Page 20 of Something Like Fate

“Yes! I know it all sounds crazy, but I swear it’s true.”

He didn’t argue. He just stayed quiet, like he was trying to work through the logic. I expected him to counter everything, bullet by bullet. But shockingly, all he said was, “No wonder you’re such a hopeless romantic.”

“It gives me hope that I’ll find love like them one day. Do you think there’s someone out there for me? Even if I can’t foresee it like they can?”

“Absolutely, Lo.”

I don’t think he realized how much that meant to me.

The topic never came up again, even all these years later. I have a few theories as to why. First, I’m not entirely sure he believes in the whole psychic thing and probably doesn’t have the heart to tell me. I also think he’s avoided the topic because he knows how much it bothers me that I didn’t inherit the family gift. How it’s made me feel like a failure. It’s also possible that he’s forgotten the conversation altogether.

All to say, I don’t dare tell him about The One. It feels like poor timing to announce I’m about to meet the love of my life—in Italy, no less—when he’s just been dumped, kicked out of his apartment, forced to move home for the summer, and is now listening to Coldplay on a loop. I’ll have to tell him eventually, but that can wait.

“Just think about it. A whole month together, exploring, eating Italian food, making friends with locals. And the legal drinking age is eighteen. We can actually go to bars. And clubs!” I say, not that the latter will win him over. He’s not a huge drinker.

He bobs his head back and squeezes his eyes shut like it’s all too much. “I just don’t know. I’d have to take time off and things are pretty busy here and—”

I cut him off before he can come up with yet another excuse. “You literally told me last night that you had to beg your mom to give you shifts. You’d be doing her a favor by getting out of her hair and off the payroll. Come on, Tel. Be fun and spontaneous.”

“Who says I’m not fun and spontaneous? This morning I put hot sauce on my eggs.”

“You’re ...” I gaze at the exposed industrial ceiling, searching for the most delicate way to say it without crushing his ego. “You’re a creature of habit. Don’t you want to prove to Sophie you’re not boring?”

The question slices the air like a knife. I can tell by the tick of his mouth that I’ve gotten to him.

“Hypothetically, if I decided I’d go, hypothetically, would we be sharing a room?”

I’ve thought about this a lot. Sure, it might be a little weird knowing Teller is naked in the shower, but how is sharing with Teller any different from sharing with Bianca? “Why? Would you rather stay in your own room?”

“No, not at all. I just thought you might get annoyed with me being up super late every night.” What he really means is that he will surely get annoyed with me getting up at the ass crack of dawn every morning. I’ve always been an early riser, paranoid about missing out on the day. It’s my chronic FOMO. Teller is the opposite, up until at least two in the morning each night, unable to fall asleep due to his anxiety.

“That’s fine by me, so long as you’re not listening to Coldplay all night. Besides, it’s the only way we can afford it. And why wouldn’t we share? Do you think it’s weird or something?”

“Sorry. I was just clarifying. Did I make it weird?”

“Kind of. But it would be way less weird if you stopped being so cagey and just said yes.”

He lowers his shoulders. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

AnI’ll think about itfrom Teller is as close as I’ll get to ayes. He’s just too stubborn to outright say so.

“Great. Flight leaves tomorrow at 7:30 a.m.”

5

Departure to Venice

Istill don’t understand why we had to be here so early,” I manage, dragging my feet into the airport lobby like a zombie. I may be a morning person, but bymorning, I mean when the sun is actually up. It’s still pitch black.

You could probably hear the footsteps of a single ant in here. The airport is deserted aside from me, Teller, and a few airport employees. Then again, we’ve arrived four hours early. Teller insists on being absurdly punctual for everything.

“You have to be at least three hours early for international flights,” he tells me for the hundredth time as he speed-walks ahead. I doubt he even went to bed at all.

I’m struggling to keep up with his giraffe strides. Admittedly, I did not pack light. Dad nearly threw his back out putting my rucksack in the trunk. I’m not sure how I’ll cart that thing around all month, but an array of cute options are worth back pain when you’re meeting The One.

“You don’t have to bethisearly. It’s just one of those fake rules that don’t really mean anything. Like expiration dates on yogurt.”

He spins around, overcome with thinly veiled revulsion. “You eat expired yogurt?”

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