Page 69 of Something Like Fate

“Okay, last question for the win. This one is music,” Nettie says, covering the back of the card to prevent Teller from peeking (Sober Teller would never). “Which British band released an album titledA Rush of Blood to the Headin 2002?”

Teller slams the tabletop as though there’s an invisible buzzer. “Coldplay!”

Hysterical, we jump up and down, clapping our hands together like maniacs. When Nettie confirms it’s the correct answer, he closes his hands over mine and squeezes, holding them for a beat.

“It’s his favorite band,” I explain to a confused Loraine and Nettie, who smile and congratulate us, but not before challenging us to a rematch tomorrow.

“Thank god you have terrible taste in music,” I say, utterly winded as Loraine and Nettie head off.

He tips his head back in a laugh. “Guess what we’re listening to when we get back to the room?”

“Only one song. Choose wisely,” I say, unable to hide my grin at his enthusiasm.

He places both index fingers over his temples, thinking long and hard. “‘Viva La Vida.’” He nearly knocks over my glass with his elbow in excitement.

“You’re very drunk.”

“So are you.”

I think he’s right.

22

We’re lying side by side in our bed, staring up at the rattan ceiling fan creaking with each turn. A total of one minute into “Speed of Sound” (Teller changed his mind about ten times before settling on this song), he says, “I’ve been thinking.”

“About what?”

“Just thinking.”

I turn to face him. He studies me for a few beats before tracing his finger over his sun tattoo.

“About what I said back in Venice. About not believing in soulmates. It’s been bugging me ever since because I feel like I didn’t explain myself properly.”

“It’s okay, Tel. You don’t have to believe in them.” And I mean that. It never offended me. It’s a lot for people to understand. Especially someone like Teller, who bases his life in logic and fact. Even I sometimes doubt it.

“I know. I sounded like a dick, though. Here’s the thing—I think I could believe in soulmates, but only if you can have more than one.”

“It would be cool if there was more than one out there,” I say.

“Yeah. And if you can find one of them, I’d say you’re pretty lucky.”

The idea is comforting, especially given what happened with Caleb. “I hope you’re right.”

He’s pensive through “Clocks.”

“What are you thinking about now?” I finally ask.

“How cardboard is made.”

I can’t help but snicker at the ceiling. “Cardboard? The mystery of cardboard is keeping you up at night?”

“Okay, when you put it that way, it sounds ridiculous. But seriously, like, how do they make it? I think about this often. Don’t you?”

“I literally never think about that. Who thinks about that?”

“Me!” he shouts, and we both ugly-laugh, chin to chest, double chins galore, until we’re crying and begging the other to stop.

Once our laughter finally dissipates, Teller suggests we go to the pool—which is shocking, given his aversion to public pools. Tipsy Teller is still here and well. Before he changes his mind, I jump out of bed. We eagerly throw on our bathing suits and stumble downstairs (with Coldplay blasting through his portable speaker, of course). Unfortunately, the sign on the gate reads“Chiuso” after 9:00 pm. It’s 8:55.

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