Page 72 of Something Like Fate

“Must be the one-thousand-thread-count sheets.”

He agrees and starts comparing the firmness of our mattress to the hostels’. Back to the old Teller. But I don’t really listen. I’m still thinking about being nestled in his arms. The thud of his heartbeat against my back quickening as I arched into him. Yup, maybe him not remembering is for the best.

I push aside those thoughts as we get off the bus for our first activity—a bike tour. I insisted we go despite Teller’s urging that we skip it and sleep off our hangovers. Maybe it’s my chronic fear of missing out, and the fact that we’re in Italy, but the last thing I want to do is lie in bed all day, caughtup in my shitstorm of emotions. I keep oscillating between wanting to kiss Teller and missing Caleb, neither of which are productive or actionable.

Unfortunately, I did not think realistically about pedaling a bike in the beating-hot sun for three hours while deathly hungover. We begin with what is supposedly a leisurely ride through winding roads lined with cypress trees and olive groves. It would be gorgeous if my head weren’t pounding and my legs didn’t feel like jelly. There’s not even a hint of a breeze. After the first hill, I know I’ve made a grave error coming on this tour. Teller feels the same way, based on the look he gives me when we take a break.

Our first stop is a vineyard for a wine tasting, though Teller and I both opt for water. I can barely look at wine without my stomach turning. Later, we stop at a small trattoria to try bruschetta and breads dipped in various types of olive oil, all of which taste the same to me. But the carbs help soak up the remaining alcohol in our systems, and we both start to feel a bit better. After relaxing under the shaded terrace to sample pasta and risotto, we go back to the villa to freshen up for the night.

Loraine and Nettie invited us to a restaurant/bar with a huge courtyard where they play live music. It’s magical, with fairy lights strung above us in a crisscross pattern. White lanterns dangle from the lights, casting a soft yellow glow. A mix of contemporary and classical Italian songs purr through the air.

Teller and I opt to remain sober, although that doesn’t stop me from dancing with Loraine and Nettie. Teller is his normal, observant self, spectating from the comfort of the table and offering the odd thumbs-up. He reminds me of Dad perched on the sidelines at my science fairs as a kid.

At the risk of Teller growing bored, I sashay over to the table and extend my hand. “Come on. Dance with us!”

He shakes his head, pushing his chair back, out of my reach. “Oh no. I’m great right here.”

Despite his protests, I pull him to his feet and bring him into the fold. He begrudgingly bobs his head to the beat, legs and torso stiff while he clumsily sways his long arms.

“Okay, you really need to loosen up a little,” I say, shaking his arms. They feel like lead.

“I’m totally loose,” he argues. He appears to be doing the Robot, though I don’t think it’s purposeful.

I collapse into his chest, laughing.

“What’s wrong with my dancing?” he asks, a knowing smile flitting across his face. When his eyes lift to mine, I feel it right in my chest. That feeling from last night. I attempt to swallow, only to find my throat has gone dry. “Absolutely nothing,” I manage.

Without notice, he grabs my hand, spinning me twice, twinkling lights melding into streaks of golden luminescence all around us. I spin him, too, or attempt to. Due to his height, he’s forced to duck like he’s doing the limbo, which amuses everyone on the crowded dance floor.

Three songs pass and I barely notice—because I’m having the time of my life. We’re not in sync or in rhythm in any way. We’re a bunch of misguided twirls, spinning off-balance, crushed toes, and mini collisions. But we don’t stop laughing until a slow song interrupts the vibe. I pause for a beat, assuming he’s had enough and wants to return to the safety of our table. Instead, he takes my hand and places it on his shoulder. His hands settle along my waist and we sway together, left, right, left, right.

My mind clutters with a rush of thoughts, tiny fractions of memories of us at The Cinema, wiping tears on his hoodie as we said goodbye in front of his packed Corolla before he left for college, the way he held me last night in the pool, of Sophie and Caleb. But despite it all, I know for sure that this feels good.

His eyes search mine and I stare back, dizzy from his proximity, breath catching in my chest. When he pulls me closer, I nestle my head on his shoulder and close my eyes, wishing I could stay in this moment forever. Something feels different. It’s in the thickness of the air. In thelingering of a glance. I can’t explain it, but I no longer think it’s all in my head.

He smiles against my cheek and asks, “Do you remember prom?”

I snort. “I remember forcing you to dance all night. You hated your life. Kind of like right now.”

“I did not, and don’t currently, hate my life. Not even a little,” he says.

I level him with a look. “You absolutely did. I had to force you to dance with me. You were sad Sophie wasn’t there and kept slinking off to text her.”

We hadn’t gone together or anything. He was planning to skip it because Sophie was at a family event and they’d already attended her prom. He didn’t see the point in going to two.

And technically, I had a date. Bryce Shipman. He was a grade below and exclusively wore black turtlenecks (drama kid, can’t you tell?) but decided prom was a good time to wear a stark-white suit. He only asked me to go because juniors weren’t allowed unless they had a senior date. He forgot my corsage at home and disappeared during couples’ photos at the koi ponds in Woodsbury Park. We’d ridden in the limo with some kids from the drama club, but he didn’t pay much attention to me most of the night. He spent most of his time getting high under the bleachers. Truthfully, I’d have rather gone alone.

Teller lowers his head in acknowledgment. “I know. I’m really sorry. That probably ruined your night, didn’t it?”

“No. I still had the best time.” That was the truth. Sure, I’d straight-up forced him to come. And sure, he spent most of the night slumped at the table, moping over Sophie’s absence.

But that’s not what I remember most. What sticks with me is Teller finding a half-crushed corsage with wrinkled petals on the ground and presenting it to me on one knee. I remember running back and forth to the DJ booth requesting “Get Low” over and over and scream-singing the lyrics. And I remember singing it the whole way as he walked me home. And I remember how it felt when he tossed me over his shoulder when my feet started to hurt in my heels.

“Really?”

“Because I got to spend most of it with you,” I tell him.

He studies me for a few seconds. “I’ve always loved that about you.” There it is again. TheLword.

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