Page 44 of Something Like Fate

“Yeah!” I squeak, toting my hand mirror to the bathroom. Shockingly, the braid actually looks half-decent. It’s not as tight as I’d like, but it’s a hell of a lot better than the inverted triangle. “You missed your calling,” I yell, lingering in the bathroom. If I look directly at him, I might spontaneously combust.

“You okay in there?”

“Yeah! Just, uh, looking for my purse.”

“It’s out here.”

I manage to avoid eye contact as I shuffle out, then pretend to riffle around in my purse.

There’s a tap against the sliding glass door of our room. It barely registers until I hear it again. It’s too rhythmic to be a fluke. “What was that?” I ask.

“It sounded like a ... rock?” The mattress squeaks under his weight as he stands to inspect. “Lo, you’re gonna want to see this,” Teller says, peeking through the sheer drapery.

13

Ialways thought throwing rocks at a girl’s window only happens in movies. But there’s Caleb, looking straight out of a fevered daydream, hair windswept and tousled. He’s in a plain white T-shirt that has no business hugging his torso like it does. As if that isn’t enough, he’s leaning casually against a shiny red Vespa, shiny black helmet tucked under his arm.

He pats the seat of the Vespa, and I swear his eyes sparkle. “You up for an adventure?”

Teller comes down to see me off, and to pepper Caleb with questions:

Do you own this bike?

Do you have a license to drive it?

Caleb assures him the bike was rented legitimately and that he knows how to drive it safely. He even pulls out an extra helmet for me from the storage compartment under the seat.

“I’ll have her back by midnight,” he promises once I’m secured on the back of the Vespa.

I wrap my arms around his hard stomach, and with a gentle roar of the engine, we’re off into the glittery night.

We zip through the narrow streets, weaving through the late-night traffic and down hidden alleys and squares. Occasionally, he points outthings, like a gorgeous Gothic cathedral and street art. He gives tidbits about some of the sights, although I can’t fully hear him over the hum of the engine. That’s okay. We’re pulsing in sync with the city’s energy.

I try to log this memory. The smell of oregano wafting from the tiny trattorias. The reflection of lights on the Tiber as we cross over the bridge. Caleb’s hair blowing in the breeze from under his helmet, tickling my nose.

We stop in a square that boasts ruins just below the street level, history seamlessly blending with modern day.

“This is Largo di Torre Argentina, the site of Julius Caesar’s assassination in 44 BC,” Caleb explains while pulling his helmet off. He may look like a hippie-surfer dude, but he has this uncanny ability to read something once and retain it. He gets off the bike first, then turns to help me. “Now, this place, you might think it’s just another set of ruins, but it’s special.”

“Special?” I ask as he leads me up a small staircase. It’s well preserved compared to some of the other ruins we’ve seen.

“Look closer and listen.” He closes his eyes, and we’re silent for a moment.

Somewhere over the hum of traffic, I hear it. Soft meows. “It sounds like ... cats?” I open my eyes and Caleb points to movement in the darkness.

Sure enough, there’s an adorably fluffy ginger cat hanging out atop one of the walls, watching us. As my eyes adjust in the darkness, it becomes clear there are dozens of cats hanging out among the ruins.

“Oh my god!” I say, bending down to pet a particularly curious little guy. “Why are there so many cats here?”

“The ruins were excavated in the early 1900s, and a bunch of feral cats moved in. A group of ladies started taking care of them and established a sanctuary. The shelter is over there,” he says, pointing to a far corner of the site.

“There’s one right there!” I say, pointing to a tiny gray cat walking toward us. I stroke its back, and it immediately starts purring andrubbing its bony body along my legs. “They’re so freakin’ cute.” I’m suddenly very aware of my high-pitched cat-baby voice. I rub the ear of another curious little ginger cat that seems to have only one eye. “And misunderstood.”

Caleb bends down to let another calico sniff his hand, but it’s skittish and runs away. “How so?”

“Well, everyone talks about the bond with dogs, right? Don’t get me wrong—dogs will always be number one in my eyes. I have two. They’re blindly loyal. They live to please their human. But cats deserve credit too. They don’t care about pleasing anyone else. You really have to earn their love. It might take some effort, but once they trust you, you’re in. It’s a huge deal.”

We hang there for at least fifteen minutes, making a game out of spotting new cats and coaxing them to come greet us. I take selfies with every one, basking in the softness of their fur against my skin.

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