Page 66 of Something Like Fate

21

Tuscany

What the fu—”

That’s what I wake up to the next morning.

Teller woke up to a sore finger and a lot of regrets. “Why did you let me do this?”

“Nothing could have stopped you, Tel. You were a man on a mission,” I say, recalling him confidently telling the tattoo artist what he wanted without so much as a blink. “And now you have a nice reminder of me on your finger, forever,” I remind him.

That seems to placate him, slightly. Though he still stares at the tattoo like it’s a bug the entire train ride to Tuscany.

“According to my GPS, the hostel looks like it’s pretty close to the train station,” I say as we haul our rucksacks from the luggage area of the train.

“Well, actually, I booked us another place,” Teller says, passing me my rucksack.

I roll my eyes. “Why? I thought this one was up to your standards. Did you go down the rabbit hole reading one-star reviews again?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. I just found a better place.”

He’s weirdly chill about this “better place” the entire long taxi ride there. Unlike the original booking, which was close to town, this one is deep in the rolling hills of the Chianti countryside.

It isn’t until we pull up to the gates that I understand where we are. I recognize the name on the wrought iron sign immediately.

Villa Campagna.

Where Mom and Mei stayed. And it’s just as stunning as Mei described, surrounded by a landscape of lush green rolling hills dotted with rows of grapevines as far as the eye can see. The building is covered with leafy greenery stretching all the way to the terra-cotta-tiled roof.

“Holy shit, Tel,” I manage over my gasp. “How did you know?”

He shrugs. “You mentioned it. The night I came back to town.” I recall talking about it briefly in passing. I can’t believe he actually remembered.

“We aren’t staying here, are we?”

He nods. “We are.”

“But how? This place is like, hundreds of dollars a night. We can’t afford it—”

“Consider it all your birthday and Christmas presents for the next ten years combined. And before you say anything, the booking is nonrefundable. After you lost the photo, I figured you might want to feel closer to your mom,” he adds, eyes softening.

I can barely pick my jaw up off the ground. “I—I literally don’t know what to say.” It’s by far the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.

I’m still wrecked over Caleb, but being here, exactly where Mom stood so many years ago, is sure to dull the pain.

We traverse the grounds, passing workers tending to the vines, harvesting grapes. The owner’s name is Roc. He’s young, in his thirties if I had to guess. Based on his band tee and corduroys, he strikes me as more of an IPA-and-kombucha guy than a wine connoisseur, but Roc definitely knows what’s up. He takes us on a tour of the underground wine cellar before we even check into our rooms, explaining the diverse varieties of grapes they grow in great detail.

The inn is warm, decorated with art and dark-wood antique furnishings that remind me of pieces at the estate sales Aunt Mei used to drag me to as a kid. I can see why she and Mom loved this place so much.

Eager to rest before dinner, Teller unlocks our door, stopping so abruptly, I nearly crash into his rucksack. “Um ... I think they messed up the reservation.”

“What?” I peek over his shoulder.

The room is cute and minimalist, with cool tile floor and a quilted bedspread. Behind heavy wooden shutters is a sun-drenched balcony boasting a sprawling view of an olive grove. A queen-size bed adorned with at least seven throw pillows takes up most of the middle of the room. And that’s when it hits me. There’s only one bed.

My skin tingles at the thought of sharing a bed again. But unlike that single bunk bed in Venice, the prospect of sharing this bed feels ... different somehow.

“Uh, I’ll go check at the front desk,” I say, backing away slowly.

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