Page 35 of Something Like Fate

“Unfortunately. But I’ll take the compliment,” I say bashfully. I’m air punching on the inside. Caleb thinks I’m beautiful.

Caleb.

Thinks.

I’m.

Beautiful.

I log this moment. The heat of the beating sun. The vibrant melody of the accordion. The synchronized clapping from the audience. This fizzy feeling in my chest, like a balloon expanding at a breakneck pace. “I owe you, though,” I say coolly, leaning against the stone pillar. I’m finally starting to feel more like myself.

He runs a hand over his square jaw, pretending to be in deep thought. “Well, if you insist. I’ll take payment in the form of food.”

“You’re a foodie, huh?”

“Sweets, in particular. I’d do unsettling things for a good panna cotta.”

“I’ve never had it.”

His eyes widen like dinner plates. “Oh, sweetheart. You haven’t lived until you’ve had panna cotta. I discovered it when I did Florence last week. Niccolo’s panna cotta. You have to go.”When I did Florence.Teller would die.

“We’re going to Florence after Rome, actually. What’s so special about it?”

“So most panna cotta is all about rich, velvety creaminess. But Niccolo’s has this caramelized layer on top with a berry compote. It’s the perfect blend of tart and sweet. Like pure heaven in your mouth.”

“Wow, you’re really hyping this up.” I can’t help but smile at how animated he is over a dessert. I probably can’t eat it without becoming violently ill. I don’t mention that part, though.

“Absolutely. I mean, it’s one of those small things that make the experience. Even if you don’t speak the same language, food is still universal. It’s tradition, history, custom in itself. And best of all, it brings people together.”

“I was just saying to my aunt before I came here that I was most excited to try the food.”

“Hey, that’s my type of travel. That’s why I keep coming back to Italy. That and I’m Italian,” he says proudly.

“How many times have you been here?”

“Twice with my family. And then I started my travels here a year ago and couldn’t wait to come back.”

“A year ago?”

“Oh yeah. I haven’t been home for a year.”

“You said you’re from Ottawa, right?” I ask, though I definitely know the answer.

He nods. “Technically. But I like to think the world is my home now.” His face lights up even brighter as he tells me about the places he’s been. Australia and New Zealand, and parts of Asia. He’s also done seemingly everything, from swimming with sharks in the Pacific to meditating with monks in Tibet.

Two things dawn on me as he describes how delicious scorpion on a stick is in Vietnam: First, that he seems so much older than me. And second, my life has been so sheltered compared to his. “I’m starting to think I haven’t truly lived until now. I haven’t traveled anywhere,” I admit.

“What’s stopping you?”

I think about that. “My dad was an army brat growing up. He moved all over the place as a kid and hated it, so travel just wasn’t something we did. Just a bit in-country. And there’s also money. Things are a little tighter since I started college.”

“It’s not cheap to travel, even when you live frugally. It’s definitely a privilege I don’t take for granted,” he admits. “But I make it work, mostly by picking up odd jobs here and there. When I wasin Australia, I taught surfing. Worked on a sheep farm for a while in New Zealand too.”

I let out an embarrassingly loud shriek. “That’s my literal dream. I love sheep.” I recall a girl at the animal shelter talking about working at a sheep farm in New Zealand. She told me and another volunteer all about the rolling green hills, the ever-present mist, and how they fed baby lambs bottles at night.

“They’re cute, but they’re a nuisance.” He holds up his finger, which seems to be missing a tiny chunk along the side. “One named Tilly got me.”

“Jeez, that looks painful.”

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