Page 11 of Something Like Fate

“Ha ha.Very funny.” I snicker because it’s true. “Do you have any weird new hobbies or interests I should know about?”

“Well, I’ve taken up kickboxing.”

My brows shoot up. I didn’t expect him to have a new interest, mostly because Teller is such a creature of habit. “Kickboxing? You?”

He gestures to his torso, mildly offended. “Does it not look like I kickbox?”

“I noticed you got scarily fit. But I guess I just assumed you magically sprouted those muscles overnight,” I tease, noting how he looks away bashfully. “How did you find yourself in a kickboxing gym of all places?”

“A guy from my program, Greg. He’s pretty into it and convinced me to join a session. I was really stressed about those first midterms, and I guess it became an outlet. Doing it every morning makes a huge difference with my anxiety. It’s like a total reset.”

“Damn. And here I am sporting the freshman ten.”

“You look great, Lo,” he says sweetly, his eyes lingering over mine briefly before turning his car into my driveway. “And living at home must be amazing. You get home-cooked meals and your laundry done.”

I work down a swallow. “Well, unless I want Dad’s frozen specials, I do most of the cooking these days. Though I’m missing out on the whole adulting experience. Dad still keeps close tabs on my whereabouts.” My first choice was to live on campus, but given my college of choice is in town and my house is ten minutes away, Dad didn’t think it was worth the expense. Plus, I couldn’t fathom leaving Brandon and Brian, or Dad—especially Dad. The two of us have been a package deal since Mom died. I’ve never gone more than a few days without seeing him, with the exception of when Aunt Mei brought me to New York City for a long weekend in eighth grade. Even then, Dad FaceTimed me daily. “Bianca keeps trying to convince me to get an apartment with her next year, but I feel too guilty leaving Dad at home alone.”

“Why? Do you think he’d be lonely?”

“A hundred percent. I mean, he’s never said it outright, but he wouldn’t know what to do without me there. Who would walk the dogs? Or pack his lunch? Watch TV with him in the evenings?” Sadly, Dad’s entire life revolves around three things: work, comic books, and me. Oh, and complaining while watching rom-coms with me but secretly loving every second. Dad hasn’t dated since Mom died, nor does he really socialize, except with Jones and Arjun, two forensic-nerd colleagues he occasionally sees Marvel movies with.

“Understandable. But I think he’d be happier if you’re doing what makes you happy. Besides, you’d only be like, ten minutes away.”

I’m not entirely sure about that, given his reaction to my monthlong backpacking trip. I already feel guilty enough about that. So much so, I secretly asked Arjun to arrange a weekly D&D night while I’m gone, in lieu of our father/daughter movie nights. Aunt Ellen also assured me she plans to ask him to fix a bunch of her electronics since she’s terrible with technology, which should keep him busy.

I don’t take my seat belt off. I’m not ready to end our conversation, and clearly neither is he, because he turns off the ignition. “Speaking of doing things that make me happy, did I tell you I’m going to Italy?”

He raises his brows in surprise. “You’re finally going to Italy? When?”

“In two days. For a month, with Bianca. We’re gonna backpack around the country and eat our weight in gelato and pasta.”

“Backpacking, huh? You better not become one of thoseWell, back when I did Europepeople.” He mimics an obnoxious British accent.

I snort, knowing exactly who he’s mocking. Cindy. She was a manager at The Cinema for about two weeks before jetting off to Thailand. She’d spent a year abroad, returning for a few months to make money before going back again. Cindy was notorious for adopting a fake British accent and always found a way to bring up what countries she “did.” Everything was “I’ve done Egypt,” “I’ve done Scotland. Youhaveto go.” Teller and I used to laugh about how she’d take pictures with unsuspecting orphans and poor people she met on her travels, treating them like props to get likes. According to her socials, she’s now a Reiki healer in the Costa Rican jungle.

“So you’ll be gone a whole month?”

I let out a groan. “Of course, the one summer you come home, I’m gone.”

“We’ll still have half of summer when you get back,” he reminds me. “And be careful with the gelato. You are lactose intolerant even if you’re in permanent denial.” He always reminds me of the time I got violently ill in his car after eating too much ice cream.

Shockingly, he didn’t kick me out of his car and banish me from his life entirely. Instead, he reached over the console to hold my hair back. That was probably the moment I knew for sure Teller was a true friend.

He’s looked out for my stomach ever since, promptly reminding me I can’t eat cheese or ice cream or anything that makes life remotely worth living. Annoying as it may be, I’m grateful.

“So where are you guys staying? In hostels?”

“Exactly. My mom and aunt stayed in hostels when they went, since they had no money. Well—except for one place. My grandparents gifted them a baller agriturismo called Villa Campagna in Tuscany,” I explain, recalling a photo Mei has on her mantel. It’s of her and Mom, playfully posing with exaggerated confidence, chins and pinkies up, on the balcony of the villa. According to Mei, she and Mom felt laughably out of place among the wealthy, middle-aged guests, so they told everyone they were tobacco heiresses. No one actually believed them, which was the best part.

“What’s an agriturismo?”

“Kind of like a farm stay, on a vineyard. Not that it matters. I looked it up on Expedia and it still exists, but it’s like a bazillion dollars a night, so hostels it is.”

“Hostels with ... communal showers?” He whisperscommunallike a church boy uttering a swear word. I can’t help but chuckle.

“Absolutely. It’s the only way we can afford it.”

A dramatic shiver. “Make sure you check your bed daily for bedbugs. Under the mattress, around the frame.”

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