Page 29 of Something Like Fate

Her phone is so loud, you can basically hear whoever is on the other side. As she slowly puts her socks on, she tells “Mills” all about her adventure in Pisa. I’m praying she’ll go outside to take the call,but instead she stands right outside the bedroom, door ajar. Her voice is almost drowned out by the sound of the guy in the bunk below us gorging on chips, bag crunching with each movement.

“I’m sorry, again. I really messed up,” I say into the darkness. I know he’s hating life even if he’s trying to pretend like he’s not.

He doesn’t respond. He just turns on his back and stares at the ceiling, which is so low, we can’t fully sit up without hitting our heads. I lean over to check if he’s wearing his earplugs to drown out the many noises.

He’s not. He’s just mad. I can tell by the way he’s breathing. Long, slow breaths, like he taught me on the plane yesterday. He’s trying to calm himself down.

“I know you wanted this whole trip to be impromptu and spontaneous, but it’s not working for me,” he finally utters.

It’s completely fair. Planning day by day sounds whimsical and romantic in theory, but really, it’s just a lot of stressing over logistics. It would be nice to know where we’re sleeping or which train to board.

I feel terrible and generally disappointed in myself. I should have planned better, anticipated what Teller would need to make this enjoyable for him.

“I totally understand if you want to go home—”

He rolls toward me. “I’m not ditching you in Italy, Lo. But you do need to promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“I get to plan the rest of the logistics. We need some level of structure,” he says.

I turn into the side of his chest, grateful, and maybe a little bit optimistic that this trip will be what I’d hoped. Maybe it’ll bridge that gap that’s been growing between us since last year.

So I don’t hesitate to say, “Deal.”

8

Ican’t be certain, but I think Teller regrets agreeing to stay. He’s been in bed, thumbing through his phone for the past half hour after getting a ball of hair stuck between his toes in the shower and nearly passing out.

I need to salvage this, and quick. Once we’re dressed, I drag Teller to the courtyard for breakfast. It’s a charming common area for the guests to mingle, time-worn walls trailing with ivy and potted plants cascading from the balconies. Among the few sets of wrought iron tables and chairs are five people, happily chatting.

First to introduce themselves are Ernest and Posie Crosby from the UK. They’re a salt-and-pepper-haired couple in matching khaki bucket hats and vests with an obscene number of pockets. We learn that they’re retired schoolteachers. Years ago, they started a tradition of taking a vacation every summer based on a destination they pull out of a hat, which is frankly adorable. They’ve continued on into retirement, although they joke they’re running out of destinations they can afford on pensions. I’d wrongfully assumed most backpackers would be young, but they’re both energetic and celebrating their thirtieth wedding anniversary.

“Actually, babe, it’s our thirty-first,” Posie corrects, giving Ernest a swift swat on the chest.

Jenny Kumar and Riley James from Pittsburgh join our conversation. They’re twentysomething-year-old best friends celebrating Riley’scollege graduation. Jenny looks like your stereotypical backpacker in worn hiking boots, wrists stacked with woven bracelets—badges of honor from her extensive travels. Riley appears a little more artsy and eclectic in a linen dress with a beaded belt.

I can’t help but notice how Teller’s eye keeps wandering in Riley’s direction. One look at her tall, slender frame and elegant features and it’s clear Riley is totally Teller’s type. She’s casually beautiful in an understated, quietly confident way, with clear, makeup-less skin, fiery auburn waves, and kind eyes a warm shade of hazel—the type that probably changes color based on the weather.

“Are you two newlyweds or something?” Lionel Jones, an unfairly handsome guy from Atlanta asks, gesturing toward us. He’s here on a solo trip.

Teller swings me a sideways look, and we simultaneously burst into laughter. “No, not at all. We’re best friends. Just friends,” I say loudly to make the point. “We met back in high school working at a movie theater. I’ve always wanted to visit Italy. My mom came here with my aunt when they were the same age. I was planning to come with my friend Bianca, but she shattered her foot, so I begged Teller to come with me. He just came off a breakup and—”

Teller clears his throat. “Anyway, it’s nice to meet you all,” he says quickly, before I can divulge all our deepest secrets.

It’s true what they say about making friends at hostels. I’m obsessed with everyone already (including Ernest and Posie), and I already don’t want to go our separate ways. Jenny and Riley are even nice enough to let me borrow their clothes so I don’t have to walk around in my lemon tracksuit.

We spend the day wandering around the canal. We end up at a seafood restaurant for lunch that’s got spectacular views but below-average food. Still, we drink, laugh, and wander some more. By late afternoon, we’ve gone to at least four different pubs and swapped travel itineraries. Coincidentally, Jenny and Riley are also heading to Rome in a few days and share the name of their hostel. Teller carefully records all thisinformation in a color-coded Google Calendar. He’s taking the planning duties seriously.

When we return to the courtyard for a break, I notice Teller’s eye wander to Riley again. She’s stretched on the chaise, readingEat, Pray, Love.

I give Teller a swift elbow in the ribs. “Hey, you should go talk to Riley.”

He eyes me like I’ve suggested he cannonball into the canal. “Why?”

“I saw you checking her out. She’s the perfect rebound.”

He glances wistfully at her again, like a freshman gawking at their upperclassman crush. “She would never go for me.”

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