Page 101 of Something Like Fate

I nod, although it’s only a partial truth. I’m crying because I know I’ve just lost my best friend.

I mope the rest of the day as we whip around on Caleb’s rental Vespa. I’m thankful for the setup. He can’t hear my silence or see my frown on the scooter. I decide to allow myself one day to wallow in my feelings. Just one day. Any longer and I fear I won’t be able to snap out of it.

From tomorrow on, I vow to relish the privilege of being untethered, with no plan, no obligations. I vow to fully embrace Caleb, and fate, or something like that.

39

I’ve always had the ability to compartmentalize. To push my worries away and pretend they don’t exist—temporarily.

I dive headfirst into the hectic blur that is Cinque Terre, a picturesque coastal region north of the Amalfi Coast. Caleb and I make a strict vow to do everything on foot, which means waking up with the sun to hike the rocky pathways between villages. We talk about everything from religion to our stances on social issues. He’s interested in hearing more about my family, our history, and what it was like growing up without my mom. It’s on our morning hike between Manarola and Riomaggiore that I learn why he’s so scared of commitment and monogamy—his parents’ marriage traumatized him.

“They’re both downright miserable, and have been ever since I can remember,” he tells me.

My stomach clenches at his lack of emotion, like it’s a normal fact of life. “Do they fight a lot?”

He smirks. “I wish they would fight. At least then I’d know they care. But they’re so indifferent in their misery, just going through the motions, barely talking, occasionally whisper-bickering. They try to spend as little time as possible together. My mom lives at the cottage and my dad spends all his time golfing with friends.”

“Why don’t they divorce?”

“Nah. They’re both traditional to a fault. Once they signed on the dotted line, it was a commitment, come hell or high water. That’s whycommitment is such a big deal to me. I never want to trap myself in something like that,” he explains. Then he stops in his tracks and his eyes meet mine. “I swear I’m not doing that with you. I’m really trying. I just wanted you to understand why I’m all messed up.”

I can’t fault him for that. If anything, it makes me sad for him. If I grew up in his family, I’d probably feel the same way about love.

Aching and delirious from hiking and hours of chatting, we wander into the bustling villages. We find a food cart and gorge on deep-fried seafood cones overflowing with crispy calamari so scorching, it burns our tongues. From there, we make our way to the beach and indulge in a pool’s worth of lemon granitas. We cheers to everything—getting a good spot on the beach, the hiking boots I found on sale (Mei would be proud), that the rain held off for the day.

Most afternoons we grab fresh ingredients from the market and return to the cramped hostel kitchen. Usually, we make heaping bowls of pasta, fuel to do it all again the next day. Then we dance it all off at the pubs as the sun dips, stumbling back to the hostel to make out until we fall asleep.

We’re so busy, I barely get the chance to look at my phone, except for the few days Ellen is in the hospital giving birth to my new cousin, Rosie. Perhaps I’m avoiding it too. The one time I did find myself on Instagram, I saw Sophie’s post, a shot of her, Teller, and Doris. I don’t know why it affected me so much. It was inevitable that they’d get back together; I knew that. But after what happened between us, what we confessed to each other, seeing the cold hard proof stung. It was enough to turn off my phone entirely. If it weren’t for safety, I’d sell it like Caleb.

From then on, I make another vow not to think about home, the past, or anything that might remind me of Teller. Instead, I put all my energy into Caleb. I embrace every opportunity to get to know him—what makes him happy (complete and total freedom, new experiences), what drives him crazy (constraints, rules, schedules of any kind), and everything in between. I let him set the pace, decide what’s too expensive or not worth our time. Not in a “you’re the boss” kind of way, butbecause I genuinely agree with his opinions and trust his decisions. Probably because we’re essentially the same person.

We’re both morning people. We both have a laissez-faire approach to travel. We want to see everything, but we’d rather stumble upon it than make any concrete plan or checklist. In fact, we haven’t even discussed our plans. Will I go home in a few weeks? Will Caleb? I’m scared to ask for fear of bursting our carefree bubble.

My favorite thing to do is watch Caleb in a group setting, making friends with all the people we meet in our hostel. We become another tight-knit gang, just like in Venice. Teller isn’t a group kind of guy. I always have a better time with him one-on-one. But Caleb thrives in a group. He’s a master at remembering little details people said the night before, and at telling stories with just the right amount of detail and emphasis to pull you in. It’s magic to witness, people hanging on his every word, gravitating toward him whenever he enters a room.

Like everyone else, I want to absorb myself in his orbit, embrace all his Caleb-ness. So much so, that I adopt a Caleb-like mentality of saying yes to everything. Trying raw seafood? Sure. Zip-lining? Let’s do it. Diving off a random cliff? Sure thing. We are soulmates, after all.

We’re on a rocky peak looking over Riomaggiore where I clutch the new photo of me and my parents, my heart panging with longing on her behalf, wishing she could have seen this in person. For the first time, I have the overwhelming sense that she might be proud of me for following in her footsteps, for going all the places she never had the chance to visit.

And most importantly, for carrying on her legacy. For being brave enough to set out on this wild-goose chase to find The One.

I think about what Mei said, about how Mom would have loved Caleb. I play out a scenario in my mind, of her convincing apprehensive Dad to give him a chance.

“Come on, Eric. He’s a real nice guy,” Pretend Mom says, only to be met with a stubborn shrug. “Your daughter is in love with this boy. You owe it to her to give him a chance.”

Your daughter is in love with this boy.The scenario is entirely a figment of my imagination, even her voice. But it feels so intensely real, like it’s her speaking to me, even though I know that’s not possible. Somehow, I just know she would have approved. She would have wanted this for me.

Your daughter is in love with this boy.

And then it hits me like a burst of sunshine:I think I love Caleb.The realization creeps over me, settling over me like the most obvious thing in the world. This is it. It has to be. The feeling I’ve been chasing this whole time.

Of course I was going to fall for Caleb, the person I’m destined to be with. The thing is, I wasn’t sure I’d have this with anyone except Teller. But there’s something about Caleb that’s relieved me of all that guilt I carried. Somehow, he’s made me feel brand new.

But I don’t want to tell Caleb how I feel yet. After what happened in Florence, part of me is scared to come on too strong. It feels safer to marinate in it for a little while longer. But I do throw myself headfirst into our adventures, and hiking seems to be our thing.

“You wanna do more hiking?” Caleb asks, draped in a red apron. We’re cramped over the tiny counter in the hostel kitchen, learning how to make pesto on YouTube in lieu of a legitimate class we couldn’t afford.

“Yes! All the hikes!” I shout with boundless enthusiasm, or maybe it’s the bottle of wine we’ve nearly finished.

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