Page 38 of Something Like Fate

“Worst case, you go into the water,” I start. “What’s going to get you? You said yourself the scary, unknown creatures live at the very bottom of the ocean. I doubt these canals are that deep.”

Teller leans forward and casts an uneasy glance at the water. “They look pretty deep to me.”

“Excuse me, sir,” I call to one of the drivers, suddenly feeling gutsy. “How deep is the canal?”

“This one? About fifteen feet. You two coming?”

I barely hold back a laugh. “Come on. You heard the man. It’s only fifteen feet deep. You could probably touch bottom and float back to the top in seconds.”

He lets out a tortured sigh and cautiously follows me to the boat. He parks himself on the seat, stiff as ever.

Our gondola driver, Alfie, is a great tour guide, which marginally helps defuse my disappointment. I can see Caleb and Posie just ahead.

“The Rialto Bridge was built in the sixteenth century. For hundreds of years, it was the only way to cross the canal,” he explains, voice soft and melodic. He looks to be in his midtwenties, if I had to guess. “It connects the San Polo and San Marco districts of Venice.”

“How long have you been a gondolier?” Teller asks Alfie.

“Since I was fourteen. My father was a gondolier, as was my grandfather,” he says proudly while expertly navigating through a tight turn.

“What a legacy,” I say. A pang of deficiency shoots through me. Unlike me, Alfie is upholding his family’s tradition.

“You could say it is in my blood. Though in the past few years, droughts have been causing the smaller canals to dry up.”

“Really? From global warming?” Teller asks.

Alfie nods with a pained expression. “We have been having some, how you say, extreme weather. Flooding, then droughts. It is bad for us locals because we do not have many roads for commuting. We rely on the canals for transportation.”

“That is terrible. I can understand why you’re worried about it. I mean, the canals are what make VeniceVenice,” I say.

Alfie talks a little bit about some environmental initiatives he’s part of. He then winds us through some of the smaller channels, pointing out the colorful houses of Burano Island and the Santa Maria della Salute Basilica. Teller snaps shots of each site like a stereotypical tourist.

He also peppers Alfie with a bajillion questions. Curious Teller is a favorite. It’s nice to see him relax and enjoy himself, and not alone in his room pining over Sophie.

The gondola floats atop the water with such grace, you can’t even hear anything but the gentle slap of the water against the side of the vessel mixed with quintessential Italian music.

“Now we’re coming up to the Bridge of Sighs, which connected Doge’s Palace to a prison in the sixteenth century,” Alfie explains. The bridge’s shadows dance across the water as we approach. “This structure is very special. According to legend, a couple that kisses under this bridge will enjoy eternal love.”

He looks at us expectantly, as though we’re a couple or something.

An audible groan escapes me as we pass underneath, lamenting the missed opportunity with Caleb. It would have been a beautiful memory to share with generations to come.

There’s a lull as Alfie chats with a passing gondolier. “Where’d your sunshine go?” Teller asks.

I look up at him.

He shrugs. “Usually you’re off the walls, radiating with excitement over these things. You seem a little ... subdued.”

I hesitate, unsure if I want to open that can of worms with him. “It’s just, I kind of hoped I’d get to ride the gondola with someone else. No offense,” I add. “I love you, you’re just not—”

“Caleb?”

“Shh!” I shoot him a warning glare, paranoid everyone in our group heard. Voices carry on the water, after all.

“No one is around,” he assures me, nodding toward the closest gondola twenty feet ahead.

Still, I lower my voice to just above a whisper. “How did you know?” I ask quietly. But of course he knows. He can read me like a book.

“You’ve been kind of obsessing over him since you met,” he says matter-of-factly.

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