Page 57 of Something Like Fate

“Because I know everything about you already,” I say. “Bias.”

“Don’t stress, Lo. If he’s truly your soulmate, he’ll be thrilled.” He stretches out on the bed, yawning.

“Oh, come on, it’s too early to sleep.” It’s really not, but after missing out on our movie night, I feel a bit cheated out of time with him.

He quirks his brow. “What do you propose we do instead?”

I shrug. “Let’s do something fun, like ... get tattoos!” I’ve always wanted a tattoo, though I have no idea of what.

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on. We could get friendship tattoos.”

“I will never get a tattoo. Do you know how easily you can contract hep C from unsterilized needles?”

“Oh, Teller. Highly unlikely.”

His eyes shift, like he’s searching for an excuse. “Besides, there’s nothing I like enough to put on my body permanently.”

“Excuse you. Is my friendship not important enough to commemorate?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“We could each get one half of a smiley face on our baby toes so it only looks like a full face when we put them together.” I swing my feet up, brandishing my toes in his direction. He’s naturally revolted and bats them away.

“You know I hate bare feet.”

“My feet are gorgeous. I bet they’d be in high demand on those foot-fetish sites,” I shoot back.

He giggles and it’s adorable. “Maybe that’s your calling. Selling your worn socks and stuff.”

I snort. “Look, I’m not above it. And okay, back to the issue at hand. Can I interest you in a tattoo of a duck in sunglasses? Chinese characters? A barbed-wire armband? Or a tramp stamp of an eagle?”

He bites back a laugh, not bothering to dignify me with a response.

18

Confessions of love look so easy in the movies.

They’re generally impromptu, spur of the moment, because that’s just more cinematic and entertaining. What you don’t see is the hours of turmoil and deliberation in the lead-up.

We’re in an ideal setting—the Bardini Gardens, surrounded by a vibrant collection of azaleas and roses and several ornate fountains, with a panoramic view overlooking the Duomo, the Palazzo Vecchio, and the river. Caleb even brought wine and fettuccine alfredo from his favorite restaurant. I can’t eat the fettuccine without getting a serious stomachache. But when in Rome (or, Florence).

Maybe it’s the fast onset of my stomach cramps, but I’m internally melting down. Caleb is talking about how he eventually wants to go vegan, but I can barely pay attention. I’ve been practicing over and over in my head, just waiting for the moment to magically present itself. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t. See, I’m not confessing love like a normal human. There is noHow to Confess That Your Someone’s Soulmate for Dummiesguidebook.

For reasons beyond me, I choose the moment he takes a heaping mouthful of pasta. “I have a confession to make. I’ve been ... keeping something from you.”

Caleb forces down a swallow and straightens his posture, eyes fixed on me.

Why did I have to sound so cryptic and sinister? I mean, it’s not like I’m telling him I’m a fugitive, or masterminded a pyramid scheme, or that I’ve killed someone. I’m merely telling him he’s my one true love—my twin flame, if you will. No big deal or anything.

“Oh no,” Caleb says, tone uneasy. “Do you secretly have eleven toes or something?”

If only. I can’t help but laugh, grateful for the comedic relief. “Maybe. Would that be a deal-breaker?”

“No,” he says genuinely, but not before peeking at my bare feet. “I would still like you and your extra toe just as much.”

“Really?” I whisper, heart kicking into overdrive.

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