Page 27 of Something Like Fate

“I’m not gonna lie, I hate this place. But if I let myself think about it too much, I’ll shrivel up and cry,” I admit.And knowing I’m going to meet the love of my life softens the blow a little.I’m tempted to say this to him, but refrain. It still doesn’t feel like the right time to tell him.

“Exactly my point. I’ve always wished I could be like you,” he says affectionately, running his finger over a loose thread in the blanket. “If I can find something I love, you can too.”

That surprises me. Teller has always been so put together, so sure of himself and how he moves through the world. He’s never struck me as wanting to be like anyone but himself, let alone me. “Really? You mean you don’t enjoy being a grumpy old man?”

He flashes a rueful smile. “I mean, I don’t wake up every morning trying to be negative. It just kind of happens.”

“Speaking of grumpy old men, what’s with the sleep mask and earplugs?” My attention snags on the crisp black sleep mask and unopenedpacket of fluorescent-orange earplugs neatly stacked on the side table between our beds.

“What do you mean? I need them to fall asleep, otherwise I’ll be up all night.”

“Doing what?”

“Lying there, staring into the abyss, stressing about everything and anything.”

“Oh, Teller.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t bring my portable fan,” he informs me, shifting over to his bed. “I sleep with white noise too. Tonight, I think we’ll listen to ocean sounds. We can pretend we’re in a five-star hotel overlooking the Mediterranean.”

“Hey, we will be. This time tomorrow,” I remind him, snapping a quick photo of him bundled up on top of the musty covers in all his layers.

He notices my sneak photo, but doesn’t say anything. “Well, not a five-star hotel.”

“True. But nothing can be worse than this.”

7

Teller is standing at the foot of the bed, hair all tousled and water-kissed from his shower, abs displayed in all their glory. Fresh droplets cling to each smooth contour, making the ridges of his stomach appear almost shiny as he stuffs his belongings haphazardly into his rucksack.

I should be packing too, but I’m tense, mesmerized by the twist and pull of the muscles in his back and biceps. What is this feeling? Am I ... turned on?

No.

I am not having sexy thoughts about Teller Owens. My best friend. Basically, my brother. The same Teller who used to unclog toilets with me at The Cinema. The same Teller who has been madly in love with Sophie for the past three years.

I only snap out of it when he skewers me with yet another sharp look, the second in the last minute and a half.

Here’s the deal: he’s rightfully annoyed with me because we’re Very Late. I assured him numerous times last night that I’d set my alarm to catch our flight, but made the rookie mistake of hittingPMinstead ofAM. We ended up sleeping in an extra half hour.

Thankfully, we make it on time. The moment we’re in the air, Teller slaps his earphones in and closes his eyes. I don’t push it. He needs some time to decompress, which is fine, because I fall asleep, definitelynothaving any more illicit thoughts about my best friend.

I jolt awake when the wheels touch ground in Venice. Maybe it’s the shudder-inducing sound of rubber skidding against the asphalt, or maybe it’s the prospect of meeting The One. Who can say?

A shooting pain radiates down my neck and into my right shoulder. When I open my eyes, the source becomes clear. My head is cocked to the right at an odd angle, nuzzled into something warm, yet firm. It’s a shoulder. A shoulder belonging to Teller, who hates unnecessary human touch.

I jerk my head back to my personal bubble and panic-pat the side of my mouth for drool. He flashes me a reassuring expression that saysIt’s really no big deal.

Just when I think our bad travel luck has ended, I’m proven wrong. Upon our arrival, we wait at the luggage carousel for a solid forty minutes until it becomes clear our baggage hasn’t arrived with us. The airline gives us fifty-euro vouchers for our trouble, which don’t go far at the overpriced souvenir shop.

“For one of the most fashion-forward countries in the world, I expected more,” Teller whispers, tugging at his black T-shirt that readsSorry, I can’t. I have plans in Italy.

“What are you talking about? I’m a vision in this tracksuit.” I managed to find an outfit with a massive yellow lemon across the chest that readsWhen life hands you lemons, make limoncello.

If anyone wondered if we were tourists, they sure know it now.

Despite a rocky start, the feeling of being on Venetian soil is special. As we make our way out of the airport, my shoulders drop, my jaw relaxes. All the tension from the past few days just falls away as I take in the Italian signage, the romantic hum of passersby, the sweet, saucy aromas emanating from the airport restaurants.

There’s something about this place—I can feel it. It’s a strange familiarity, like sinking into a chair custom designed to fit every groove and curve of your body. Like being in exactly the place I need to be. I’m going to meet the love of my life in Venice, I just know it.

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