Page 48 of Something Like Fate

“Absolutely. It all adds up, according to my vision.” I recount that it was sweltering hot when he rescued me, just like the heat I felt in the vision. “And then there was the scent. I smelled espresso, and he smells exactly like that. Besides, Aunt Mei and Aunt Ellen said the vision meant I’d meet him here. And I did. It was the perfect meet-cute,” I point out.

“I guess I just don’t know what’s so romantic about almost getting killed.”

“He did save my life,” I remind him. “Which is probably the most romantic thing someone could do.”

Dad goes on to ask a series of questions—like how old is he, how do I know he’s not a criminal who will sell me into a trafficking ring, what do I know about his family—most of which I can’t really answer.

“You know when you just connect with someone? He’s incredible. We’ve talked about pretty much everything, like current events and religion. He’s so open-minded. I mean, he has opinions, but no hills he’s willing to die on, aside from poutine being the world’s greatest food.”

Dad laughs. “Gravy and cheese, huh? Sounds sociopathic.”

“Maybe. But honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever had so much in common with someone.” I’ve always longed to find that, someone who loved all the same things as me, just like Mom and Dad. I suck in a deep breath, finally building up the courage to ask, “Did Mom know you were The One when she first saw you? She had the vision before meeting you, right?”

“She did.”

It’s nice knowing I share my romantic tendencies with my mom, but I still can’t help but wish she was here. I can’t help but long to talk to her about love. Ask her advice about the vision. About how she navigated things with Dad after they met.

He doesn’t elaborate, not that I expected him to. I feel guilty for making him uncomfortable, so I switch gears. “So what are you up to these days?” I ask instead, hoping he isn’t too lonely without me.

Overbearing as Dad is, this is the first time we’ve talked since we arrived in Rome. I’ve texted him updates and sent photos. I assumed he’d nerd out about the Roman architecture, but his responses have been uncharacteristically sparse, so much so, I even texted my aunts to check in on him. Mei thought maybe this was a breakthrough—that he’s finally loosening the leash. But then he brought up human trafficking and that theory went out the window.

“I’m fantastic,” he says, oddly chipper. I expect him to tell me about the latest true-crime series he’s binging, but instead, he says, “I’m actually about to go play pickleball.”

“Pickleball?” I repeat, unable to mask my shock. Dad has never played a sport or done anything remotely athletic for as long as I can remember. I can’t imagine his lanky self on a court. “Since when do you play pickleball?”

“I just started the other night. Excellent cardio.”

“Who are you playing with?” I ask.

There’s a longer-than-normal pause before he says, “Just a friend.” His response strikes me as odd. His only two friends, Jones and Arjun, aren’t athletic either. “All right, hon, it must be nearly midnight over there. I’ll let you go.”

I barely have time to say goodbye before he’s hung up.

15

Florence

Iwake up to a sharp nudge in the shoulder. “Lo, you’re drooling on me,” Teller whispers in my ear.

My eyes fling open. We’re still on the train to Florence.

I rub my lids, still exhausted from a late night of wandering Rome with Caleb. I fell asleep five minutes after we left, only waking up intermittently to the sound of Caleb’s voice. He’s a row ahead, pointing out small villages of historical significance, the Tuscan vineyards, olive groves, and quintessential rolling hills.

Mortified, I wipe the side of my mouth. “Shit. Sorry. I fell asleep on you again, didn’t I?”

“You can sleep on me all you want, so long as you keep your drool to yourself,” Teller teases, passing me my water bottle.

“I’m so tired,” I say through a yawn, gratefully taking the water. “Long night.”

I’ve told Teller all about my rendezvous with Caleb, but I’ve never told him we made out in the garden, or in the middle of a random sidewalk, or a little bit in Caleb’s room the second night. Even though Caleb and I have started holding hands when we’re out and about, revealing more to Teller feels too ... personal, which is strange, because up until now, I’ve always been open with him about my relationships.

“What time did you get back?” Teller asks.

“Around midnight. I went to the roof and FaceTimed my dad first.”

He raises a brow. “How’s he doing? I bet he misses you.”

“Nah, he’s living his best life. Playing pickleball, apparently.”

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