Page 84 of Something Like Fate

Truth be told, if I’d known we were painting each other, I probably wouldn’t have booked this particular class. Sitting across from Teller and examining each other’s faces is making me itch and sweat.

I do not have feelings for Teller.

Still, I’m making good headway on my portrait. I’ve settled on my favorite Teller expression. It’s his half smile. The one he does when he’s genuinely content. Like when we fell into a rhythm stacking cups at The Cinema. Or when Coldplay came on the radio. The expression is always fleeting, lasting no longer than a few moments. Because Teller is Teller. He’s always thinking ahead, calculating cost benefits, logic-ing his way through life.

Our eyes meet at the same time. He seems to be studying me, but looks away like I’ve spooked him. “How’s the painting going?”

He swallows. “Um . . .”

Before he can finish, I stand up and peer over at his canvas. It’s entirely blank. “You haven’t even started? Am I that ugly that you can’t even paint me?” I tease.

“The opposite, actually.” He hesitates, clean brush at his side. “I’m trying to plan it all in my head first.” He approaches painting like he approaches life, with caution. I shouldn’t be surprised.

“Let the colors speak to you,” I say in my best Robert voice. Robert shoots me a look, and I wish I could melt into the floor.

Teller smirks.

“It doesn’t have to be good, Tel. No expectations. Look at mine. I think I really captured your essence here.” I turn my canvas toward him and he smiles.

“Wow, I look like ... Shrek, but with irresistibly sexy hair.”

I snort. “You do have some nice flow.” Credit is due where credit is due.

He tilts his head to look at me from another angle, and I reach over and dab a thick glob of blue onto his canvas. He quickly dabs my hand. I fire back with red to the forearm. Eventually, our entire arms are covered. Even my nose.

A well-dressed woman sitting behind us lets out a loud sigh and glowers, shaking her head like we’re children goofing off in church. Robert notices and makes his way toward us. I work down a swallow, certain he’s going to kick us out. “Art has no boundaries!” he declares, which sends Teller into a fit of giggles.

Finally, Teller puts brush to canvas. Turns out, he’s not half-bad. Instead of attempting a realistic painting, he does a rough sketch in black paint using a skinnier brush. It’s messy, like ...

“Like sunshine,” he says, eyeing it with pride.

By the time the class is over, the paint has hardened on our arms, so we head to the beach to wash it off.

“Thanks for dragging me out tonight,” he says while letting the cold waves crash over his arms.

“The night isn’t over. I’m hungry,” I say as we shiver our way off the beach, soaked shoes in hands. I never thought I’d see Teller walk barefoot in public. I store a mental image to remember this moment. How far we’ve come from the day we met.

“Same. But I’m not really in the mood for Italian. Is that an asshole thing to say?”

I let out a sigh of relief. I’d been wondering the same. Am I a massive brat for being in the country with the best food, only to secretly crave McDonald’s? Most certainly. “I’ve been thinking that for the past week, actually. I might throw up if we eat pasta again.”

Thus begins are search for non-Italian food. Unfortunately, Positano is not exactly a global-food mecca. The one sushi bar we found on Google closed an hour ago. And we realize that we can’t walk into a restaurant covered in bits of paint and shoeless.

So we make our way back to the Airbnb.

I open the fridge and my findings are bleak. There’s a dusty container of tomatoes, a forgotten jar of capers in the far corner, and some fresh mozzarella and cured meat from the market that Mei picked up. “I think we can probably make something out of what’s here, though it will be ... Italian adjacent.”

Teller doesn’t look bothered as he washes the remaining flecks of paint off his hands. “I’ll eat anything at this point.”

We start slicing the meat and crushing the tomatoes, only to realize that without a paste, it’s just a watery, chunky mess. Still, it’s too late to abort. We’ve already invested too much. So we toss the tomatoes in the pan, adding the cheese, slices of cured meat, and capers.

Teller tilts his head, stepping back to get a better look like an art curator. “This looks disgusting.”

“It’s not all about presentation,” I say, hoisting myself atop the counter with a bowl, ready to tuck in. “This is going to be epic. I know it.”

Teller’s assumption is confirmed. It’s absolutely awful. And yet, we act like it’s the best thing in the world, muttering every variation of “Mmmm” and “Wow” after every bite. And giggling.

“The savory hints of ... these thick tomato chunks really offset the saltiness from the sliced meat,” Teller says in a thick British accent, doing his best Food Network–judge impression.

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