Page 62 of Something Like Fate

After our curbside dinner, we wander along a bustling street filled with small bars and trattorias, my sandals clacking over the cobblestone until we come across a bar called Tuscan Tipples. Its blinking lights and multicolor mosaic tile caught my eye. There are vintage posters and an antique bicycle hanging from the ceiling. It’s not overly crowded, which I know Teller appreciates. The vibe is chill and relaxed, with a Mumford & Sons song playing over the sound system.

We take a seat at the bar and face each other, knees touching while an impossibly tall bartender takes our drink orders. He also hands us a food menu, which is one of those sticky plastic menus Teller hates, but he’s a good sport about it. We pass on the food and order our first round of drinks. Teller gets an Aperol spritz, and I get a glass of red, as well as two shots of limoncello for us. Before we know it, we’re on drink number six.

20

We’ll always have Florence,” I say over the chatter of a group doing trivia behind us, although I can’t be certain, given they’re speaking Italian.

“That’s from a movie!” Teller shouts, proud of himself for catching on. His eyes drift upward, searching his brain for the title.

“Technically, the line isParis, notFlorence. And it’s fromCasablanca.”

“Never seen it. But it sounded cinematic.”

“Seriously, though. I’m glad we’re here, despite it all,” I say, blowing my bangs out of my eyes.

“It may have plastic menus, but it’s better than those fancy places I tried to take us to,” Teller says.

I laugh, enjoying the freedom of speaking loud without feeling like people are watching and judging. “That hostess at the first restaurant wanted us skinned alive. But I’m glad the night turned out this way. Even if I got snot on your shirt.”

Teller’s eyes are trained on the rainbow lights reflecting on the glass behind the bar. He gives me an earnest shrug. “What are best friends for if not to wipe your snot on?”

I cough a little, throat drier than the Sahara. I hadn’t expected him to say that. “I’m still your best friend?”

“Why wouldn’t you be? Am I not yours?”

“No, you are. I just figured I wasn’t yours anymore. That you’d met other friends at college and replaced me.”

He throws me a funny look. “Me? Make friends? Ha!”

“You did make new friends. The B-school fam?” I remind him. He and Sophie made a group of friends in their business program that they called the “B-school fam,” according to Sophie’s social media captions. I was secretly jealous of their group Halloween costumes, Friendsgiving, and Super Bowl parties.

“Correction, I inherited those friends through Sophie. I was just along for her ride, as usual. That’s why I was so ... weirded out when you wanted to be friends with me. My whole life, I’ve never been a person anyone wanted to be friends with.” He hangs his head.

“That’s not true,” I start.

“It is. Even with my siblings—when we were younger, my brothers were inseparable. Always playing together, doing sports. Everywhere we went, they’d pair up. I still remember going to Disney, where almost every ride is for two, like most of the roller coasters. They’d always go together. Then there was me. The odd one out. And I know it’s dumb. Obviously, there’s gonna be one left over with three kids. But it wasallthe time.”

My heart splinters. I always got the sense he didn’t fit in with his siblings. Whenever I went to his house, there was barely a moment where his brothers weren’t roughhousing and being generally loud. All things Teller hates. His parents and both brothers are all quintessential extroverts. I can’t imagine feeling like an outsider in your own family. “Like I said, you’re the best Owens brother, even if you don’t believe me.”

He places his hand over mine and gives it a solid squeeze. “Thanks, Lo.”

I think back to the night we “officially” became best friends. It was nearing the end of summer, and I could feel autumn creeping its way in.

“We only have two more weeks working together,” Teller said, breaking the silence on the drive home from work. It had been aparticularly eventful shift. The handicapped stall in the women’s bathroom had clogged again and flooded. It took hours to clean.

I pressed my fingers into the edge of my seat, as if holding on to the last bit of summer disappearing behind the trees lining the road. “Ugh. Don’t remind me. I hate fall.”

He wrinkled his nose. “I’m offended. Halloween is not hateable.”

“My sincerest apologies,” I said with a snort. “Why do you love Halloween so much?”

“It’s just fun. It’s the one night of the year you can be someone else.”

“Do you want to be someone else?”

A pause. “Doesn’t everyone?”

That made me sad. “I wouldn’t want you to be anyone else.”

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