My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(28)

As the sun dips low, we reach the popular landmark made famous in La Dolce Vita and every travel guide ever created for Rome.

A tourist trap? Yes.

But landmarks become unmissable for a reason. The Trevi Fountain is a stunner. When we arrive at it, Hazel draws a big, satisfied breath then stares at the sight in front of us. She doesn’t snap photos of it. She simply inhales the moment. I can appreciate that even as throngs of tourists surround us, a far too familiar experience for me.

One that takes me way back in time.

To days and years I’d rather not remember.

I try to shake off the unpleasant thoughts. So far, this tour guide routine is a decent way to survive being with her on day one, so I launch into the history of the fountain, how it took thirty years to build and the architect died before seeing its completion, how the fountain’s more gorgeous at night when there are fewer people and it’s illuminated, and how more than three thousand euros are tossed in the fountain daily.

When I’m done, Hazel levels me with a curious stare. “All right, Huxley. What’s the story with you and fountains?”

Whoa. Talk about diving into the deep end with her cross-examination.

“Since I noticed a theme,” she adds.

“Because I took you to fountains after you asked to see them? That’s a theme of mine?” I ask, both reminding her why we’re following this travel route today and deflecting from her insightful question at the same time.

She’s undeterred, though. “You have fountains in a few of your books. There’s usually something noble that happens at one.”

She’s like a fucking microscope zooming in on all my baggage. It’s not fair. But life’s not fair, so I have to be smarter, faster, and nimbler than anyone I encounter.

Life lessons from Pops. Some of the only useful things I learned from him.

“Fountains are cool,” I say evasively, but that’s not a smarter, faster, or nimbler answer.

It’s a stupidly obvious one. No shit fountains are cool, and that answer won’t throw a bloodhound like Hazel off the scent.

“Like in A Lovely Alibi,” she continues, clearly not giving a fuck that I’m avoiding answering her. “After a chase scene, the hero catches up with his buddies at a fountain in Vienna. In A Beautiful Midnight, he meets the heroine at the fountain at Lincoln Center. And of course in A Perfect Lie, there’s the climactic scene right here. You like fountains and you use them for good in your stories.” She sweeps out her hand like she’s presenting all the evidence—the evidence of seeing right through me.

That won’t do.

I scratch my jaw as casually as I can, like everything is no big deal. “Water is good. Rome is a city of fountains built on a series of aqueducts. This whole city is an ode to H2O,” I say, and hey, maybe that’ll fool the opposing counsel.

She shakes her head. “I don’t think this cigar is just a cigar. I think fountains are special to you, like wishes are to me. Want to know why I like wishes?”

Oh, shit. It’s the old secret-for-a-secret game. It’s a classic con. I’ll tell you mine, you tell me yours. I should say nah, I’m good.

I don’t.

“Sure,” I say, I’m fascinated by her obsession with wishes. It seems so out of character for the Hazel I know. Or that I think I know.

“Veronica and I used to wish upon stars,” she says, a small smile shifting her lips. “When we were growing up, we’d climb up to the roof and make wishes. The skies were bright in Wistful at night.”

“Yeah?” I ask, liking the story of her and her sister far too much.

“We’d make wishes for lunch the next day. Mac and cheese, and sandwiches. And for bigger things. Like being a rock star or an astronaut or president.”

I latch onto the last one, kind of digging it. “Which of those did you wish for?”

“All three.”

“Naturally,” I say.

“I wanted to be everything,” she adds. “Now I just get to write about everything.”

“Best job ever,” I say.

“It is. I make my characters’ wishes come true. When I was younger, though, I just wanted a tree fort so Veronica and I could read and make wishes in it.”

There’s a note of sadness in her voice now. I prompt gently, “That didn’t happen?”

“Not at first. My dad refused to build us one. Said we needed to learn some grammar rules first or whatever. A few years after my parents split, I taught myself how to build one. So I made a tree house for Veronica and me,” she says, squaring her shoulders, lifting her chin, damn proud of her accomplishment.

She’s never mentioned any of this before. Not that she told me everything when we worked together. Not by a long stretch.

Still, this is the old Hazel here today. The one I worked with. The one I wrote with. The one who shared stories with me. But she never shared this story. I don’t know what to make of this openness, or how to trust it.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, cautious.

She meets my gaze, looking tired but guileless. “Honestly,” she says, stifling a yawn, “I wanted to share something, so you would too. I just really want to know about your fountains. I saw the puzzle pieces in your books. I know the fountains mean something. To you. Just like wishes do for me.” With a helpless shrug, she says, “I’m curious about you.”