversation.”

I started to reach for my glasses, but he caught my hand and held on to it. “No, don’t. Not yet.”